“It was the fire. The fire killed him. He never got out,” he called out, startling me.
“What?” I asked, not sure I had heard him correctly.
“The fire at my house. He died in it. He used to sleep in the basement and Mom couldn’t get to him.”
Air left my lungs and my head began to buzz.
Flynn slowly came back to my side of the room. With shaking hands, he bent down and started cleaning up the shattered remains of the clay dog.
I felt sick. I felt horrified. I wanted to run screaming from the awful truth I had just been given. I hastily tried to shove the guilt into a more manageable space inside of me before I choked on it. But it was too late.
Marty, the beautiful Border Collie was dead. The dog I had cuddled and kissed and who Flynn had loved was gone.
Because of me.
I felt it deep in my soul. The unjust futility of his lost life. The tragedy of it threatened to undo me.
I started the brutal and violent process of smothering the shame in the pit of my stomach. Shove, push, cut it up into tiny compact pieces so that it was easier to get rid of.
Once I had packed it away I was finally able to face him again and express the words that were expected in this kind of situation.
“I’m so sorry, Flynn” I began but he interrupted me.
“Why are you sorry? You didn’t kill him. The fire killed him. He couldn’t get out.”
The door to my emotions flew wide open again and I was left speechless.
What?
My throat closed up and my mouth went dry.
Flynn didn’t know.
Somehow he had been shielded from the reality of that horrific night.
I had lived the last six years thinking all my cards had been on the table. That Flynn knew what had happened.
But for some reason he hadn’t been given that particular painful piece of knowledge. And I was jealous of his blissful ignorance. He didn’t have to carry around the knowledge of what I had done to him. He was oblivious and a hateful part of me despised him for it.
My head hurt. My chest felt too tight.
I needed to leave.
Without another word, I grabbed my bag and left the art studio. Flynn didn’t call after me. He didn’t follow me. I didn’t expect him to.
But some tiny, annoying part of me that hadn’t been beaten down by emotional numbness was sad that he didn’t.
11
-Ellie-
Spending time with Flynn had been a mistake. And it wasn’t one I wanted repeated.
Our brief encounter had been as explosive as a land mine. It had blown open doors that I had kept resolutely shut for a very long time. But in the end it had also fortified me in the way only self-destruction can.
Days faded into one another and I didn’t see him. My feet were itching to walk across campus once or twice, heading in the direction where I knew I’d find him, but my rational mind reigned supreme over traitorous desires.
I hated myself for the weakness. I hated him for bringing it out in me. I was in a thick quagmire of all around loathing.
But it wasn’t all bad. Even as I struggled with Flynn’s presence in my world, I was finding dreams perhaps weren’t so unattainable.
Professor Smith had called my name before I left class one Friday afternoon. I startled at the sound of his bland, non-descript tone. I immediately began to catalog the million and one ways I could have possibly gotten into trouble.
It was instinct. I couldn’t help it. Rarely was my name called for a good reason.
So I was shocked to the tips of my toes when he pulled out the essay I had handed in several weeks ago on Young Goodman Brown with a red A blazoned on the top.
I took the paper and stared at it. Was this a joke? I don’t think I’d ever gotten an A in my life.
Professor Smith had written a few comments along the margins. Excellently explained! And wonderful analysis! Well done!
Professor Smith pointed at my essay. “This is excellent work, Ellie. It was one of the better essays I’ve read in a long time. Your arguments were solid and well thought out. There was a level of deduction that is highly complex and in my opinion more in line for a graduate level class. I have to say I’m extremely impressed by your work in this class. I would urge you to take some more challenging English classes next semester. Your writing is effortless and fluid. It’s clear you have a natural gift. It would be a shame for you not to pursue it.”
My mouth gaped open and I closed it quickly. I didn’t know what to say. I had taken the class on a whim. And here I was being told I was actually doing well.
I couldn’t think of a time in my life when I was told I was good at something. In school, I had barely coasted by and the people at juvie had been anything but encouraging.
But here was a college professor telling me I sort of rocked in his own boring, uninspiring way. Pride was nice to feel.
I rolled my essay up and gripped it tightly in my hand, scared to accept what he was telling me, but unwilling to dismiss it altogether.
“Have you signed up for classes for the spring yet?” Professor Smith asked me.
I shook my head. I didn’t want to say that I was suffering from a severe case of chicken shit. Not knowing how to believe in yourself was hard on the whole planning for a possible future thing.
Professor Smith wrote something down on a sticky note and handed it to me. I looked down and saw that he had listed three other classes. British Literature, Creative Writing, and the Development of the Short Story.
“These are just some ideas when you’re putting your schedule together. They are good pre-requisites for transferring to a four-year school.”
I almost swallowed on my tongue. Four-year school? It was the carrot dangling in front of my face. The cheese at the end of the maze. Tantalizing but still so out of reach.
“I don’t think” I began, ready to give voice to the idiocy of these pipe dreams.
Professor Smith interrupted me. “Just think about it. No need to make a decision about it now.”
Think about it.
Yeah I could do that.
I tapped my essay with my finger. “Will do, Professor. Thank you,” I said and I meant it.
Maybe Professor Smith wasn’t so bad after all.
I left the Dunlop building in good spirits.
And then my phone rang.
Damn that phone!
“Miss McCallum?” a voice said on the other end.
“Hi Mr. Cox,” I said, trying not to snicker. It was my probation officer. Mr. James Cox. Mr. Cox to me. I couldn’t say his name without wanting to bust a gut. I was pretty sure his dickish demeanor had a direct correlation to the amount of teasing he received as a kid bearing the brunt of that unfortunate name.