Read Online After the Wreck, I Picked Myself Up, Spread My Wings, and Flew Away by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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school here, even teachers call me Crow because nobody can pronounce Saint-Croix. Nobody in Yarrow Lake mostly.”
“Are you French?”
“Me? Hell, no. Do I look French?”
Crow has a way of speaking somewhere between teasing and sincere. His voice is low and gravelly, not like the voice of a typical high school boy. He does look French, sort of. Years ago, before my dad left us, we went to Paris, rented a car, and drove south to Nice. Crow reminds me of people there. He says, “There’s relatives of mine in Quebec, but my father crossed the border into Maine, became a U.S. citizen just in time to be drafted to Vietnam. My mother was born here, and so was I.”
Crow pronounces “Quebec” with a hard emphasis on the “Q,” like “Kay.” He’s running a big-knuckled hand through his hair, pondering me. His eyes are like warm molasses with a look of bemusement, as if there’s something comical about the way I’m sitting here by myself, math text open on my knees, homework papers fluttering in the wind.
The new girl, alone. Hoping to be seen.
“What’s that, algebra? Feldman’s class?”
“Yes. I hate it.”
“You’re a sophomore?”
No avoiding it—I tell him yes. I ask if he’s a…
“Senior. Should’ve graduated last year, but I lost a year. Like I said, Jenna, I’m accident-prone.”
Jenna! The sound of my name in Crow’s mouth, the special inflection he gives to the name like it’s some kind of music, makes me feel weak.
“So, where’d you say you’re from, Jenna?”
“I…didn’t say.”
“So, where?”
“I…”
My throat shuts up. I can’t speak. I’m feeling panic that in another moment I will blurt out to this guy I don’t even know what happened on the bridge. The wreck, and after the wreck .
“Go away! Leave me alone.”
It’s a joke, I realize. Crow’s friends are watching. The sexy-cool older guy pretending to be interested in the misfit new girl, hilarious.
I fumble for my backpack, shove my math text inside, and stammer I have to leave. Something flutters from my hand, I don’t have time to retrieve it. Crow seems surprised. Maybe he says something, but I don’t hear him, blood is pounding in my ears.
“I hate you. Hate you all. Hate this place I’m trapped in.”
Stupid buzzer bell ringing for one-o’clock classes. I am so embarrassed and so angry. Thinking that I will walk out of this school and never come back. No one can force me to be a student here where I don’t belong just like no one can force me onto an airplane with my father, to go live with him and his “new family” in La Jolla, California.
I can’t face my classes. My teachers. Everyone will know. Everyone will be laughing at me.
I’m at my locker, trying to work the lock. So upset I can’t remember my combination.
One thing I’ve learned since the wreck: Nobody can force you to do anything you don’t want to do. Even for your own good.
Except: If I walk out of school, my aunt and my uncle will be upset. They won’t understand. They will try to reason with me. And Mom, if she knew. I hate this: I can’t let down anyone who loves me.
So I don’t walk out. I don’t even hide in one of the girls’ restrooms. Instead I trudge upstairs to fifth-period math. Mr. Feldman’s class, which I hate. (Are people watching me? Laughing at me? How quickly can word spread through school that Crow made a fool of me out in the parking lot?) I’m just about to step inside Mr. Feldman’s classroom when I feel a jab on my shoulder. It’s a smirky red-haired guy with a silver wire glittering in his eyebrow. He hands me two crumpled sheets of paper: “Crow says you left this in the parking lot.”
My algebra homework.
11
Oh oh oh, help us
No codeine now, but I’ve been advised to take Tylenol for “pain relief” except I don’t dare take as many tablets as my “pain relief” would require, and I’ve been waking from sweaty dreams at dawn. By the luminous green digital
“Are you French?”
“Me? Hell, no. Do I look French?”
Crow has a way of speaking somewhere between teasing and sincere. His voice is low and gravelly, not like the voice of a typical high school boy. He does look French, sort of. Years ago, before my dad left us, we went to Paris, rented a car, and drove south to Nice. Crow reminds me of people there. He says, “There’s relatives of mine in Quebec, but my father crossed the border into Maine, became a U.S. citizen just in time to be drafted to Vietnam. My mother was born here, and so was I.”
Crow pronounces “Quebec” with a hard emphasis on the “Q,” like “Kay.” He’s running a big-knuckled hand through his hair, pondering me. His eyes are like warm molasses with a look of bemusement, as if there’s something comical about the way I’m sitting here by myself, math text open on my knees, homework papers fluttering in the wind.
The new girl, alone. Hoping to be seen.
“What’s that, algebra? Feldman’s class?”
“Yes. I hate it.”
“You’re a sophomore?”
No avoiding it—I tell him yes. I ask if he’s a…
“Senior. Should’ve graduated last year, but I lost a year. Like I said, Jenna, I’m accident-prone.”
Jenna! The sound of my name in Crow’s mouth, the special inflection he gives to the name like it’s some kind of music, makes me feel weak.
“So, where’d you say you’re from, Jenna?”
“I…didn’t say.”
“So, where?”
“I…”
My throat shuts up. I can’t speak. I’m feeling panic that in another moment I will blurt out to this guy I don’t even know what happened on the bridge. The wreck, and after the wreck .
“Go away! Leave me alone.”
It’s a joke, I realize. Crow’s friends are watching. The sexy-cool older guy pretending to be interested in the misfit new girl, hilarious.
I fumble for my backpack, shove my math text inside, and stammer I have to leave. Something flutters from my hand, I don’t have time to retrieve it. Crow seems surprised. Maybe he says something, but I don’t hear him, blood is pounding in my ears.
“I hate you. Hate you all. Hate this place I’m trapped in.”
Stupid buzzer bell ringing for one-o’clock classes. I am so embarrassed and so angry. Thinking that I will walk out of this school and never come back. No one can force me to be a student here where I don’t belong just like no one can force me onto an airplane with my father, to go live with him and his “new family” in La Jolla, California.
I can’t face my classes. My teachers. Everyone will know. Everyone will be laughing at me.
I’m at my locker, trying to work the lock. So upset I can’t remember my combination.
One thing I’ve learned since the wreck: Nobody can force you to do anything you don’t want to do. Even for your own good.
Except: If I walk out of school, my aunt and my uncle will be upset. They won’t understand. They will try to reason with me. And Mom, if she knew. I hate this: I can’t let down anyone who loves me.
So I don’t walk out. I don’t even hide in one of the girls’ restrooms. Instead I trudge upstairs to fifth-period math. Mr. Feldman’s class, which I hate. (Are people watching me? Laughing at me? How quickly can word spread through school that Crow made a fool of me out in the parking lot?) I’m just about to step inside Mr. Feldman’s classroom when I feel a jab on my shoulder. It’s a smirky red-haired guy with a silver wire glittering in his eyebrow. He hands me two crumpled sheets of paper: “Crow says you left this in the parking lot.”
My algebra homework.
11
Oh oh oh, help us
No codeine now, but I’ve been advised to take Tylenol for “pain relief” except I don’t dare take as many tablets as my “pain relief” would require, and I’ve been waking from sweaty dreams at dawn. By the luminous green digital
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