"She—she was, she said—"
"You don't just hit people like that!" He squeezed and I grunted.
I was frightened by his grip, and by the nearness of his breath. I couldn't stand him being so close. I lashed out, mirroring his self-righteous tone and hoping to push him back with my words. "Then why did you ask? Why does everyone keep asking me questions when they already know the answers, or else they don't care?"
He clapped my face in his beefy hand and held my chin so high I had to stand on tiptoe to keep from hurting. "If there was a problem, you should have taken it to me or to your teacher. Now quiet down right now, and unless you want to get kicked out of school the second we get back, you stay quiet!"
We stood that way for several seconds, me with lifted neck and him with menacing veins bulging at his temples. Our nostrils flared a complementary tempo until he released my jaw and we each stepped back.
Inch by inch, the muffled veil that had dropped over the place lifted and small daily noises once again echoed off the glass, brass, and stone. With it came hushed, feverish discussion amongst my schoolmates. I caught quick phrases, nothing I wanted to hear or repeat, as I slumped down on the lobby sofa over which April had stumbled. There I stayed while the tour continued without me, and without April, who was taken back to the school nurse by a chaperon who'd brought her own car. Mr. Wicks sat on the couch opposite me and glared, not speaking.
In order to avoid his laser gaze, I stared at the walls, and into the bar, and out through the glass at the gardens where the train tracks had once run. I strained to hear the rest of the tour guide's speech, but no matter how hard I listened it was lost to me. I gave up, closed my eyes and tried to pretend like I didn't feel like crying.
But I did feel like crying. I was desperately angry and hurt. I wanted my aunt but I didn't want to look like a baby asking for her. Besides, the odds were better than fair she'd get a call as soon as we returned, and I didn't want to face her wrath after yet another principal's message. Probably she wouldn't be angry. Probably she would understand . . . but she might not. Sometimes it was hard to judge.
And my hand ached. I'd never hit anyone before, and it seemed I'd bruised a knuckle or two. Did anyone care? No, of course not. I absently rubbed my wounded hand with my unharmed fingers.
A second teacher appeared to join Mr. Wicks. "Is everyone behaving here?" she asked, eyes boring hatefully into me. Again, I was hurt. She was the advanced reading group teacher and I liked her. I'd thought she liked me too, but she must not have, or she wouldn't have looked at me like that.
"Yes, and it had better stay that way. She'd better be sitting there thinking about what she did."
"Oh, I am," I mumbled with meaning.
"What was that?" they asked in perfect unison.
As if to assert himself, Mr. Wicks leaned forward. His forehead crumpled with disgust and his upper lip lifted at the edge to flash one of his nicotine-stained teeth. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
"Nothing. I didn't say anything."
The reading teacher folded her arms and lurked behind Mr. Wicks. "You're in plenty enough trouble here, Eden. Don't get smart on us. I just don't understand this sort of behavior from you. I mean, I know you've had . . . some family trouble recently . . ."
I could have sworn I saw one corner of her mouth twitch, as if she'd made a little joke. Mr. Wicks's similar dull grin confirmed my suspicions. With sudden, glaring clarity it became perfectly apparent that they were making fun of me. I clenched both hands again, even the sore one, and dug them into the tops of my legs.
The reading teacher shook her head, trying to cast the smile away. It half worked. She went on. "But if you were having problems with another student you should have called it to our attention. You never take matters into your own hands like that."
I rummaged around in the steaming pile of anger in my chest and found my voice. I lifted it up and offered it out. "And what would you have done?" It came as a whisper, not a very steady one.
The teachers looked at each other, and Mr. Wicks answered for them both. "That depends on the circumstances. We could have sat down and talked things through, and if she was being rude or unkind—then we would have taken action."
"Like what?"
"That depends. But you have to leave that up to us. We're the ones who make the decisions around here."
I sat silent for another moment, growing calmer before looking at either of them. A lesson was coming together, and I sensed it was important. Behind me a pair of high heels clattered on the shiny floor, and phones rang at the check-in desk. Oh yes, it was a hotel now. I looked over my shoulder and out the front windows beside the doors. Across the road the sad, sagging ruins of other hotels and restaurants forlornly decayed to uniform shades of gray.
I raised my eyes. "Can I ask you something?"
They nodded, once again in full accord aligned against me.
"Why is this still here? I mean, people take care of it and keep it pretty. It's not like the rest of everything out here that looks like it's going to fall down any second. Didn't you guys see when we were driving here? The Choo Choo isn't like everything around it. It's different, but people protect it and love it, they don't abandon it or tear it down. This whole part of town looks like it got sick and died. Why does this place still look alive?"
After a few seconds of blank stares from them both, the reading teacher shrugged and softened a little. "I guess because, well, just because it was able to evolve. When it couldn't be one thing anymore, it became something else and kept on living that way . . . and it did it with style."
"But it's not the same."
"But it's still here," she restated my point without contributing anything new. "In the end it outlasted everything else."
So that was it—the lesson unintended.
Yes, it was important indeed. I learned more on that field trip than my school had ever expected, though it wasn't from the teachers. I learned volumes more than I might have gleaned from a blackboard, and I learned it from a big brick hotel that patiently wore a tacky neon sign like a plastic crown—not because it looked good but because it had become a necessity.
I closed my eyes again, wanting to remember the beauty of the place instead of my violence there. I listened for the churning engines of long-rusted trains, straining to hear them dragging themselves along the tracks and puffing to a laborious stop. I did not see them on that visit, but in the rear of the hotel, dozens of retired passenger cars were permanently parked on the remaining tracks. Gradually they were being renovated and restored, eventually to become luxury hotel rooms. All the ghosts in the old Pullman and Cincinnati cars cried out the rueful truth in voices like whistles, steam, and crackling lumps of burning coal.
Now you know, now you know. It is not enough to simply survive and to be victorious . . . it must be done with grace.
4
Interregnum
I
The summer I turned thirteen, Lu and Dave sent me to Camp Lookout, on the next mountain over. I was none too pleased with the prospect, initially, but once I got there it was all right. It wasn't a full-fledged summer camp, anyway—it only ran for two weeks out of the year, and I was near enough to home that a phone call would probably have summoned my aunt and uncle faster than a pizza.
I tried not to feel too betrayed as they drove off and left me, and I tried to remember that it was only a couple of weeks. This was supposed to be fun. Dave said that I was there to taste some independence, and when he put it that way, it didn't sound so bad.
The camp itself was civilized enough, which is to say, at least there weren't any tents. I didn't like the thought of tents. I like having more between me and the elements than a thin sheet of canvas, and I've never seen the point of going out of your way to pretend you haven't got any plumbing. Therefore, I was greatly reassured by the sight of cabins and a couple of communal bathroom buildings. As long as I could flush, I'd be okay.
I twisted my hands up in the duffel bag straps and shifted the weight of my backpack on my shoulder. Some other kid a few feet away was crying and clinging to her mom. She was about my age, and I found myself uncomfortable on her behalf. I wasn't entirely thrilled about the situation either, but it wasn't something to make a scene over.
"Good grief," I muttered, just in time for a counselor to tap me on the shoulder and offer to show me to my bunk.
The counselor's name was Maggie, and she had a bone-deep tan that promised she'd look like a saddle in twenty years time. She had enormous teeth, as unnaturally white as her skin was unnaturally brown, and she was near enough to my age that I anticipated a difficult time taking her seriously. But she was wearing the official camp staff T-shirt and a name tag that identified her as a "Senior Assistant," so I let her tell me where to go.
She led me to a big A-frame structure that was supposed to look rough-hewn, and it succeeded enough to worry me about its potential bug population. But inside, the place was clean, and the four narrow beds appeared free of any obvious infestation.
Two of the beds had stacks of personal belongings staking them out as claimed, so I went to the far corner and dropped my stuff down on an empty mattress.
"Your bunkmates are already lined up for roll call and introduction. Let's get you out there with them, okay?"
"Okay."
"How about we get you introduced around, and then we can get you all unpacked and settled in?"
"That sounds fine," I agreed, happy to follow instructions since I wasn't sure what was expected of me.
"After Mr. Joe and Miss Candy finish with their opening welcome, we can get ready for lunch, okay?" I would come to learn that Maggie always talked that way, in questions. I don't think she was stupid, but she seemed as uncertain in her authority as I was—it was like she was asking my permission to tell me what to do. I found her discomfort almost endearing, but not exactly confidence inspiring.