year on the motocross circuit, before he was married. It was a joke, fifth period. Right after lunch, after—if it wasn’t basketball season—we would have all been out in the parking lot, bottles stashed under the seats of our trucks, our jackets still exhaling smoke every time we moved.
Deal was, though, Ms. Godfrey, she’d been in that same parking lot just four years ago.
If I would have been one year older, I probably would have remembered her senior year. She’d be a face at the pep rallies, anyway; not out on the court, with pompoms, but one of the ones in the stands, going through the motions, waiting this thing out. Going on the yearbook photos, that’s what I’d guess her senior year was about. She’s not in Future Homemakers, isn’t a sweetheart for FFA, isn’t in any of the language or science clubs (or auto or meat judging), didn’t compete in UIL’s Number Sense, and didn’t get voted most anything or show up in nostalgic silhouette at the bonfire. After what Pete Manson told me, it makes sense: she was spending all her extra hours at the hospital, tending to Tommy Moore. And then, when he was home, she was over there nursing him, threading his bangs back behind an ear, lying to him that it was all going to be all right, that nothing had to change.
If you ask me, Ms. Godfrey and Tommy Moore should have been Homecoming King and Queen that year. Retroactively. Prom royalty as well. Mr. and Mrs. Everything, forever.
Instead, I think everybody kind of just pretended they weren’t there. Because if they were there in the halls, at the bonfires, in the stands, then they’d have to think about the rest—the fire, the trial, the guns, all of it.
It’s the crowd version of what finally pulled the two of them apart, I’d guess: Tommy, unable to look at her and not see her on top of the module that morning, screaming for Rob King to stop.
But I can’t ask her about that now, of course. If I ask what broke them up, then she’ll have to think about what if they didn’t, what if she’d stayed with him even though he was pushing her away, what if, like all the songs said she was supposed to, she’d stood by him?
Would he be lost down in Austin now?
If there were some way to just get this from the yearbook, I mean, believe me, that’s where I’d be. No offense, Ms. Godfrey, please. And I’m not ready to talk to Pete Manson again either, yet. I don’t want to have to see her through his eyes.
Just the facts, as far as I know them.
At college in Abilene, Sheryl Ledbetter met Roger Godfrey, who I don’t really know except to raise a finger to over my steering wheel. He’s about twelve years older than her, would have been a senior when she was just starting kindergarten. I can’t imagine they met in class one day at Hardin-Simmons, or that one of her friends introduced them.
You have to admit, though, his wiry mustache, his suit: he’s not Tommy, not who Tommy was going to grow into. Probably doesn’t ever even remind her.
But this book’s going to be on that shelf in the school library too, I know.
I’ll never see it, never sign it. Don’t want her (you, Ms. Godfrey, I’m sorry) to have to pretend she didn’t read this. To hug me again like I haven’t betrayed her, and everybody.
So.
What I Remember Best About Her Senior English.
This is my report.
What I remember best is that we gave her hell at first, until the principal had to come talk to us, her out in the hall, sure she’d done the wrong thing, calling in the brass. What I remember is the way our girlfriends and ex-girlfriends—this being all of the girls, yeah—would cut their eyes at us every time Godfrey turned to diagram a sentence on the board. What I remember is that she actually made us read and take quizzes on
Red Badge of Courage
and
Heart of Darkness
and
The Great Gatsby
, and
Catcher in the Rye
and
The Last Picture Show
, even though the librarian kept the copies of those last two behind the desk. And
Deal was, though, Ms. Godfrey, she’d been in that same parking lot just four years ago.
If I would have been one year older, I probably would have remembered her senior year. She’d be a face at the pep rallies, anyway; not out on the court, with pompoms, but one of the ones in the stands, going through the motions, waiting this thing out. Going on the yearbook photos, that’s what I’d guess her senior year was about. She’s not in Future Homemakers, isn’t a sweetheart for FFA, isn’t in any of the language or science clubs (or auto or meat judging), didn’t compete in UIL’s Number Sense, and didn’t get voted most anything or show up in nostalgic silhouette at the bonfire. After what Pete Manson told me, it makes sense: she was spending all her extra hours at the hospital, tending to Tommy Moore. And then, when he was home, she was over there nursing him, threading his bangs back behind an ear, lying to him that it was all going to be all right, that nothing had to change.
If you ask me, Ms. Godfrey and Tommy Moore should have been Homecoming King and Queen that year. Retroactively. Prom royalty as well. Mr. and Mrs. Everything, forever.
Instead, I think everybody kind of just pretended they weren’t there. Because if they were there in the halls, at the bonfires, in the stands, then they’d have to think about the rest—the fire, the trial, the guns, all of it.
It’s the crowd version of what finally pulled the two of them apart, I’d guess: Tommy, unable to look at her and not see her on top of the module that morning, screaming for Rob King to stop.
But I can’t ask her about that now, of course. If I ask what broke them up, then she’ll have to think about what if they didn’t, what if she’d stayed with him even though he was pushing her away, what if, like all the songs said she was supposed to, she’d stood by him?
Would he be lost down in Austin now?
If there were some way to just get this from the yearbook, I mean, believe me, that’s where I’d be. No offense, Ms. Godfrey, please. And I’m not ready to talk to Pete Manson again either, yet. I don’t want to have to see her through his eyes.
Just the facts, as far as I know them.
At college in Abilene, Sheryl Ledbetter met Roger Godfrey, who I don’t really know except to raise a finger to over my steering wheel. He’s about twelve years older than her, would have been a senior when she was just starting kindergarten. I can’t imagine they met in class one day at Hardin-Simmons, or that one of her friends introduced them.
You have to admit, though, his wiry mustache, his suit: he’s not Tommy, not who Tommy was going to grow into. Probably doesn’t ever even remind her.
But this book’s going to be on that shelf in the school library too, I know.
I’ll never see it, never sign it. Don’t want her (you, Ms. Godfrey, I’m sorry) to have to pretend she didn’t read this. To hug me again like I haven’t betrayed her, and everybody.
So.
What I Remember Best About Her Senior English.
This is my report.
What I remember best is that we gave her hell at first, until the principal had to come talk to us, her out in the hall, sure she’d done the wrong thing, calling in the brass. What I remember is the way our girlfriends and ex-girlfriends—this being all of the girls, yeah—would cut their eyes at us every time Godfrey turned to diagram a sentence on the board. What I remember is that she actually made us read and take quizzes on
Red Badge of Courage
and
Heart of Darkness
and
The Great Gatsby
, and
Catcher in the Rye
and
The Last Picture Show
, even though the librarian kept the copies of those last two behind the desk. And
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