I grew up on Ficlets. There, the writer inside me had a home. I'm a teacher now, and a 4th grader who reminds me so much of myself asked, "Why don't you share your writing with us?" So, I come tentatively, searching for a place to stretch my writing muscles again.
Ms. Nolan, my English teacher, asked me to stay after class.
It'd been 30 days since David died.
She smirked, "What were you reading under your desk? I just have to know what book has captured your attention so fully." Some teachers would say that with sarcasm and malice, but not Ms. Nolan. Her class was a no-sarcasm zone.
I wanted to say, Did you know that the guy who wrote Peter Pan had a brother who died too?
I wanted to say, Did you know that the dead brother was his mom's favorite, and he could never measure up?
I wanted to say, And guess what the dead brother's name was? DAVID.
But I didn't say any of that.
"It's this." I showed Ms. Nolan the cover. "Nicole Llewelyn gave it to me."
Ms. Nolan's smile grew, and she had this knowing look on her face that made me really curious and kind of nervous. "Ah. Nicole."
"I don't know why. I've never talked to her before."
"Well, you haven't done much talking at all for a while." Another smirk.
I actually managed to smile.
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Inspired by (sequel to):
Three weeks ago, my brother died. Three weeks ago, I stopped raising my hand in class. Three weeks…A Lost Boy
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