daring her to say she'd come.
“I'm allowed.” She blushed, probably trying to think of everything else she was allowed to do. But surely, if the Somerleds condoned blowing people up, they'd condone just about anything.
“Good. Can you meet me there? I have to drive Granddad's truck over, with some old barn wood for the fire.”
“Yes. I'll meet you there.”
“Going to the Recovery Center today?”
“Yeah. I need to.”
“Me too. Maybe I'll see you there.” Jamison rolled up the scarf and tucked it into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “I'll give it back if you come tonight.” Then he winked at her and made his way back to his seat.
Step one: get her scarf.
Step two: get her to come to the bonfire.
Check and check.
***
Mr. Evans walked in as the announcements wrapped up.
The kid behind Jamison poked him in the back and leaned forward.
“I heard he got called into Mr. Forbes's office this morning. He's busted. Been dating a student, if you know what I mean.”
“If that were true, he wouldn't be here this morning, would he?” Jamison rolled his eyes at the kid and turned forward again.
Rumors like that were never true. Some chick might have complained about Mr. Evans because he was too rude, or made her look stupid in front of her friends, but if she wanted to be believed, she should have come up with something else. The guy was 55 or 60. Students who dated teachers went for the young ones, not fossils with all white hair.
“Children? I hope you at least reviewed the notes of Jamison's friend, Cliff. Use as many pages as you'd like, and capitalizing on the rest of the class period, please write an essay explaining how old you expect to be when you decide wisdom, or something similar, will become more important to you than passion.
“And I don't mean only physical passion, Miss Phillips. I mean passion for life, passion for your dreams, passion for business, perhaps. Passion of any kind. Poetry. Art. Music. Science. There are some among you who might have a passion for mathematics, or gambling.
“Just how long do you see yourself holding on? How bad must your arthritis get before you choose a pain-free day over picking up your violin? How many months or years might go by without you noticing the passion is gone? Will you even care? Maybe you've already let something go, Mr. Shaw.”
He winked and Jamison and continued his rant.
“If sacrifice is giving up something good for something better, when do you think the balance will shift? When will that pain-free day sound better than the music?
“I can see Mr. Cloward getting his hopes up. Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm done talking. Start writing. Don't forget to tie in our beloved novel, Lost Horizon. Compare your prediction with what you have learned about Mr. Conrad or Mr. Mallinson.”
For Jamison it was fairly easy; he wrote about Granddad. That man was born with wisdom; he didn't need to give up his passions for it. He wouldn't have stayed in Shangri-La, he would have fought hard to get back home to his wife, his daughter and his grandson. He wouldn't have accepted any substitute for family. Kenneth Jamison was the fear and fight kind. He would have never cowered in Texas, no matter what he'd faced. He’d been John Freaking Wayne; he'd have found a way to fight.
For the first time, Jamison wrote about what happened deep in the heart of the Yellow Rose State. It didn't matter if it earned him a better grade or not, he just had to write it.
He dragged his feet, letting the rest of the class file out before he turned in his paper.
“Mr. Evans?”
“Mr. Shaw?”
“I can't give you my paper unless you promise to give it back. And you have to promise to keep what I've written to yourself. No one can be helped by it, and a few can be hurt.”
Mr. Evans's brows came together. “I'm sure it's not my place to stick my nose where it doesn't belong.”
“Thank you.” He stapled the pages together and handed them over.
“And Jamison?”
“Yeah?”
“If I can't...if I can't return it personally, I'll destroy it. All right with you?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“You have my word.”
Jamison nodded and left. That guy was friggin' weird.
Attend first period. Check.
***
Second period Jamison drove home. He hauled a pallet and some long ropes from the old shed and headed for the tree house. He was whistling the Irish Washerwoman's song, his granddad’s favorite, so it took some