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Show Fair Forever 3 arms. The beating of my heart. My house fading, fading, fading, until it.is nothing but a toy. At last I stop and float my oars. The slightest breeze rustles my hair. The breeze is cool and it tells me what I already know-what I already dread. Good rowing days are numbered as are days before school. I consider the distance I've pulled and examine my hands. They're stinging and red. "Ready for school to begin?" a voice asks, and my heart jumps. I spin my skiff, and there he is, old and gray, sitting in a battered boat tied to Beacon 9, the tall signal tower that marks the deepest part of the bay. His eyes are gray, too, like the weathered wood of his boat. But his voice is strong. Why did he have to ask that question? I lift my hand and place it hard against my chest,, feeling my heartbeat, even and sure. Spreading my fingers, I trace the long scar that rises through my shirt. "I guess I'm ready,"T answer. But my voice is quiet. I'm not convinced and neither is the old man. He raises a bushy eyebrow. "I didn't care much for school, either, when I was your age. Didn't fit in." He eyes me and returns to his carving. He's holding a penknife in one palm and a piece of driftwood in the other. He places the blade against the wood and pushes with his thumb. A thin peeling of gray curls in the light. "I might not go to school this year," I explain. "I'm thinking about doing home school, instead. That's what I did most of last year." I look back at my house, my shore, my dock. I'm remembering, but the memories are hard. "Too bad Mom already registered me at Bayside," I say and my comment comes fast and annoyed, like a gun emptying bullets. |