The Book of Lost Friends - Lisa Wingate Page 0,118
Underground project. I don’t know if that’s because of her current life situation, or because the project developed while she was AWOL from school, or because she doesn’t like the fact that dozens of other students have horned in on her exploration of the secrets the judge left hidden in Goswood Grove House. That place was sacred territory for her, a refuge since her childhood.
Some days, I feel like I’ve betrayed a fragile trust with her or failed some important test, and we’ll never get to where I’d like to be. But I have dozens of other students to think about, and they matter, too. Maybe I’m being na?ve and idealistic, but I can’t help hoping that Tales from the Underground has the potential to bridge the gaps that plague us here. Rich and poor. Black and white. Overprivileged and underprivileged. Backwoods kids and townies.
I wish we could bring the school at the lake in on it, draw together students who live within a few miles of one another yet inhabit separate worlds. The only reasons they comingle are to battle it out on the football field, or sit in close proximity over boudin balls and smoked meat at the Cluck and Oink. But during what have turned into regular Thursday evening update sessions at my house, Nathan has already warned me that Lakeland Prep Academy is one of the places I need to stay away from, and so I have, and will.
“So, Miss Pooh?”
“Yes, Lil’ Ray?” There is no short discussion with this kid. Every conversation goes this way. In stages. Thoughts move carefully through that head of his. They percolate while he seems lost in space, looking at the trees, or out the window, or at his desktop as he painstakingly manufactures spit wads and paper footballs.
But when the thoughts finally do emerge, they’re interesting. Well developed. Carefully considered.
“So, Miss Pooh, like I said, I been thinking.” His oversized hands wheel in the air, pinkie fingers sticking out as if he’s practicing to drink tea with the queen. The thought makes me smile. Every one of these kids is so unique. Filled with incredible stuff. “There’s not just dead grown-ups and old people in that cemetery, and in the cemetery books.” Consternation knits his brows. “There’s a lot of kids and babies that hardly even got born before they died. That’s sad, huh?” His voice trails off.
Coach Davis’s star lineman is choked up. Over infants and children who perished more than a hundred years ago.
“Well, of course they did, numb nut,” LaJuna snaps. “They didn’t have medicine and stuff.”
“Granny T said they’d mash up leaves ’n’ roots ’n’ mushrooms ’n’ moss ’n’ stuff,” skinny Michael pipes up, anxious to do his job as Lil’ Ray’s wingman-slash-bodyguard. “Said some of that worked better than medicines do now. You didn’t hear that, homegirl? Oh, that’s right, you skipped that day. Show up, you might know the stuff, like the rest of us, and not be raggin’ on Lil’ Ray. He’s trying to help the Underground project. And there’s you over there, wanting to tear it down.”
“Yeah.” Lil’ Ray straightens from his ever-present slump. “If losers would stop saying loser stuff, I was gonna say that we can play people our age, or people that’re older, like we can color our hair gray and all. But we can’t play little kids. Maybe we oughta get some little kids to come and help, and do some of the kid graves. Like Tobias Gossett. He lives down from us in the apartments. He ain’t got nothing to do, mostly. He could be that Willie Tobias that’s in the graveyard. The one that died in the fire with his brother and sister because his mama had to leave them home. People oughta know, maybe, you can’t leave little kids by theirselves, like that.”
The lump that was in Lil’ Ray’s throat transfers to mine. I swallow hard, trying to get it under control. A sudden uprising of opinions erupts for and against that plan. Copious slurs, a dis of poor little Tobias, and a dusting of mild curse words add to the debate, but not necessarily in a productive way.
“Time-out.” I use the referee hand signal to make my point. “Lil’