The Chosen One - Carol Lynch Williams Page 0,3

sink, ringing out the washcloth. “We’re waiting for God’s Chosen.”

“I have to go,” I say. Now Nathaniel and Laura stare at me. “I forgot something.”

“Kyra,” Father says, “whatever it is can wait.”

“No, Father,” I say. I can feel my face turning red. My sins on my cheeks. There for everyone to see. “I need to leave for now. You can tell me what happens. Prophet Childs won’t notice I’m not here.”

“Kyra,” Mother says. “Sit. Please.”

And Mother Victoria, all full of gasps, says, “He notices everything. He sees everything. He’d know if you weren’t with us.”

“Kyra Leigh,” Mother says again and her voice is soft in this room full of my family. “Be obedient to your father.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and flop back onto the sofa. Then, under my breath, where not even the closest sibling can hear me, I whisper, “God in Heaven, forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.” It becomes my chant.

I cannot curse this family

OKAY. It’s not just the planning to kill Prophet Childs. There’s more. There’s lots more.

Squished between my sisters I try not to think of my sins but they are all in me. I know they are there.

First, there are the books.

FINDING THE LIBRARY was an accident.

Prophet Childs would never let one of us check out books from a public library.

“We have our beliefs,” he’s said. “We have our God-given freedoms. And no one is going to take that away by brainwashing us with Satan’s teachings.”

Past the edge of the Compound. Past the fences. Past the river. Off our land, headed away. That’s where I was, looking off to the north and Florentin. I remember the day clear.

August 13. A late Wednesday afternoon. Hotter than fire. So hot the spit dried up in my mouth. So hot that when I stared at the empty road my eyes felt like they dried up, too. My work at home with my mother and with the other mothers was done—at least for a while—the quilting and helping with the laundry and working on dinner and even piano time.

So I stood there, just stood there, and then I heard something coming down the road behind me, the road that eventually runs in front of our Compound.

And here comes the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels, rolling along, headed toward Florentin. Kicking up red dust behind it.

Why, as it got closer, a shiver went right down my arms even though it had to be a million degrees standing out there in the desert sun. The library on wheels went clunking past, coming from the south, and the man driving, clean-shaven face, ball cap pulled down low on his forehead, he nodded at me.

My heart just about leapt through the bones of my chest.

I gave the driver a look, squint-eyed because of the sun and his nod. Who did he think he was, nodding at me like that? I stared him right in the eye, even though the Prophet would have said it was a sin to look a Gentile in the face.

But seeing that van—that nodding driver—did something to me. I don’t know what. Or why.

The next day, same time, I went there again. Rushing through chores and piano practice and helping the mothers. Past the Compound. Past the fences. Past the river. Off our land. A good long ways away. I waited and waited. No truck.

So the next day and the next and the next, until a week had passed, and here comes the truck, rolling along again. Wednesday afternoon. Same man driving. He nodded. Again.

My heart thumped. I squinted. Looked him dead in the eye.

Third week he stopped.

Dust billowed up around us. I could taste the dirt. Crunched sand.

He rolled down the window. “You want a library card,” he said, adjusting the ball cap he wore. It wasn’t even a question.

And I nodded, like he’d done to me these past weeks.

“You can take four books out at a time,” he said when I inched my way into the truck, cooled by fans and air-conditioning.

I’d never seen so many books. Never. The sight made my eyes water. I mean, tear right up.

“Four?” I said. There was that sand on my tongue, gritting between my back teeth.

“Four.”

I eyed the man. Eyed the books. Stood still, my heart thumping.

“Maybe just one,” I said.

“You could start with this,” he said and handed me something from a basket near his feet. “A girl just your age turned it in on my last stop. She said she loved it. I loved it myself.”

His last