Overcomer - The Journey by Judy Colella (novels to improve english .txt) 📖

because it had brought back several new memories he must have buried out of emotional self-defense. Startling memories pushing him hard into wakefulness. A memory of the harper’s name: Croghan.

Tired, he watched the wind whip the bare limbs and twigs against the glass. Their resistance to the unseen pressure gave rhythm to the dance, and thoughts of his parents arose. Neither he nor they seemed to have had any say about their fate. A vague recollection now: the three of them leaving the cottage the next day in the company of the harper and the older man, escorted by unspoken resistance. His parents hadn’t wanted to go, which even at eight years old, Cian had sensed. Other details of the memory were a smear, merged haphazardly with no defining edges. In the wake of the thought’s passage was the deep silence of loss.

He would never see his home again, and all too soon his parents would be made to turn back, leaving him alone in this noisy, violent, frightening place with only dreams and memories to help him survive. He knew he’d never see them again either – their lives had ended centuries ago.

A tear spilled out, crept down one side of his face, ignored. He swallowed the sob rising in his throat and slid down under the covers once more, praying for sleep that might – if any of the gods he knew about were listening – bring at least a few hours of forgetfulness.

But sleep, like his need for peace, never came.

SEVEN

 

Friday, it turned out, was the only day that neither Katie nor Celeste shared any classes with Cian. The girls were not happy about this. Celeste was desperate to learn what Cian thought he knew about her that she did not. Katie expressed concerned about how this mystery was going to affect Celeste. The only good thing either of them could say about the day was that it was Friday.

 

********

 

Cian, having seen neither Celeste nor Katie in any of his classes that day, despaired of seeing them at all before they went home. He was exhausted from his sleepless night, further fueling his frustration at not being able to find them anywhere, despite looking through the crowds of students and teachers streaming through the halls between each class. Even spending his entire lunch period traveling the length and breadth of the Cafeteria searching for either girl yielded nothing.

Aggravation made worse by the knowledge that his last class, Phys. Ed. (which he had to have explained to him by an administrator), was not co-ed, he was oblivious for the first time of the stares every girl he passed was giving him.

Upon reaching the gym, he saw several of his classmates had changed into shorts and tee shirts. He had a tee shirt under his other one, but no shorts. Great. Cian began to wish he’d stayed in bed.

A small office with the word “Coach” painted on its open door’s glass panel was a few feet away near the locker room entrance. Inside, a man sat at a desk, writing in a large notebook. Cian knocked on the doorframe.

Without taking his eyes off the page, the man pointed with the end of his pen at the chair in front of his desk. Cian came in and sat, waiting in polite silence for several minutes until Coach Eastman – according to the nameplate on his desk – finished what he was doing and looked up.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Cian began. Why is he staring at me like that?

Coach Eastman cleared his throat. “Uh, may I help you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the proper clothing for this class, sir.”

“You’re new here, yes? Do you have your transfer slip?”

“Oh, sorry – here.” Cian took the folded green paper from his shirt pocket and handed it across the desk,

Eastman nodded, frowning at it. “How do you say your first name?”

Cian told him.

“Huh. Not that it matters. I use everyone’s last name in class anyway.” He smiled, the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “I was curious, though – never did see a name like that.” He stood up. “Come with me – I think I can help you.”

Cian followed him out into the locker room, which was packed, some of the boys sitting on long rows of benches between the lockers, while others stood in clumps here and there.

Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, Coach Eastman went past them and stopped at a wooden cabinet on the far end of the room next to the shower stalls. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” The doors opened on squeaky hinges; he stared inside for a few seconds.

I had to oil all the hinges in that house in Georgia… got a beating every time one made the noise this one made…

“Okay.” A quick look back at Cian, a nod, and the coach turned back. Reaching inside, he pulled out a folded pair of black shorts and a white T-shirt that he handed to Cian. “What size shoe?”

“Twelve, I think. I have a tee-shirt.”

A grunt. “Bet you don’t want it to get all sweaty, though.” He bent down and pulled out a pair of shoes. “Don’t bother telling me you don’t need ‘em. The ones you have on don’t have the right kind of sole, and you could slip on the polished wood floor. These have been well cleaned. I hope you don’t mind that they’re used.”

“No, sir.” He was more accustomed to wearing used items than this man could ever imagine.

“Good.” A smile and a pat on Cian’s back and he headed out of the locker room, calling over his shoulder, “Any locker will do, if no one else is using it.”

Cian took the first left and chose one without a padlock. Never having dealt with a locker before, he struggled for a few seconds with the mechanism. Once it opened, he put the stack of clothes on the top shelf and sat on the bench opposite to remove his shoes.

“Hey, MacDara!”

One of his classmates from history – Tyler Something – had entered the row. “What’re you doing way back here?”

“Most of these looked available.”

“Oh. True. You have a lock?”

“Not yet.” He bent over, pulling off his shoes. “Where do I get one?”

“Wal-Mart? Hardware store? Wherever. Everyone’s got them – even the supermarkets.” A pause. “Guess you never needed to buy one before.”

“No.” Cian placed the shoes on the floor of the locker, then took out the shorts and removed his jeans. “What will we be doing?”

“Usual crap.”

Whatever that is. The shorts fit perfectly; he hoped the same would be true of the shirt, and was so intent on finding out that he forgot an important reality. After removing his top shirt, he hung it on a hook inside the narrow locker and pulled his undershirt off over his head. As he reached for the other tee shirt, Tyler gasped behind him. Cian froze. His back…

“Oh my holy God, what the hell happened to you?”

Sitting heavily on the bench, he looked up at Tyler, shrugged. A massive number of scars crisscrossed his entire back, shoulders and sides, those that hadn’t gone deep beginning to fade, but he knew plenty were still visible, a few still dark red. Not something he thought about often. Couldn’t see them, wasn’t reminded, didn’t want to remember their cause but did. Of course. “My foster mother didn’t like me very much.” He looked down, pushing away memories of the woman’s hatred, the electrical wire she’d used as a whip, the horrible pain… “Why is the back door squealin’? You useless idiot – oil it now!”… and slipped the tee shirt on, covering the scars. Like pulling a soundproof curtain down in front of a screaming monster.

Tyler leaned against one of the closed lockers. “I’ve never seen anything like that.” He gulped, his face pale. “Does it still hurt?”

Cian shook his head and stood. “Not too much any more. Once in a while I get a little achy, but it’s nothing worth complaining about.” Shoes. Don’t pity me.

“Damn. But you – you work out a lot, right?”

Cian’s eyes widened for a second. Work out… what? Tyler was changing the subject, but his question could have meant one of several things, and –

“I mean, you do some serious exercise, yes?”

“Oh. Uh, well, sort of.”

“Sort of!” Color returning to his face, Tyler gave a lopsided grin. “Right, Cian. You have a freaking six-pack there, bro.”

Can’t they say things normally? What in the world is a six-pack?! “I do?”

“Aw, come on – I wish I had abs like that! And I do at least 150 sit-ups a week!”

Now he understood. “I do some of those, too.” Relieved, he finished putting on the shoes. Not a perfect fit, but better than he’d expected.

“What else do you do, then?”

Before Cian could answer, the second bell rang.

“Tell me later.” Tyler waved an arm. “Come on.”

Out in the gym, the students had lined up along the far wall. Tyler trotted to the end of the line, Cian right behind him.

“Okay!” Coach Eastman approached, nodded at them. “Laps for the next ten – you know the drill.” Orders given, he started reading something on the clipboard cradled in one arm.

Cian didn’t have to wonder what the coach had meant – the students began to jog around the perimeter of the large room, so he followed suit. Imitation: the best friend of the ignorant.

“Pick up the pace, boys!”

Cian liked running, maybe because he’d never been able to do anything like this in Georgia. He’d thought about it a great deal back then, albeit in a different context. Running away was not the same as recreational running.

A shrill whistle pierced the air, and Cian stopped, turning toward the sound in surprise.

“Never heard a coach’s whistle before?” asked one of the other boys, grinning.

The rest of the class had stopped as well, but none of them looked startled. “Oh, I, er, wasn’t expecting it.” Must be that thing the coach has around his neck on a string. Interesting.

The heavier-set boys, Cian noticed, were red-faced and gasping for air, the ones who were too thin in a similar state, while the athletic members of the class were, for the most part, running in place. Cian, while in this last group, stood still, observing.

After checking his clipboard, Eastwood looked up at the class. “Okay, my little sweethearts, let’s do some pushups – seventy-five for now – and seventy-five sit-ups. I think we can all handle that, can’t we? Pair up after the pushups are done.”

A few groans ensued, but a fiery glance from the coach quelled that in a hurry, and everyone got down on the floor.

Buddy, Cian’s foster-brother, had unwittingly taught Cian how to do push-ups – or how not to do them. While hanging laundry one afternoon, Buddy had come outside, looking storm-cloud rebellious. Behind him, his mother was saying, “If your teacher says you need to exercise, young man, then I suggest you get to it right now!”

The rotund youngster had gone face-down on the grass and begun pushing himself up with his hands, grunting, only to lower himself to the ground again a second later. He managed to do three of these before giving up. With a snort, Letitia