The Waters & the Wild Read Free Page B

die. Or maybe you would learn something important about yourself if you survived; who knew?
    â€œI believe,” Bee whispered, suddenlywanting to understand, no matter how dangerous it turned out to be.
    There was a long silence. Bee gripped the countertop, forcing herself not to run out of the room.
    â€œYou have my life,” said a hazy light in the mirror. “Give it the hell back.”

6
The Peculiar Institution
    â€œS tephanie,” Sarah’s grandmother called. “Is that you?”
    Her name was not Stephanie. Sometimes she forgot that they still called her that and it took her a while to understand to whom they were speaking. This happened at school, all the time. Stephanie; Stephanie Caldwell. And she just sat there staring at them so that they thought she was an idiot or on drugs.
    There was no reason to be so unhappy, she reasoned as she threw her backpack on the couch. So they didn’t understand her; so what? There were worse things. She lived in a pleasant house that her father had redone himself. Her grandmother took good care of them. Sarah was well fed. She always had the things she needed, although people thought she didn’t because she refused to wear the dresses her grandmother bought for her, insisted on the cotton thrift-shop house-dresses instead. Yes, her mother had died, but it was so long ago she could hardly remember her at all.
    So here she was, in for another night of homework and dinner—baked chicken, salad,potatoes, ice cream for dessert—reality TV. After that she might go online and study the Civil War, slavery, searching pictures of men with whipping welts like giant trees of flesh and blood on their backs. Searching slave girls from that time. Trying to find more about the one she had been.
    It sounded depressing, but actually, it was strangely comforting. It was the only way she knew to find meaning, find out who she really was.
    Today she had learned that some slave owners called slavery “the peculiar institution.” Wasn’t that the understatement of that century?
    The worst part was the dreams. They were so real, unrelenting. The squeal of the hogs as the men slashed their throats, the hot smell of blood in the dust, the carcassesdangling upside down. The master who came to her at night, slipped into her bed, his clammy hands with fingers like giant maggots covering her mouth. Now, at last, she had someone to tell: that thin girl with the big eyes. Sarah somehow knew instinctively she would understand.
    â€œStephanie!”
    â€œYes, Gramma. I’m home.” But no, not Stephanie. Stephanie wasn’t.
    Â 
    Bee saw Sarah again on Monday, still singing her “Strange Fruit” song.
    â€œHello!” Sarah said, interrupting herself. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
    â€œMe, too,” said Bee. “About you.” At home she had played the original Billie Holiday version and thought that Sarah’s was just about as good. It was amazing, really, that noone had discovered her yet, swooped down, scooped her up and put her on that crazy TV show where you had to sing in front of a panel of judges with personality disorders.
    â€œDo you want to eat lunch?” Bee asked her. She had the distinct and novel knowing that she needed people around her now, as often as possible. Strange, strong people who understood her.
    As if he had heard her thoughts, Haze walked up and joined them without asking, just slid onto the bench and sat there, not meeting their eyes.
    â€œHello,” Sarah said.
    â€œThis is Haze,” said Bee. “Haze, Sarah.”
    â€œHi,” he managed. He even looked up at them. His glasses were taped together in the middle.
    â€œWhat happened to your specs?”
    â€œS-s-some kids smashed them.”
    â€œYou should have stopped them with your alien superpowers.”
    She could tell this hurt his feelings and she felt bad, but it was too late.
    â€œAre you an