The Book of Lost Friends(84)
The lump that was in Lil’ Ray’s throat transfers to mine. I swallow hard, trying to get it under control. A sudden uprising of opinions erupts for and against that plan. Copious slurs, a dis of poor little Tobias, and a dusting of mild curse words add to the debate, but not necessarily in a productive way.
“Time-out.” I use the referee hand signal to make my point. “Lil’ Ray, hold that thought a minute.” Then I address the rest of them. “What are classroom rules?”
A half dozen kids roll their eyes and groan.
“Do we gotta say it?” somebody pipes up.
“Until we start remembering to follow it, yes,” I insist. “Or we can go back to the classroom and diagram sentences. I’m good either way.” I make the motion of a choir conductor’s baton. “All together now. What’s Article Number Three of our Classroom Constitution?”
An unenthusiastic chorus responds, “We encourage vigorous debate. Civil debate is a healthy and democratic process. If one cannot make one’s point without yelling, name-calling, or insulting others, one should develop a stronger argument before speaking further.”
“Good!” I take a mock bow. We’ve carefully drafted the Classroom Constitution as a group, which I’ve blown up on the copier, laminated, and permanently affixed to one side of the chalkboard. I’ve also given every kid a portable copy. They get extra points for knowing it.
“And Article Two? Because I have so far detected three—count them, three—violations of that one in this recent conversation.” I turn and walk backward, directing the choir again. Thirty-nine annoyed faces silently say, You are insufferable, Miss Silva.
“If the word is derogatory or improper in polite company, we don’t use it in Miss Silva’s class,” the troupe murmurs as we near the library steps.
“Yes!” I pretended to be wildly delighted with their ability to commit the constitution to memory. “And better yet, don’t use it outside of class, either. Those words make us sound average and we don’t settle for average because we are…what?” I point the pistol fingers—our school symbol—their way.
“Outstanding,” they drone.
“Alrighty then!” An uneven joint in the sidewalk foils my mojo, and I slip sideways on my platform clogs and almost go off the curb. LaJuna, Lil’ Ray, and a quiet nerdy girl named Savanna rush forward to catch me, while the rest of the class erupts in snickers and giggles.
“I’m good. I got it!” I say and pause to recover my shoe.
“We oughta add ‘Don’t walk backward in clogs’ to the Classroom Constitution.” It’s the first lighthearted thing LaJuna has said since she came back to school.
“You’re funny.” I wink at her, but she’s angled herself the other way. The rest of the group has paused to keep from running me down, but they are also focused on the library steps.
I turn around and my heart gives a flit flit flutter, like a butterfly rising. There stands Nathan. I let a brightly colored “Hey!” fly out before I can swat it down. Heat pushes into my cheeks as a random observation darts across my consciousness. The aqua T-shirt nicely complements his eyes. He looks good in it.
And the thought ends right there, like a sentence cut short, left dangling without punctuation.
“You said to…come by. If I had the chance.” Nathan seems uncertain. Maybe he feels the weight of having an audience, or maybe he senses my self-consciousness.
Thirty-nine sets of curious eyes watch us acutely, reading the situation.
“I’m glad you did.” Do I still sound too bubbly? Too pleased? Or just welcoming?
I’m acutely aware that until now, our association has always been over Cluck and Oink takeout at my house. In private. Since our first all-night research session, we’ve just drifted into a Thursday evening thing, as it’s a convenient night for both of us. We look over the latest findings from Goswood Grove, or pieces of the kids’ research, or various documents that Sarge and the New Century ladies have managed to dig up at the parish courthouse. Whatever’s new in the Underground project.
Then we walk the old plot maps of the plantation graveyard and a potter’s field that lies between the orchard and the main cemetery fence. Occasionally, we wander to the quiet, moss-covered stones, concrete crypts, and ornate brick and marble structures that hold the aboveground gravesites of Augustine’s most prominent citizens. We’ve visited the resting place of Nathan’s ancestors in a private section of stately mausoleums, the elaborate marble structures encircled by an ornate wrought iron fence. The statues and crosses cresting their interment places, including those of Nathan’s father and the judge, reach skyward, far above our heads, denoting wealth, importance, power.
Nathan’s sister is not buried there, I’ve noticed, but I haven’t asked why or where she is. Maybe in Asheville where they grew up? I suspect that the pomp of the Gossett family plot wouldn’t have suited Robin, from what little I know of her. Everything about that place is meant to provide some sort of immortality here on earth. And yet the Gossetts of old have not altered the terminal nature of human life. Like the enslaved people, the sharecroppers, the bayou dwellers, and the ordinary workingmen and women in the potter’s field, they’ve all come to the same end. They are dust beneath the soil. All that is left behind lies in the people who remain. And the stories.