Текст книги "A Different Blue "

Автор книги: Amy Harmon

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Chapter Ten

We walked along for several minutes with only the clickety clak of my high-heeled boots to break our silence.

“You'll never make it four miles in those shoes,” Wilson remarked pessimistically.

“I will because I have to,” I retorted calmly.

“A tough girl, eh?”

“Did you have any doubts?”

“None. Although the tears tonight had me wondering. What was that all about?”

“Redemption.” The dark made the truth easy. Wilson stopped walking. I didn't.

“You'll never make it six miles with that violin on your back,” I parrotted, smoothly changing the subject.

“I will because I have to,” he mocked. “And it's a cello, you ninny.” His long strides had him walking beside me again in seconds.

“Don't say ninny. You sound bloody ridiculous.”

“All right then. Don't say bloody. Americans sound foolish when they say bloody. The accent is all wrong.”

Silence.

“What do you mean by redemption?”

I sighed. I knew he would come back to that. Four miles was far too long to evade him, so I thought for a moment, wondering how I could put it into words without telling him what I needed redemption for.

“Have you ever prayed?” I ventured.

“Sure.” Wilson nodded like it was no big deal. He probably prayed morning and night.

“Well. I never have. Not until tonight.”

“And?” Wilson prodded.

“And it felt . . . good.”

I felt Wilson's eyes on me in the dark. We walked in syncopation for several breaths.

“Usually redemption implies rescue – being saved. What were you being saved from?” he inquired, his voice carefully neutral.

“Ugliness.”

Wilson's hand shot out, pulling me to a stop. He searched my face, as if trying to glean the meaning behind my words. “You are many things, Blue Echohawk, I can even name twelve.” He smiled a little. “But ugly isn't one of them.”

His words made me feel funny inside. I was surprised by them. I had assumed he had never noticed me on a physical level. I didn't know if I wanted him to. I just shook my head and shrugged him off and began walking again, answering him as I did.

“I've had a lot of ugly in my life, Wilson. Lately the ugly has gotten to be more than I can take.”

We resumed our steady march through the sleeping street. Boulder City was incredibly quiet. If Vegas was the city that never slept, then Boulder made up for it. It slept like a drunkard on a feather bed. We hadn't even been barked at.

“All right. So that's two more. We're at fourteen. You've had an ugly life, but you're not ugly. And you enjoy praying in darkened hallways in the middle of the night.”

“Yep. I'm fascinating. And that's fifteen.”

“I would think that after the shooting, the school would be the last place you would go for prayer . . . or redemption.”

“I didn't really choose the venue, Wilson. I was stranded. But if God is real, then he's just as real in the school as he is in the church. And if he's not . . . well, then maybe my tears were for Manny, and all the rest of the lost misfits who walk those halls alone and could use a little rescue.”

“From childhood's hour I have not been as others were; I have not seen as others saw; I could not bring my passions from a common spring,” Wilson murmured.

I looked at him expectantly.

“'Alone' by Edgar Allan Poe. Misfit. Loner. Poet.”

I should have known. I wished I knew the lines he quoted, that I could continue the poem where he left off. But I didn't and I couldn't, so silence reigned once more.

“So tell me why you don't know when you were born,” Wilson said, abandoning Poe.

“Do you enjoy picking scabs?” I shot back.

“What? Why?”

“Because you keep picking mine, and it kind of hurts,” I whined, hoping my pathetic pleas of “ouch” would end the questioning.

“Oh, well, then. Yes. I suppose I love picking scabs. Out with it. We've got at least three miles to go.”

I sighed heavily, letting him know I didn't think it was any of his business. But I proceeded to tell him anyway. “My mother abandoned me when I was two-ish. We don't know exactly how old I was. She just left me in Jimmy Echohawk's truck and took off. He didn't know her, and I wasn't old enough to tell him anything. He didn't know what to do with me, but he was afraid that somehow he would be implicated in some kind of crime or that someone would think he had taken me. So he split. He took me with him. He wasn't exactly conventional. He roamed around, made carvings for a living, sold them to different tourist shops and a few galleries. And that's how we lived for the next eight years. He died when I was ten or eleven. Again, I don't have any idea how old I really am, and I ended up with Cheryl, who is Jimmy's half-sister.

“Nobody knew who I was or where I came from, and I thought Jimmy was my dad. Cheryl didn't tell me that he wasn't for another three years. There was no record of me, so with the help of the courts, they got me a birth certificate, a social security number, and I am officially Blue Echohawk, born on August 2, which is the day Jimmy found me and the day we marked my birthday. Social services thought I was about ten, which was more or less what Jimmy and I thought. So they estimated I was born in 1991. So there you go. Nutshell. I am nineteen . . . maybe even twenty by now, who knows. A little old for a senior in high school, but hey! Maybe that's why I'm so intelligent and mature,” I smirked.

“Quite,” Wilson said softly. He seemed to be processing my improbable tale, turning it over in his head, dissecting it. “My birthday is August 11, which makes me three years older than you, almost to the day.” He glanced over at me. “I guess it is a little silly for me to call you Miss Echohawk.”

“I don't mind all that much, Darcy,” I smiled innocently, sweetly even. He snorted at my jab. The truth was, I didn't mind. When he said 'Miss Echohawk' in that snooty way of his, it made me feel like I had been given an upgrade or a makeover. Miss Echohawk sounded like someone I would like to become. Someone sophisticated and classy, someone I could aspire to. Someone very different than me.

My phone vibrated against my hip, and I coaxed it out of my tight pocket. It was Mason. I considered not answering it but thought about the miles Wilson and I still had to walk.

“Mason?”

“Blue. Baby . . . where are you?” Oh, man. He sounded so drunk. “I came looking for you. Are you mad at me? We're at your truck but you're not here. You're not here, right?” He suddenly seemed doubtful, as if I was going to spring out from somewhere.

“My battery is dead. I'm walking home, Mason, along Adams. Who's with you?” Hopefully someone less plastered.

“She's with Adam,” I heard Mason say to someone, and the phone was dropped. Someone cursed and the phone was jostled back and forth.

“Who's Adam, Blue? Is that why you left so early, you skank!” Colby's voice blared at me. He laughed, a high-pitched cackle, and I held the phone away from my ear. I was pretty sure Wilson could hear the conversation, Colby's voice was so loud.

“I'm on Adams . . . the street, Colby,” I said as clearly as I could.

The connection was lost. Awesome.

“Well. We may be rescued,” I said dourly. “But we may not. And it might be better if we're not.”

“So I gathered.” Wilson shook his head. “This day has been one for the record books.”

It wasn't long before lights pinned us in their glare, and we turned to face the oncoming vehicle. I tugged at Wilson's arm. I didn't want to him to be run over by the rescue squad.

It was Mason's truck, and he was driving. Colby hung out the passenger window like a big dog, his tongue flapping and everything.

“Hey, Adam! Did you get a piece of ass too?” Colby chortled, and I felt disgust curl in my belly. Disgust for myself, and disgust for the boy who thought he could talk about me like I was trash.

“Are these your mates?” Wilson said stiffly, hoisting his cello further up on his back.

I nodded once, briefly, too humiliated to look at him.

“Get in, Blue,” Mason yelled across Colby. Colby opened the door and beckoned to me. I remained on the sidewalk.

“Those boys are completely sloshed,” Wilson said wearily. “I don't recognize either of them. They aren't in any of my classes.”

“They've graduated. Mason is the same age as you are. Colby's a year younger.” Both had been out of high school for years. Sadly, neither of them had moved beyond the football field where they had both excelled.

“You need to let me drive, Mason. Okay?” I knew if I got aggressive, he would drive away, which was preferable to driving with him at this point, but they really shouldn't have been driving at all.

“Sure, baby. You can sit on my lap. I'll let you steer. I know you like driving a stick!” Mason yelled, all the time glaring at Wilson like he wanted to beat him up.

I started walking. They could crash and burn. Mason yelled for me to stop and spilled out of the truck, staggering after me. The truck stalled. Apparently, Mason hadn't taken it out of gear before he decided to chase me down.

Wilson was on Mason in a flash, and with one swift pop, Mason's head rolled onto his shoulders and he sank into a heap, Wilson struggling to support his weight.

“Holy shit!” Colby was half-way out of the truck, one leg in, one leg on the ground. “What did you do to him, Adam?”

“My bloody name is not Adam!” Wilson growled. “Now come help me get your stupid mate into the . . . blasted . . . pickup, or whatever you call it.” Wilson had apparently had enough. I had no idea what he had done to subdue Mason. But I was grateful.

I ran to his side, helping him half-drag, half-carry Mason to where Colby was frozen in an inebriated stupor. I put down the tailgate, and we managed to roll Mason into the bed of the truck. Unfortunately, even with Mason unconscious in the back, I had to sit squished between Colby and Wilson, who surprisingly knew how to drive a stick shift. Colby ran his arm along the back of my seat, resting his hand on my shoulder possessively. I elbowed him in the side and moved as close to Wilson as I possibly could, straddling the gear shift. Wilson's right arm pressed up against me and he grimaced every time he shifted gears, as if he hated touching me. Tough. I wasn't sitting by Colby.

We drove back to the school, and Colby sat in sulky silence while we got my truck running. Until he decided to be sick, that is, and puked all over the passenger side of Mason's truck. Wilson just gritted his teeth and climbed back into the cab, rolling his window down with angry jerks.

“I'll follow you to Mason's house,” he bit out, as if the whole mess was my fault. I led the way in my truck, keeping Wilson in my rear-view mirror. When we reached Mason's, we hoisted him out of the truck and in through the basement door of his parents' house. There was no way we were getting him up the stairs to his apartment above the garage. He weighed close to 200 pounds, and it was all dead weight. We slung him onto the couch, and his arms flopped theatrically.

“Is he going to be all right?” I watched for his chest to rise.

Wilson slapped Mason's cheeks briskly.

“Mason? Mason? Come on, chap. Your girl is worried that I've killed you.” Mason moaned and shoved at Wilson's hands.

“See? He's brilliant. No harm done.” Wilson marched out of the house. Colby slumped down into the recliner and closed his eyes. The fun was all over. I pulled the basement door shut behind me and ran after Wilson. He lifted his cello out of the back of Mason's truck.

“His keys are on the dash, but I've locked the doors. It will serve him right if he doesn't have another set. I'm hoping it will slow him down if he and his chum decide to rescue anyone else tonight, or, even better, come looking for you.” He glowered at me briefly and transferred his cello into my truck. He climbed in the passenger side, and I slid behind the wheel, angry because he was angry. I peeled out of Mason's driveway, my temper flaring with the squeal of my wheels.

“It's not my fault you locked YOUR keys in YOUR car. That had nothing to do with me.”

“Please, just take me home. I smell like beer and pizza vomit. #16 – Blue has horrible taste in mates.”

“Are all Brits this miserable around midnight, or is it just you? And what did you do back there anyway? You are a school teacher and you play the cello! You are the biggest nerd I know. You are not supposed to know Kung Fu.”

Wilson scowled at me, apparently not appreciating the nerd comment.

“I honestly don't know what I did. It was pure luck. I just popped him in the jaw. He went down.” We were both silent, contemplating the odds. “It felt bloody amazing.”

Startled by his admission, my head snapped around and my eyes found his. I don't know who started laughing first. Maybe it was me, maybe it was him, but within seconds we were wheezing and howling with laughter. I could barely drive, I was laughing so hard. And it felt bloody amazing.

I ended up taking Wilson to his house to retrieve his keys and then running him back to the school to get his car. He lived in a big old monstrosity that he was remodeling. Most of the newer homes in the Vegas area were stucco, and you would be hard pressed to find a handful of homes that were bricked. But in Boulder City there was less rhyme and reason, more old than new, and less community planning.

Some older structures still dominated Buchanan Street, where Wilson's house was located. Wilson's home had been listed with the historical society until lack of funds made it impossible to maintain. Wilson told me it was a heap when he had purchased it a year before. I informed him it still was, smiling to take the sting out of my words. But I could see the appeal.

It was an enormous red brick, done up in a style that seemed more suited to a college campus back East than a neighborhood in a small desert town. Wilson said everything in England was old, and not just seventy years old, like this house, but hundreds and hundreds of years old. He didn't want to live in a home where there wasn't any history, and his home had as much history as you were going to find in a Western town. I should have known.

As we walked up the front steps, I noticed he had placed a small plaque by the door, the kind with gold lettering that usually states the home's address. It said Pemberley. That was all.

“You named your house Pemberley?” The name was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

“It's a bit of a joke,” he sighed. “My sisters thought it would be funny. They had it made and Tiffa surprised me on my birthday. I keep telling myself I'll take it down, but . . .”  His voice faded away and I let it go. I would have to google Pemberley when I had a chance, just to let myself in on the joke.

A great deal of work had been done on the interior. The front doors opened up into a foyer dominated by a wide set of stairs that curved up to the second floor. It was beautiful, but I think it was the dark, heavy wood that won me over. The floors matched the enormous mahogany banister that swept gracefully up to the second level, where it became a thick railing that made a wide circle beneath the vaulted ceiling.

There were two apartments completely finished, one on the second floor and one on the main level. Another was still under construction, due to be finished shortly, according to Wilson. The ground floor apartment was occupied by an old lady whom Wilson seemed rather fond of. I didn't meet her. It was past midnight, after all. Wilson lived in the other. I was curious to see what his digs looked like but hung back, wondering if he would want me to stay out. He was my teacher, and almost everything that had happened that night could cost him his job, or at least get him in trouble, though he had been an innocent victim to circumstance.

He seemed relieved that I didn't come inside but left the door open. I could see that the dark wood floors extended into his apartment, which he called his “flat.” The walls were painted a pale green. Two framed prints of African women carrying bowls on their heads hung in the long hallway leading into the rest of the space. Nice. I didn't know what I'd expected. Maybe shelves and shelves of books and a high backed velvet chair where Wilson could smoke a pipe, wearing a red smoking jacket while reading big dusty books.

Wilson exchanged his cello for a second set of keys and a clean shirt and jeans. He hadn't been splattered by vomit, but he insisted he reeked of it. I had never seen him in anything but slacks and dress-shirts. The T-shirt was a snug soft blue, and his jeans were worn, though they looked expensive. He hadn't bought them at Hot Topic. Why is it that you can see money even when it comes wrapped in a T-shirt and jeans?

“Nice pants,” I commented as he approached me at the door.

“H-huh?” Wilson stammered. And then he smiled. “Oh, uh. Thanks. You mean my trousers.”

“Trousers?”

“Yes. Pants are underwear, see. I thought . . . um. Never mind.”

“Underwear? You call underwear pants?”

“Let's go, shall we?” He grimaced, ignoring the question and pulling the door closed behind him. He looked so different, and I tried not stare. He was . . . hot. Ugh! I rolled my eyes at myself and stomped back out to my truck, feeling suddenly morose. I spent the ride back to Wilson's car in quiet contemplation which Wilson did not intrude upon until we reached the school.

Before he climbed out, Wilson gazed at me seriously, grey eyes tired in the paltry dome light triggered by his open door. Then he extended his hand and clasped mine, giving it a brief shake.

“Here's to redemption. See you on Monday, Blue.” And he climbed out of my truck and loped to his Subaru. He unlocked it easily and gave a little wave.

“Here's to redemption,” I repeated to myself, hopeful that such a thing existed.

Chapter Eleven

Beverly's Cafe was located on Arizona Street in the center of Boulder City, a refurbished restaurant in the old part of town, established in the 1930's when Hoover Dam was being built. Boulder City was a master-planned, company town, completely built by the US government to house dam workers after the Great Depression. It still had most of the original structures, along with a neat hotel, not far from Bev's, that had been built in those early days. Boulder City was a strange mix of big city cast-offs and Old West traditions that make most people scratch their heads. It isn't very far from Las Vegas – but gambling is illegal. It holds the appeal of a small-town community that Vegas can't boast.

I had known Beverly, the owner of the cafe, since my days with Jimmy. She had a small gift shop in the cafe that was filled with southwestern art, paintings, pottery, cactuses, and various antiques. She had taken Jimmy's work on commission, and Jimmy had always seemed to like her. Jimmy had kept my existence pretty low-key, but Beverly had been kind to him and kind to me. He had trusted her, and it was one of the places where we let down our guard a little. I had eaten in the big red leather booths many times.

A few years back, when I was old enough to drive and get around on my own, I approached Beverley for a job. She was a woman on the heavy side of pleasantly plump, with red hair and a welcoming way. Her laugh was as big as her bosom, which was pretty impressive, and she was as popular with her customers as her milkshakes and double cheeseburgers with jalepenos were. She hadn't recognized me until I'd told her my name. Then her jaw had dropped and she had come out from behind the cash register and hugged me tightly. It had been the most genuine expression of concern anyone had shown me since . . . since, well . . . ever.

“What ever happened to you two, Blue? Jimmy left me with five carvings, and I sold them all, but he never came back. I had people wanting his work, asking for it. At first I was puzzled, wondering if I'd done something. But I had money for him. Surely he would have come back for his money. And then I got worried. It's been at least five years, hasn't it?”

“Six,” I corrected her.

Beverly hired me that very day, and I had worked for her ever since. She had never said anything about my appearance or my taste in men. If she thought my makeup was a little thick or my uniform a little tight, she also never said. I worked hard, and I was dependable, and she let me be. She even gave me the money from the sale of Jimmy's sculptures six years before.

“That's after I took twenty percent, plus six years worth of interest,” she had said matter-of-factly. “And if you've got any more of his carvings, I'll take 'em.”

It was five hundred dollars. I had used it to buy tools and secure the storage unit behind the apartment. And I had started carving in earnest. No more dabbling as I had done since Jimmy died. I attacked the art with a ferocity I didn't know I was capable of. Some of my carvings were hideous. Some weren't. And I got better. I parted with a couple of Jimmy's carvings, and finished the ones that he hadn't had the chance to complete. I then sold them all with his name – my name too, Echohawk – and when it was all said and done, I had made another $500. With that, and a year's worth of savings, I bought my little pick-up truck. It was very beat up, and it had 100,000 miles on it. But it ran and it gave me the wheels I needed to expand my wood gathering capabilities.

I had practiced on every log, branch, and tree I could get my hands on, but it wasn't like there were vast forests surrounding me. I lived in a desert. Fortunately, Boulder City sat higher up at the base of hills with mesquite growing in enough abundance that I could forage and pretty much take what I wanted. I became pretty good with a chain saw. Nobody cared about the scrubby mesquite anyway. And I have to admit, cutting it down was therapeutic in a very gut-level way. Within a year of getting a job at the cafe, I had sold a few of my pieces and had ten or so pieces lining the shelves of Beverly's little shop at all times. Three years later, I had a nest egg of several thousand dollars.

I was working the Thursday dinner shift one evening when Mr. Wilson came into the cafe with a pretty woman in a big fur coat. Her hair was a mass of blonde curls pinned up on her head, and she wore little diamonds at her ears as well as black stilletos and fishnet stockings. She was either coming from somewhere uber fancy or was one of those women who had never outgrown dress-up. The fur coat was so out of place in the cafe's southwest décor that I found myself trying not to laugh as I approached their table to take their order. She shrugged out of her coat and smiled up at me brightly when I asked them if I could bring them something to drink.

“I am so thirsty! I'll have a whole pitcher full of water, luv, and a massive order of nachos if you have them just for starters!” she chirped in accented supplication. She was British too. I looked from Wilson to the woman and back again.

“Hello, Blue,” Wilson smiled up at me politely. “Blue is one of my students, Tiffa,” he offered, introducing me to the woman across from him.

Tiffa's eyebrows shot up in disbelief as she gave me a quick once over. I had the feeling she didn't think I looked like a student. Her hand shot out, and I took it hesitantly.

“Are you the one who took the gun from that poor boy? Wilson's told me all about you! What a beautiful name! I'm Tiffa Snook, and I'm Darcy's, er, Mr. Wilson's, sister. You'll have to tell me what to order! I could eat a unicorn and pick my teeth with his horn! I'm absolutely famished.” Tiffa rattled all of this off in about two seconds flat, and I found myself liking her, in spite of her fur coat. If she hadn't mentioned the family connection, I would have thought Darcy liked older women.

“Tiffa is always famished,” Wilson added dryly, and Tiffa snorted and threw her napkin at him. But she laughed and shrugged, conceding the point.

“It's true. I am going to have to run for hours to work off those nachos, but I don't care. So tell me, Blue, what shall we order?”

I suggested several things, wondering all the while what Tiffa Snook exercised in if she wore fishnets and a fur coat to eat at the cafe. I could just see her clomping on the treadmill in heels and a baby seal-lined sweat suit. She was as thin as a rail and quite tall, and she exuded energy. She probably needed to eat like a horse – or a unicorn – just to fuel her energy level.

I found myself watching Wilson and his sister throughout their meal, and it wasn't just because I was their waitress. They seemed to enjoy each other's company, and their laughter filled their corner frequently. Tiffa was the one who seemed to do the majority of the talking, her gestures and hands movements accenting everything she said, but Wilson had her giggling uncontrollably more than once. When they finally signaled that they wanted their check, Tiffa reached out and took my hand as if we were old friends. It was all I could do not to yank it back.

“Blue! You have to settle this for us! Darcy here says you know something about carving. There are some fabulous carvings in the shop there, that I saw on the way in. You wouldn't know anything about them, would you?”

I was stricken with sudden self-consciousness, and for a minute I didn't know how to respond.

“Uh, what would you like to know?” I answered cautiously.

“Darcy says it's your last name carved into the base of each one. I told him they couldn't possibly be yours. No offense, luv, but they are seasoned, if that makes any sense.”

“They're mine,” I blurted out. “If that's all you need, here's your check. You can pay at the register. Thank you for coming in.” I rushed away, breathless, and barged into the kitchen like someone was after me. I found myself actually looking for some place to hide, as if Wilson and his sister would actually chase me and tackle me to the ground. After a minute of cowering, I marshalled enough courage to peek through the swinging doors separating the kitchen from the dining room.

They were browsing the gift shop, pausing beside several of my pieces. Tiffa ran her fingers along one of them, commenting to Wilson, though I couldn't hear what she said. I was struck with self-consciousness all over again, horror and elation warring in my chest. I turned away, not wanting to see more. It was close to closing time, and the cafe was almost empty, so I managed to hide out in the kitchen, doing my closing duties, waiting for them to leave.

About half an hour later, Jocelyn, the night manager, came bursting through the double doors into the kitchen, her face wreathed with smiles.

“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh, Blue! That lady in that sweet fur coat? She just bought all your carvings. Every one of them! She put them on her credit card and said she would send a truck to pick them up in the morning. You just made like $1000 bucks! There were ten of them! She had me walk behind her with a calculator, and we added them all up, plus she added a $200 tip for you because she said they were 'pathetically underpriced!'” She waggled her fingers, indicating quotations.

“She bought all of them?” I squeaked.

“All except one, and that was because the guy she was with insisted that he wanted it!”

“Which one?”

“All of them!”

“No, I mean, which one did the guy want?”

“The one closest to the exit. Come here! I'll show you where it was. He took it with him.”

She squealed like a little girl and turned, racing from the kitchen as I scampered behind her. I was kind of surprised by her obvious excitement for me.

“There! It was right there!” Jocelyn pointed at a large empty space on a shoulder-high shelf. “It had a funny title . . . The Arch? Yeah! I think it was that one.”

Wilson had taken ‘The Arc.’ I felt a thrill that he had recognized it for what it was. I had found a piece of mesquite that hid a curve in its line. Slowly, I had cut away the wood, forming the suggestion of a woman on her knees, back curved like a cat, deeply bowed in worship or subservience. Her body formed an arc, her arms stretching beyond a head which nearly kissed the ground into hands that curled into fists clenched in supplication. As with all my pieces, it was completely abstract, the suggestion of the woman merely that, a hint, a possibility. Some might simply see the highly-glossed wood, shaped into long lines and provocative hollows. But as I had carved, all I could see was Joan. All I could hear were her words. “To live without belief is a fate worse than death.” My Joan of Arc. And that was the one Wilson had purchased.

About a week later I walked into Wilson's classroom and stopped so suddenly the people walking behind me collided like human dominos, creating a little traffic jam in the doorway. I was jostled and complained about as my disgruntled classmates made their way around my inert form. My sculpture was sitting on a table in the center of the room. Wilson stood by his desk, talking with a student. I stared, willing him to look up, to explain what his game was. But he didn't.

I made my way slowly to my desk, front and center, putting me directly in front of the sculpture I had created with my own hands. I didn't have to look at the long lines or gleaming wood to know where I had patched a worm hole or cut more deeply than I had planned. I could close my eyes and remember how it had felt to form the suggestion of womanly curves bowed like Atlas with France on her back.

“Blue?” Wilson called from where he still stood by his desk. I turned my head slowly and looked at him. I didn't think the expression on my face was especially friendly. He didn't react to my glare but calmly asked me to “come here, please.”

I approached carefully and stopped in front of his desk, my arms folded.

“I want you to tell the class about your sculpture.”

“Why?”

“Because it's brilliant.”

“So?” I ignored the pleasure that flooded my chest at his pronouncement.

“You named it ‘The Arc.’ Why?”

“I was hungry . . . thinking about McDonalds, you know?”

“Hmm. I see. As in the golden arches.” A small smile twitched at the corners of Wilson's mouth. “You haven't written more than a paragraph in your personal history. Maybe there are other ways to share who you are. I thought maybe this piece was about Joan of Arc, which would make it especially relevant. Consider it extra credit . . . which frankly, you need.”