These Gentle Wounds Read Free Page A

thinking?” She laughs. When I don’t laugh back, she shrugs. “It isn’t totally untrue. I mean, you recognized me from last summer, right?”
    I want to explain to her that knowing that someone is taking pictures isn’t the same as actually knowing them, but I have a feeling it won’t matter to her.
    â€œLook, yesterday. I mean … can I see your photos?” I ask. My stomach rolls over as I remember her saying something about “the cutest athletes at Maple Grove.” Now I’m pretty sure that I imagined the whole conversation, but if I could see the photos …
    Control it, Kevin would tell me. Just because you think you need something doesn’t mean you do.
    Easy for him to say. Not like he’s so great about taking his own advice.
    Sarah smirks, holding in a smile. “I didn’t bring my camera.”
    I’m not sure how she can do this to me. My thumb twitches a million times. I don’t know why I’m so bugged about it, but she’s making me crazy.
    â€œIf you want to go get it, I could tell Mr. Brooks you’ll be right back.” I realize, as I say it, that it’s ridiculous. I mean, however desperate I sound, it isn’t even half of what I’m feeling. But if I was going for nonchalance, I’ve just fallen flat on my face.
    â€œI meant I left it at home,” she says, and my stomach sinks. Kids are streaming back into class like rivers going into dams and I have to hold on to the wall to avoid being swept away with them.
    â€œGordie?” There’s something about her saying my name that sounds nice. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m surprised to find how much I like hearing it come out of her mouth.
    And then she says it again. I look up, surprised to feel a rush of hot blood to my cheeks.
    â€œYou need to move out of the way. We have to go back in,” she says.
    Without thinking, I do what she says. She walks past me into the room, followed by the other kids who were log-jammed behind her. I stand there with my mouth hanging open, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
    I have no idea how I’m going to be able to stand being in class for a whole second hour listening to Mr. Brooks ramble on about Melville. I drum my fingers on the desk and say a prayer under my breath, hoping there will be a pop quiz or some sort of in-class assignment, something I actually have to think about, something to take my mind off of her.
    Instead, what happens is this: we’re splitting into groups. I cringe as I listen to Mr. Brooks explain that each group is expected to present a retelling of Moby Dick in some creative way that doesn’t involve writing it down. I can’t help but position myself five people away from Sarah, figuring that we’re going to count off. I’m right. Still, it freaks me out that I’m doing this. I mean, what difference does it really make if I’m working on this stupid assignment with Sarah? But even though I can’t explain it, I know that I want to. I have to.
    And so our group is the two of us, Andrew, and Scott. I listen as they start throwing ideas around. Andrew says, “Puppets,” which is horrible. Scott says, “A poem in iambic pentameter,” which is just as bad. Before I even think the idea through, I toss out, “Photographs.”
    This gets Sarah’s attention, and she whips her head around to look at me as Andrew asks, “Photographs?”
    I try to pull the idea together quickly so I don’t sound like a total wacko. “We can take photos of ideas hidden in the book. And since Sarah’s a photographer”—I pause when I see the expression of pure shock on her face—“we’ll have an edge.”
    I realize, as I say it, that it’s probably the longest sentence I’ve ever uttered in class. My hand shakes as I rub the back of my neck, so I jam it under my leg.
    Andrew and Scott nod