I wonder if, after all these years, it might still be there.
8.
“A Serious Step Lightly Taken”
—1942
It’s early and the hall is mostly empty. Julianna’s journal is safe in my backpack, my place now marked with my folded-up scholarship letter. The irony of having the journal of the girl the scholarship is named for hasn’t escaped me, and I’m starting to think maybe it’s fated somehow, that I have both. I shove my shaky hands in my pockets. Take a deep breath to ready myself for what I’m about to do. Then I walk into Mr. Kinney’s classroom, as casually as I can.
He looks up from a stack of essays and nods at me. “Morning, Parker. I didn’t get a chance to ask the other day—how’d you do with the journals?”
“Huh? Oh. Fine,” I manage. “But, um . . .” I hesitate, scared. But now is my chance if I’m going to do it. “I think . . . I think I may need to go to the database at the town library to find some of the addresses. There were a lot I couldn’t find, and the school blocks so many sites . . .” I stop. It sounds less believable out loud than it did in my mind. Mr. Kinney is frowning down at an essay, red pen poised to scribble something in the margin. Apparently only half listening.
It gives me courage. I clear my throat. “Mr. Kinney?”
“I’m sorry, Parker,” he says, looking up. “These freshman essays are a sad, sad lot for this point in the year. It’s like they’ve forgotten everything I taught them.” He puts his pen down and takes his glasses off. Looks at me with his full attention. “Anyway. What was your question?”
My words come out fast, smashed together in one nervous rush. “Oh—just that I need an off-campus pass for this period, and maybe next, so I can go through the city database for the journal addresses.”
It’s quiet for a few seconds, and I’m not sure he understood what I just said. He scrunches his brows together. I panic. Oh my God. He knows. He knows I just lied and now I’m going to be in huge trouble and disappoint the teacher I respect most out of everyone, not to mention be reamed by my mom for trying to get away with something like this.
“Sure,” he says after too long a moment. “Why don’t I write it for the rest of the week, just in case? That way you can take care of the postage and sending them off, too.”
“Really?” Shut up now. Don’t sound so surprised. “I mean, thank you. That’s . . . that’s perfect.”
I watch as he pulls the slip out and signs and dates it for the rest of the week, every first period. “Thank you, Parker,” he says, tearing it off the pad and handing it to me. “It’s a big favor you’re helping me out with. I appreciate it. And so will all those kids when they get their journals back.”
“It’s really no problem.” I smile, hoping to hide the twinge of guilt that tugs at my conscience, and wonder if he even remembers that this batch of journals belonged to Julianna and Shane’s class. Or maybe he just decided not to mention it. Mr. Kinney goes back to his essays and I turn to go, marveling at the fact that it really had been no problem to get the pass. Simple. Like nothing. And now I’m free every morning for the rest of the week—
“Parker, wait,” Mr. Kinney says. I freeze. Hold my breath. “Don’t you need the journals?”
“I guess I probably do, huh?” I laugh—at my instant panic and at the fact that I’d completely forgotten about all of the other journals.
He hands me the heavy box from behind his desk. “Here you go. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say, backing toward the door this time, box in hand. As soon as he sits back down in his chair, I turn and practically make a run for it. I’m ditching—well, not technically, since it’s excused, but it’s the closest I’ve ever come, and the thought both exhilarates and slightly terrifies me at the same time.
When I make it down the hallway without any alarms going off, I let a tentative but proud smile creep onto my face. I feel good. Bold. Like Kat. I have to find her and tell her. Then convince her to ditch with me, which will be the easy part. The hard part will be getting her to drive down to the Grove and then go tromping around through the trees without telling her what I’m looking for. The only excuse I’ve come up with so far is to say I’ve had an epiphany of the carpe diem variety and want to go on an adventure. Just get out of school and town for a little bit. It’s shaky, but it could work.
I haven’t completely made up my mind not to tell her about the journal yet, but I’m not sure she’ll understand at this point. I couldn’t fall asleep last night until I’d decided to go find Shane and Julianna’s tree. It doesn’t totally make sense to me, why I need to see it so much, but I can’t ignore it. Especially now that I know the story behind the carving. It’s more evidence that love like theirs actually happens beyond books and movies, in real life. Life that’s close to home.
As silly as it seems, it makes me feel like I somehow have a connection to it. To them. I want to see their tree the same way people want to see things that once were connected to famous people—especially once they’re gone. Little slivers of their personal pasts, like photos no one has ever seen, or letters that surface years after their deaths. Or journals. Maybe because these are the things that somehow make them more real to us. Or maybe because all of them add to the myth of the person. It’s hard to say which, but I need to find that tree, even if it takes me all week.