Rock Chick Reborn (Rock Chick #9)(37)

“Lord,” I breathed.

“Roam is a natural storyteller, Miz Jackson. You can’t teach what he’s got. His voice is unique, and although I’m not surprised he struggles with it, you will not find even a hint of that in his work. It flows beautifully.”

My eyes drifted down to the paper.

“It’s too late now to apply for him to start in the fall,” Mr. Robinson continued. “But I’d strongly advise you have another discussion with him. With his grades, and the way he writes an essay, he’d have no issues getting accepted and he could perhaps begin for mid-term enrollment. Or he could take some time and start next year.”

I didn’t see Roam slaving away at a computer, writing books for a living.

I didn’t even see him walking around with a backpack on some university campus.

What I saw was the fact my boy’s world was opening up.

He had opportunities.

He had choices.

His past was bleak no matter what way you looked at it.

But his future was bright whatever way he wanted to take it.

I didn’t feel I had any of that when I sat at a desk like this years ago.

But I got to live it with Roam.

And Sniff.

“Maybe I should have pushed it,” I told the papers.

“I wouldn’t have,” Mr. Robinson told me.

I looked at him.

“It’s only a guess,” he continued, “but that guess is that you’re sensitive to allowing both your boys to feel in control of their lives, their destinies. This is crucial not only because of their pasts, but for them to learn to make smart choices for their futures. It is far from necessary for Roam to have a college degree in order to be a writer, if that’s his choice. What’s necessary to be a writer is to fill your life with as many experiences as you can get to inform your writing, enrich it. If more schooling is not his thing,” he shrugged, “it’s not. It isn’t everyone’s thing. He can gain life experience in a lot of different ways, and I’m sure we can both agree he has more than enough of one kind already. But I’d broach the subject with him again.”

“I will, Mr. Robinson.”

He smiled. “Please call me Keith.”

“And you should call me Shirleen.”

His smile got bigger.

I smiled back then looked down at the paper.

“I’ve been teaching history a long time,” he said, and my gaze shifted back to him. “And I have never, not once, assigned a paper when a student has used that kind of creativity in order to fulfill an assignment. I honest to God didn’t know how to grade it. I felt like an armchair quarterback who’s never played football in his life calling a play.”

“Wow,” I whispered.

Boy, I couldn’t wait to read that report.

“Precisely.” He grinned.

“I’ll have the talk with him,” with them, “soon’s I can.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Shirleen.”

I stood. He stood. We shook hands.

And I didn’t care what he read in me holding that report to my chest as he walked me to his classroom door.

“Shirleen,” he said when we’d reached it.

I stopped just in the hall and turned to him.

“After my mind unboggled, reading that report,” he started, “it came to me the young man who wrote it and how that young man got to the point in his life he was in my class and able to write it.”

I stared in his eyes.

“They were very lucky to find you,” he said quietly.

“I feel it’s the other way around,” I replied.

He gave me a gentle smile. “Like I said, they were very lucky to find you.”

“Gotta admit, Keith, wish I had a teacher like you in high school.”

He seemed embarrassed by the compliment, and if he’d scuffed the floor with the toe of his shoe, I would not have been surprised.

“But glad Roam got you,” I finished.

“That pleasure has been mine,” he returned.

“Like I said, glad Roam got you.”

He chuckled and I grinned at him.

We said our goodbyes and I walked a whole lot faster back to my car.

I didn’t even start it up after I tossed my bag to the passenger seat before I turned my attention to Roam’s report.

I had no idea how long it took me to read.

What I knew when I reached the end was that my boy could seriously write.

I was nearly home when my car rang.

I looked down at the dashboard to see it said Moses Calling.

I took the call, greeting, “Hey, my man.”

“You all right?”

“Yep.”

“Roam all right?”

“Apparently, I got Alex Haley livin’ under my roof.”

“Say again?”

“Just heard the word that Roam’s an exceptionally gifted storyteller.”

“Who gave you this word?”

“His history teacher. And just to say, I just spent the last however many minutes reading Roam’s “Perspectives of American Military Action in Vietnam,” and the dude does not lie.”

Moses chuckled. “So it was good news.”

Good?

Hell no.