Page 21 of Second Story

“Sorry, Mr. Lawson. I don’t think I should.”

“Luke, please.” He turns, a frown furrowing his forehead. “And why not?”

“Because I’m not the right man to help you.” I nod to the window. “If that’s your candidate, I can’t be impartial. I already know him.”

“Isaac Webber? He’s a friend of yours?”

“No.” Isaac might have been that once, if the circumstances had been different. “He isn’t a friend. I, uh… I didn’t know him in a personal capacity.”

“In your professional one, then.” The headmaster asks this quietly. “As part of your old welfare role?” Before I can answer, he looks over my shoulder. I do too and see we aren’t alone. The padre listens from the doorway.

“Luke, your librarian candidate is here, but I have to be honest. I have a few welfare concerns of my own. I’m not sure he’s ready for an interview.”

“Agreed.”

That gets both their attention. I clarify quickly.

“I just mean that I bumped into him in the bathroom.” I catch another glimpse of Isaac shuffling Lenny away. He looks over his shoulder, and while I don’t see any more of that panic, he does look beaten, and I hate that for him. “He’s... uh. He’s handling a lot.”

The padre nods. “Like the unexpected guest he brought with him. His little brother. Luke, I’m not certain Isaac has anyone to leave him with.”

“Come on in, Hugo.”

Once the padre joins us, Luke faces me head-on, and he isn’t built like a da Silva, doesn’t have the bulk of years of boxing practice, but I still wouldn’t want to spar with him. Not when he asks so fiercely, “Does Isaac having a lot to handle mean you believe he wouldn’t be a safe pair of hands here?” He frowns again. “His clearance checks were perfect. Even the enhanced checks that we need due to some of our children being?—”

I expect him to say vulnerable or fragile.

Instead, he describes me.

“—unwanted. Excluded. Labelled as trouble in the making. Neglected or rejected into having low aspirations. And thosesame hard-to-reach students gave Isaac the highest score last week after his practical sessions. He didn’t tell them stories. He listened to theirs, then found books with similar themes that some of them haven’t put down since. Found audiobooks and games for our avoidant readers. He knocked their socks off. And mine.” Those forehead furrows deepen. “I almost offered him a job already as a storyteller for our little ones despite him not having a degree yet. To be honest, I only delayed to check that wasn’t a one-off performance. But you’re saying I should fully reconsider instead?”

“No. Not at all.” I can’t let this headmaster think that, even if I can bet that’s why Isaac just sagged as if he felt judged.By me.And I bet I got that judgement ball rolling this morning by firing questions at him in a lay-by.

I can’t leave Luke Lawson with the same wrong first impression, so I stand and glimpse a side view of Lenny at a table outside. He’s happier now. Looks healthy. Is a sight for sore eyes, to be honest, and the icing on that cake is me spotting what he shows off to his neighbour.

The book I gave him.

I have to clear my throat to admit, “I only mean that it might not be fair if I sit in. Because you want an objective opinion, right?” I shrug. “Not sure I can be that.”

“Because you think Isaac shouldn’t have made our shortlist?”

“No.” It’s so easy to mean what I tell him. “Because he’d be right at the top of mine. Wouldn’t even need to hear him read. I’ve already heard him do that plenty for his brother. You want a safe pair of hands?”

Luke Lawson nods. So does the padre, that slash across his face tightening.

“You need someone who knows where your kids have come from?”

They both nod again.

“That’s Isaac Webber. He’s more than qualified.” Here’s my entire truth. “He’s the first choice I’d make any day of the week.” I extend a hand that Luke shakes. “It was good to meet you. I probably won’t need to visit the school again, but I’ll stay in touch about Noah’s court date.” I reach the library door. “And I’ll go and let Isaac know that I won’t be sitting in. He looked?—”

“A bit rattled to see you here?” the padre offers.

“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck, wondering if I’ve said too much already, but here I go speaking up for someone I just witnessed pulling himself together when he must be running on empty. “You were right about him not being ready. I mean, I bet he could pull off this interview. I never met anyone as motivated. But…” I dig out my phone and show them what I already googled. “This is a knife fight his little brother witnessed.”

The news report I scroll through doesn’t pull any punches, and the padre’s scar whitens.

“Those aren’t knives. They’re machetes.”

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