nothing like Pompeii,
I imagine her saying back to me.
Those Hinckley-ites had plenty of time to get out. I have no sympathy for anyone who drowned in the Hinckley flooding, if anyone even did drown in the Hinckley flooding. So there.
That’s what I imagine Ivy would say. If she could say anything. If she could think anything. If she could hear anything.
Hinckley is
your
Pompeii, Rosie. Yours, not mine.
Hinckley Reservoir is a placid surface. You’d never know that you were swimming on the graveyard of a town. All those houses, all those sidewalks, that school even, way down below. Goodbye, town. Goodbye, footprints, and goodbye, fingerprints.
Walk.
Keep walking.
For God’s sake, Rose, do you want to be late for science? Or history? No. Certainly not.
God forbid I should be late for history, and the book of wars, and the vast wisdom contained therein.
Rose, are you being sarcastic? No, Rose, I’m not being sarcastic.
Everyone needs to know everything possible about war.
Sometimes I hold conversations between myself and myself.
But at the intersection of Crill Road and Thompson Road, halfway to school, I stop: Help. I’ve walked for miles and the waters are not quieted. Will they overflow this time? Where’s Todd? Where’s Warren? Where’s Jimmy Wilson with his rigid not-moving eyes that won’t look at me anymore?
Ivy and I had an accident. It was dusk in the Adirondacks, and a light blue truck came around the curve —
“Younger.” It’s William T. He’s rapping on the side of his truck, idling next to me. How long has he been there?
“Younger! Snap out of it!”
There’s a look on his face.
“Hop in.”
My feet won’t move. I’m stuck.
“Now.”
I get in. He drives me the rest of the way, into the high school drop-off semicircle, and sits there with the truck still idling.
“Listen to me,” he says. “Get out of the truck. Point your feet toward those doors and walk on in. Walk to your class. Walk to your next class. And walk to the class after that one.”
That look on his face.
“Fifteen minutes at a time,” he says. “Fifteen minutes. That’s all you’ve got to think about.”
But I’m tired. So tired. William T. leans across me and opens up the door and gives me a little push with the heel of his hand.
“Onward,” he says. “I’ll be back at three. That’s twenty-seven fifteen-minute blocks from now.”
I watch William T.’s truck disappear down the hill. Fifteen minutes. Then there I am, standing up at the front of the class holding my late pass.
Everyone’s staring.
I hold it in, hold it all in. Fifteen minutes. I can feel all the eyes, glancing at me and trying to glance away, the eyes that see I’m not looking at them and therefore it’s safe, safe to look at me, to take me in — what I’m wearing, how my hair is brushed or not, the way I stand up there at the desk waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for Mr. Trehorn to take my late pass so that I can walk on back to the back.
Where Tom Miller waits.
Look up, Mr. Trehorn. Look up, Mr. Trehorn. Take the pass. Take the pass, Mr. Trehorn.
He’s a busy man, Mr. Trehorn. He’s extremely busy, making small black marks in his grade book. Mark, mark, mark. Busy, busy, busy.
Tom Miller gets up. He walks up to the front, where Mr. Trehorn’s head is bent over his small black marks. Tom takes the slip of paper from my hand. Drops it on the desk.
“Knock, knock,” he says to the bent head of Mr. Trehorn.
He waits for me to go first. I go first. Down the row I go. All the eyes. The eyes. The eyes. I can feel them. Rose Latham, whose sister was in the accident. Fifteen minutes. Tom Miller follows behind me. Fifteen minutes.
Now there are only two wars left: Vietnam and the Persian Gulf. Tracy Benova had tried to fill me in on what I had missed.
“World War II got the most attention,” she said. “Korea was more of a blip. Korea seems to be the war when they stopped being so proud of wars.”
I
I imagine her saying back to me.
Those Hinckley-ites had plenty of time to get out. I have no sympathy for anyone who drowned in the Hinckley flooding, if anyone even did drown in the Hinckley flooding. So there.
That’s what I imagine Ivy would say. If she could say anything. If she could think anything. If she could hear anything.
Hinckley is
your
Pompeii, Rosie. Yours, not mine.
Hinckley Reservoir is a placid surface. You’d never know that you were swimming on the graveyard of a town. All those houses, all those sidewalks, that school even, way down below. Goodbye, town. Goodbye, footprints, and goodbye, fingerprints.
Walk.
Keep walking.
For God’s sake, Rose, do you want to be late for science? Or history? No. Certainly not.
God forbid I should be late for history, and the book of wars, and the vast wisdom contained therein.
Rose, are you being sarcastic? No, Rose, I’m not being sarcastic.
Everyone needs to know everything possible about war.
Sometimes I hold conversations between myself and myself.
But at the intersection of Crill Road and Thompson Road, halfway to school, I stop: Help. I’ve walked for miles and the waters are not quieted. Will they overflow this time? Where’s Todd? Where’s Warren? Where’s Jimmy Wilson with his rigid not-moving eyes that won’t look at me anymore?
Ivy and I had an accident. It was dusk in the Adirondacks, and a light blue truck came around the curve —
“Younger.” It’s William T. He’s rapping on the side of his truck, idling next to me. How long has he been there?
“Younger! Snap out of it!”
There’s a look on his face.
“Hop in.”
My feet won’t move. I’m stuck.
“Now.”
I get in. He drives me the rest of the way, into the high school drop-off semicircle, and sits there with the truck still idling.
“Listen to me,” he says. “Get out of the truck. Point your feet toward those doors and walk on in. Walk to your class. Walk to your next class. And walk to the class after that one.”
That look on his face.
“Fifteen minutes at a time,” he says. “Fifteen minutes. That’s all you’ve got to think about.”
But I’m tired. So tired. William T. leans across me and opens up the door and gives me a little push with the heel of his hand.
“Onward,” he says. “I’ll be back at three. That’s twenty-seven fifteen-minute blocks from now.”
I watch William T.’s truck disappear down the hill. Fifteen minutes. Then there I am, standing up at the front of the class holding my late pass.
Everyone’s staring.
I hold it in, hold it all in. Fifteen minutes. I can feel all the eyes, glancing at me and trying to glance away, the eyes that see I’m not looking at them and therefore it’s safe, safe to look at me, to take me in — what I’m wearing, how my hair is brushed or not, the way I stand up there at the desk waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for Mr. Trehorn to take my late pass so that I can walk on back to the back.
Where Tom Miller waits.
Look up, Mr. Trehorn. Look up, Mr. Trehorn. Take the pass. Take the pass, Mr. Trehorn.
He’s a busy man, Mr. Trehorn. He’s extremely busy, making small black marks in his grade book. Mark, mark, mark. Busy, busy, busy.
Tom Miller gets up. He walks up to the front, where Mr. Trehorn’s head is bent over his small black marks. Tom takes the slip of paper from my hand. Drops it on the desk.
“Knock, knock,” he says to the bent head of Mr. Trehorn.
He waits for me to go first. I go first. Down the row I go. All the eyes. The eyes. The eyes. I can feel them. Rose Latham, whose sister was in the accident. Fifteen minutes. Tom Miller follows behind me. Fifteen minutes.
Now there are only two wars left: Vietnam and the Persian Gulf. Tracy Benova had tried to fill me in on what I had missed.
“World War II got the most attention,” she said. “Korea was more of a blip. Korea seems to be the war when they stopped being so proud of wars.”
I
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