The Book of Lost Friends(86)

An exquisite silence follows. I hear leaves rustling, birds singing, a telephone line squeaking softly as a squirrel runs along it. The flag pops in the breeze, its metal hook tapping out an uneven Morse code against the pole.

These are glorious moments of peace that live in the shadow of Article Six, the Negativity Rule, and the prescribed punishment for breaking it. The students detest having to pay back each negative comment by offering three positive ones. They would rather clam up than compliment one another. It’s a sad reality, but I hope it’s making the point that negativity has consequences and a huge cost. Making up for it takes three times the work.

“All right, then,” I say, after thirty seconds or so. “Be warned. Negativity Rule is officially in effect. Next person to say something negative must atone with three positives. Shall we practice as a class?”

Replies come in droves.

“No!”

“Nope.”

“Miss Silva! Pah-lease. We get it.”

Nathan covertly catches my gaze, blinks with both surprise and…admiration? I feel slightly lighter than air, as if the murky Louisiana day has suddenly been infused with helium.

“I’ll start,” I tease. “You guys are so amazing. You are definitely, absolutely, positively among my six favorite classes.”

They answer with groans and exhales. I have only six class periods, even counting my planning period, of course.

Lil’ Ray hovers a big hand over my head as if he’s going to bounce me like a basketball.

“We’re number one, though,” skinny Michael argues. “?’Cause we’re the best. Freshmen rule.”

I make the zipper sign across my lips.

“I could show your friend my project, too,” Michael offers as we start up the library steps. “Dude, mine’s so ace. I found my people all the way back to five generations. Daigre family’s got some crazy history. Nine brothers and sisters, born enslaved in West Virginia and they end up all over the place. Thomas goes with the Confederate army. Why? I don’t know. His sister Louisa, after the war is over, she gets married to the man who was her owner. Did they fall in love or did she have to do it? I don’t know. Like I said, my Tales from the Underground is ace.”

“Yeah, well mine’s so ace, it’s, like, triple ace,” Lil’ Ray claims, then senses the possible rub of the Negativity Rule. “I didn’t say his was bad, though. Just that mine’s ace. Hard-core, y’know? I got my people traced way back. I got stuff from the Library of Congress in my project.”

“My people were here before any of y’all’s people,” protests Sabina Gibson, who’s actually on the rolls of the Choctaw tribe. “I win no matter what y’all find out. Unless you got, like, cavemen in your papers or something.”

A battle of dueling ancestors ensues. It follows us past a lovely marble pedestal that holds the AUGUSTINE CARNEGIE LIBRARY sign, and up the concrete steps.

The group collects at the ornately molded doors, undoubtedly shiny brass at one time but now streaked with a sad patina of disuse. I shush the chatter before we head inside. I want the kids to practice reasonable library etiquette, even though the place will most likely be empty, save for our helpers from the New Century ladies.

Lil’ Ray protests in a whisper that it was his idea to show the guy his project; therefore, he should get first dibs on our guest.

The guy doesn’t answer, but looks at me in a way that says he’s amicable to whatever we decide.

I realize I haven’t made introductions, and while a few of these kids may realize who Nathan is, most of them don’t know him. I introduce him, but as soon as I speak the name, the buoyancy of the group drops as if our collective shoes are slowly filling with cement. A silent undercurrent of apprehension stirs in our midst. A few suspicious glances slant his way, and a few curious ones. The Fish girl cups her hand and whispers in her friend’s ear.

Nathan looks like a man who would prefer to walk back down the steps, leave this town behind, and never return. But something stops him—the same something that has brought him here today.

I suspect neither of us knows quite what that something is.





CHAPTER 21


HANNIE GOSSETT—TEXAS, 1875

Missy Lavinia rocks on the bunk and cries and moans in the dark. She’s wet herself because she won’t use the slop jar in the corner, and carried on so much about it she retched up what was in her stomach, too. This whole low-slung jail building has gone to stinking. The night’s so still, no air moves through the window bars to take out the smell.

How’d I end up like this? I ask myself. Lord, how’d I end up here?

The man in the next cell complains of the noise and the stink and beats on the wall twixt us and tells Missy to quieten down, she’s near drove him crazy. Heard the deputies bring him in a couple hours past sundown—a liquored-up fool that’s got hisself in trouble for stealing horses from the army. The sheriff of Fort Worth is waiting for the army to come fetch him. He’s a Irishman, by the way he talks.

In the dark, I sit and finger the place on my neck where Grandmama’s blue beads should be. I think of Mama and how everything’s gone wrong since I lost the beads, and now maybe I’ll never meet her or any of my people again in this world. Lonely perches like a buzzard on my head. It pecks at my eyes so all I can see is a blur outside the window as the half moon blows its breath over the stars, dimming them down.