Page 2 of Second Story

The headmaster of this school makes me take a second look by tapping that photo and asking, “Did you think our counsellor would recommend you? He couldn’t tell me much beyond you booking a meeting room for him once in a London library. Couldn’t vouch for anything else about you, so I’ll ask you one last time. Why Glynn Harber? What are you really here for?”

I have to be careful. The complete truth will set him running. I can’t spill what happened after the police battered down the door to my family home, then sealed it off with tape like a crime scene. I settle for repeating the one truth I can share with him. “I’m here for me.”

“I wish I could believe that.” He sighs next to another photo featuring a tall dune. This bank of sand towers over tiny children it could smother in an instant. I’m just as crushed when he says, “I can’t let myself take your word for it. Not when trauma has led so many of our students to Glynn Harber. Do you know what the name of the school means?”

I do. Even if I don’t have the right certification, a librarian’s urge to read and research runs bone-deep through me. “It’s Cornish for a woodland safe haven.”

He nods at me, then at those tiny children. “Some of our students are refugees, here to heal ahead of the next stage in their onward journey. Imagine not feeling safe or secure, Isaac. Being made unwelcome everywhere you turn, your last home gone and no idea where your new one will be.”

I don’t have to imagine.

I’ve watched my brother live that vagrant lifestyle. Heard his voice fade into the same silence Luke Lawson now waits for me to break. When I don’t, he resumes his questioning.

“You’re from south London, yes? Parts of that area are prestigious, but I noticed an address in Wintergreen on your paperwork. Other students here are from the same neck of the woods. They describe it as a huge housing estate with a high crime rate. That link is what caught my eye in your application. They’re refugees too, in a way. Can’t go home because of past issues. Can’t move on until they heal. Their scars are different. Often hidden. Sometimes still raw and bleeding. Every single one of them deserves support from honest professionals.”

“I have been hon?—”

“Can you honestly tell me that you have experience with trauma? With those hidden scars I just mentioned?”

Do I have experience with scars?

The one good thing Joe ever did was give Lenny a storybook all about them. I’ve read it every night since. Know it inside out and backwards. Got a few scars of my own that he left me.

Stop thinking about him.

I give Luke Lawson a sliver of the honesty he asked for. “I do have a perfect book to help with trauma, and I could learn?—”

He shakes his head. “You’ve had over a year since leaving university to do that. Did you use any of that time to seek additional trauma training?”

Right now, I feel like I could run advanced courses. I have to shake my head instead as a school bell rings.

“What would you do if you were me?” He’s brutal, all while his voice is gentle. “Would you hire a candidate with none of the credentials a school librarian needs and who names a contact who met him so briefly he probably couldn’t pick you out from a police lineup?”

I swallow hard, as voiceless as my brother lately. Maybe it’s just as well I’m silent. His next comment leaves me speechless.

“I invited you here out of curiosity, but you made it through to this final interview because you wowed every single teacher during the early stages.” He points outside at a bearded giant of a teacher. “Hayden said you brought his nature lesson to life with a story you made up on the fly. That you included some quite challenging children and extended their learning so naturally that they thought they were playing.”

He moves closer to the glass and points to someone else who observed me on my first visit. “And Rowan told me how you improvised the moment you saw his drumsticks. Said you asked him to play and got a whole classroom of children moving to his beat. That you opened the classroom doors and marched your story outside.” He shakes his head, forehead creasing again, although his next words sound helpless instead of condemning. “That’s when I heard you laugh.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Isaac. You. I heard you laugh and then I watched you weave a story in my playground that you didn’t need a book to tell. And do you know what else I witnessed from my study window?”

His answer slays me.

“I saw so much potential.”

He searches my face, and I’m hot all over at scrutiny that holds a surprising hint of desperation and none of the judgement I more than half expected. Who knows why that pokes at the lion inside me, but here I go growling again.

“Then give me a second chance.”

He smiles then. I didn’t expect it and couldn’t have predicted how all his stern lines would soften. Fuck me, he’s so human it’s hard to deal with. I also can’t handle this switchblade shift from interrogator to someone who wants to be persuaded. Because that is what he begs for—Luke Lawson wants me to convince him so much that I can both see and hear it.

“Tell me one more story, Isaac. Not today.” He gestures at a crowd gathering outside. “I’m late for a whole-school event. Come back at the same time next week with an honest story. One that proves you’re sensitive to the scars left by trauma. Dig deep for me.” He points at the children. “Forthem. Do that, and I’ll find the time to listen before I make my final decision. You won’t even have to do it in front of a panel of students, like today. I value their opinions the most, but if it helps you to get honest, we can meet again without them.”

He leads me out of the library to the front door of the school.

I stand on a threshold made from mosaic floor tile spelling outWelcome to Glynn Harberthat he taps with the toe of a shiny black shoe. “I want to do this, Isaac. I so want to make you welcome.” He’s quiet but serious. “I’ve asked for your honesty today, so now I’ll be honest with you. I know you already passed the enhanced clearance checks to work with children like ours. However, I’ll still have a very hard time employing you without hearing from someone else who can vouch for you. Think of someone who has seen you in action around children. Your university tutor, maybe?”

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