Page 12 of Second Story

I feel that all the way to my soul. This too.

“Noah doesn’t deserve any of it.”

“No. And I’ll do everything I can so he doesn’t feel like he’s the one on trial. If he ever decides to change his mind about meeting me face-to-face ahead of his court date, I could reassure him of that.”

This big brother sighs, eyes fixed on my forearms before his gaze rises. “I can’t promise he’ll ever want to meet you.”

That’s no surprise. It’s only a reminder of what Isaac already made plain.

Black sheep like me are rarely welcome.

I arriveat a very different school from the last one I worked in. My old workplace had a bad weapons problem, and it wasn’t alone. Every teacher in that borough has stories of finding blades in book bags. Now I park outside a private boarding school that doesn’t look like it can share that issue.

Glynn Harber is green, leafy, and well cared-for. Classroom windows sparkle instead of being covered by bars or boards, and all this fluttering bunting strung between trees and buildings isn’t anything I usually witness. But appearances can be deceptive, and I get a swift reminder once I grab my laptop case and head for the front door of the school only to be surprised by a firearm.

“Halt!”

Thank fuck this gun is only a stick wielded by a little kid who pokes it through the fence around an outdoor classroom. I still play along and follow orders. “I’m halting, I’m halting. Don’t shoot.” I raise my hands, which pleases my captor, then I lower them even faster when gravity gets to work on my sleeves.

Maybe I don’t need to worry about frightening the kids here with the marks on my skin. The man who hurries to join us has one that gives my own a run for their scary money. At least I get to choose whether to keep my worst wounds hidden. This man doesn’t have that option. His scar slashes his face, the very first thing anyone gets to notice.

He gets closer, and yeah, it wasn’t a blade that left this damage, or acid, and he lets me know I’m staring by addressing that head-on.

“A souvenir from Syria,” he says cheerfully. “Which is where Hadi here comes from.” He leans over the classroom fence and ruffles dark hair. “Who is still a touch over-excited after this morning’s career talk from a soldier. Remember what he told us, Hadi? That he spent more time rebuilding and peacekeeping than fighting, so how about you go see if you can rebuild your plank bridge?” He returns this kid’s smart salute and watches him march off to a sandpit before returning to me. “Sorry about that greeting. Not the most relaxing start for your interview, I imagine.”

“Interview?” I tap my laptop case. “No, I’m here to gather data for a court report.”

“Ah! Of course. You’re Joseph da Silva?”

“Joe, but I’m the one who needs to be sorry. For running late. And for staring.”

He extends a hand, his grip firm and steady. “You aren’t the first. You won’t be the last.” He shrugs, easy in skin that must have been a challenge to stitch together. “Hugo Heppel-Eavis. Head of pastoral care. Sorry for the confusion. I’m expecting to sit in on an interview soon.”

I can’t help picturing Isaac changing his clothes by the roadside, even though teaching wasn’t his bag when I knew him. Books were, like the ones filling his room at uni when I had to track him down and tell him to come home for his brother. And the ones filling the back of that van.

How did he end up with it?

I don’t mean to frown while wondering about someone I missed my chance with, or to stare at this man’s injury.

“Blast damage,” he tells me matter-of-factly, and he runs a fingertip from the edge of an eye to where one side of his mouthis frozen. The other half smiles. “Some people think this must be a reminder of the worst day of my life. Of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I could give the same reason for the scars that I hide out of habit, hands shoved deep into my pockets, but that would begin our first meeting with a lie, and I’m done with those. “I was still staring.” It’s only now that I notice the dog collar peeking above his sweatshirt. “Sorry, uh, Reverend.”

“Just Hugo is fine. Or Padre. That’s what the students call me. And there’s no need to be sorry.” His gaze lands on my laptop case that Meera gave me, no shades of grey on this vivid rainbow cover, and perhaps that’s why he doesn’t sweat outing himself to a stranger.“My husband says this makes me very eye-catching.” He traces the scar I stared at. “He might not have looked at me twice without it, so I can’t help thinking the right thing happened to me at exactly the right time.” He moves away from the fence, walking me across the playground. “Before Charles, I thought I’d come to the end of the road with my vocation. Couldn’t see a way to get over the past and move forward. Turned out all I needed was faith. And patience.”

My dad only remembers to be religious when visiting my grandparents. No trip to Lisbon is complete until I light candles with them, as if attending a cathedral Mass will wash my soul clean of my piss-poor teen decisions. The only real faith I’ve ever had is in Josh. Yeah, I knocked his in me, but we’re still rebuilding. As for patience, chemical burns taught me that I had fuck all. There’s no escape from that kind of pain, that torture. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody.

I open my mouth, then close it, voiceless for a too-long moment.

He fills my silence. “It’s good to meet you, Joseph.”

I’d remind him to call me Joe if he didn’t gut me with his next confession.

“I’d almost given up on you.”

For a split second, I don’t stand in bright spring sunshine outside a school. I’m back on the edge of a cliff with Isaac saying almost the same words to me.

I gave up on you.

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