A Certain Slant of Light by Laura Whitcomb Read Free Book Online Page B

presence in the empty chair beside me. The librarian watches me suspi ciously. But the library is a sacred place, and I sit with the patron saint of readers." Mr. Brown paused as he stared at the page, and then read, "Pulsing goddess light moves through me for one mo ment like—" Here Mr. Brown paused again. "Like a glimpse of eternity instantly forgotten. She is gone. I smell mold, I hear the clock ticking, I see an empty chair. Ask me now and I'll say this is just a place where you can't play music or eat. She's gone. The li brary sucks."
       Two boys laughed, but it was a quiet, half-hearted sound that died in the silence. Mr. Brown was staring at the page, though he had read every word there. Perhaps he was staring at the white spaces in between. I turned to James, who was looking down at his hands. Finally Mr. Brown put the paper on his desk with de liberation.
       "Why was that a good description?" he asked the class.
       " 'Cause the library does suck," one boy near the front snorted.
       Mr. Brown ignored the giggles and looked from face to face with a kind of awe, as if he had never seen his students, or any thing as fascinating, before.
       A girl in the front row raised a hesitant hand. Mr. Brown nodded at her. "Because he said how it smelled and sounded, not just how it looked?" she asked.
       "Good." Mr. Brown almost laughed this syllable. "What else?"
       Now James had slid down in his seat as if shy of the attention, though Mr. Brown had made no reference to him. I leaned to ward him with every intention of merely whispering in his ear, but when my lips neared his temple, I could not stop myself. With one hand on his chest, I pressed a brief kiss to his brow.
       To my surprise he gasped, arching in his chair, his left hand flying to his chest where I had touched him. I jumped back, un able to tell whether his expression was one of pain, fear, or ec stasy. I retreated to the back wall. I knew he had turned to find me, but I was ashamed and would not meet his gaze. Instead, I hurried out of the room and hid just outside the open door. I could hear Mr. Brown's voice, and I tried to let the familiar sound soothe me.
       "So we have sight, sound, smell, detail, simile, metaphor, and feelings. Good."
       "Who wrote it?" one boy called.
       "If the author wants to tell you after class, he or she may choose to do so," said Mr. Brown.
       I did a most childish thing then. I hid when the students left Mr. Brown's class, not behind or under the tree where James would seek me out but high in the branches. I needed to think. I shadowed Mr. Brown so closely when he left that no light could have slipped between us if I'd been solid flesh. I held to him like a baby to its mother's skirts until he was in his car. Then I sat be side him, something I never did. I always sat in the seat behind. As he started the engine, I saw James mounting his bicycle. I touched Mr. Brown's arm.
       "Follow him," I said. I couldn't tell whether Mr. Brown had obeyed my command, until he turned the car south instead of north. We drove behind the bicycle, now a block ahead of us. As James came to a red light, one foot touching the curb for balance, his hair blowing and his green bag on his back, we caught up to him. After we turned on Rosewood, we passed a small park with a swing set and a statue of a deer. At the corner of Amelia, James's bicycle swooped left, and a moment later Mr. Brown's car rolled dreamily after him onto the tiny residential lane. The houses were small, wooden, and worn. James stopped in the driveway of the third one, both feet on the ground, his black shirt blowing in the wind as he turned toward us. Mr. Brown stopped his car right in the middle of the street and looked perplexed. He turned and saw James staring at him. The window rolled down with a soft hum.
       "Mr. Blake," he said.
       "Yes, sir," said James, who brushed the hair out of his face. I stayed hidden behind Mr, Brown.
       "Good