The Book of Lost Friends - Lisa Wingate Page 0,121

had a big, nasty mouth. Which one of your lame rules is that breaking?”

“Time-out,” I snap, mortified that this is happening in front of Nathan. The thing about so many of the kids here—country kids, town kids, a sad majority of these kids—is that their norm is constant drama, constant escalation. Conversations start, grow louder, get ugly, get personal. Insults fly and then lead to pushing, shoving, hair pulling, scratching, throwing punches, you name it. Principal Pevoto and the school security officer break up multiple altercations daily. Broken homes, broken neighborhoods, financial stress, substance abuse, hunger, dysfunctional relationship patterns. All too often, children in Augustine grow up in a pressure cooker.

I think again about the world my mother came from in her rural hometown, the world she thought she’d left behind. But watching the young people here, I’m reminded of how much she unwittingly brought with her. My mother’s relationships with men were impulsive, careless, loud, and filled with volatility, manipulation, and verbal abuse that went both ways and sometimes turned physical. My interaction with her was the same way, a mixture of full-on love, habitual put-downs, crushing rejection, and threats that might or might not end up being carried out.

But now I realize that, even with the rocky, unpredictable home life I experienced, I was lucky. I had the benefit of growing up in places where people around me—teachers, surrogate grandparents, babysitters, friends’ parents—decided I was worthy of their time, their interest. They provided examples, role models, family meals at dinner tables, reprimands that didn’t come with a swat or a cutting remark or end in the questions Why don’t you ever listen, Benny? Why are you so stupid sometimes? People around me invited me into homes that operated on a schedule and where parents spoke encouraging words. They showed me what a stable life could look like. If they hadn’t bothered, how would I have even known there was another way to live? You can’t aspire to something you’ve never seen.

“Sixty-second quiet cooldown,” I say, because I need it as much as the class does at the moment. “Nobody say anything. Then we’ll analyze why this wasn’t a good conversation. We can also review the Articles of Negativity and Civility…if you want to.”

An exquisite silence follows. I hear leaves rustling, birds singing, a telephone line squeaking softly as a squirrel runs along it. The flag pops in the breeze, its metal hook tapping out an uneven Morse code against the pole.

These are glorious moments of peace that live in the shadow of Article Six, the Negativity Rule, and the prescribed punishment for breaking it. The students detest having to pay back each negative comment by offering three positive ones. They would rather clam up than compliment one another. It’s a sad reality, but I hope it’s making the point that negativity has consequences and a huge cost. Making up for it takes three times the work.

“All right, then,” I say, after thirty seconds or so. “Be warned. Negativity Rule is officially in effect. Next person to say something negative must atone with three positives. Shall we practice as a class?”

Replies come in droves.

“No!”

“Nope.”

“Miss Silva! Pah-lease. We get it.”

Nathan covertly catches my gaze, blinks with both surprise and…admiration? I feel slightly lighter than air, as if the murky Louisiana day has suddenly been infused with helium.

“I’ll start,” I tease. “You guys are so amazing. You are definitely, absolutely, positively among my six favorite classes.”

They answer with groans and exhales. I have only six class periods, even counting my planning period, of course.

Lil’ Ray hovers a big hand over my head as if he’s going to bounce me like a basketball.

“We’re number one, though,” skinny Michael argues. “?’Cause we’re the best. Freshmen rule.”

I make the zipper sign across my lips.

“I could show your friend my project, too,” Michael offers as we start up the library steps. “Dude, mine’s so ace. I found my people all the way back to five generations. Daigre family’s got some crazy history. Nine brothers and sisters, born enslaved in West Virginia and they end up all over the place. Thomas goes with the