My Sunshine Away Read Online Free PDF Page B

chests and screaming as the shuttle burst into flames, and so chaos had us before the first piece of debris splashed into the Atlantic. Mrs. Knight scrambled to turn off the television and Mrs. McElroy, a parental volunteer, tripped over a boy curled up on the floor and fell against the snack table. When the punch bowl broke and spilled red juice all over the carpet, we hit maximum hysteria. I heard people running up and down the hallways. I heard the worried voices of eighth graders in the adjacent classroom. I heard the squealing of pigtailed girls. I didn’t know what to do.
    So, I sat on the carpet and watched this. I tried not to get stepped on.
    Across from me, Lindy Simpson sat on the carpet as well.
    When a space cleared between us, I saw that her sweatshirt was covered in vomit.
    Lindy looked over at me and pressed her lips together, not out of any form of embarrassment, I don’t believe, but rather as if she were merely glad to see someone she knew. She did not smile, necessarily, and she did not cry. Instead she had a look on her face that still haunts me. It was as if Lindy had unplugged herself completely from the event.
    This was a look of hers I would see later in life.
    Mrs. Knight eventually noticed her, too, and rushed over. In one expert move, she pulled the soiled sweatshirt over Lindy’s head andballed it up so that no one would see. Then Lindy, coming to, began to cry. Mrs. Knight helped her off the floor and ushered her out of the room, stroking her hair. As they passed in front of me, I heard Mrs. Knight say, “I know, honey. I know.”
    I’m not sure why this ignited my heart. I suppose it was the fact that I, myself, was not crying, that I hadn’t even had time to react. Or perhaps it was the sight of Lindy’s bright pink vomit that did it, strangely enough, so full of candy and sweet punch. Was she so sensitive that this was always inside of her? When I saw her running carefree through our neighborhood, or eating a sno-cone on the curb of Piney Creek Road, was it possible she was this tender and vulnerable? How deeply did she feel what she saw? How intensely can one experience life? Were all girls like this? The idea broke over me. These were separate creatures altogether, I realized, these girls. If not, then how could Lindy have felt so immediately the panic in the classroom, the concern over the death of our heroes? How could it make her sick before I even got off the floor?
    So say what you will about men, our massive failures on Earth, but some understanding flickered inside me at that moment, something hardwired came alive. I was just a boy, not even a man, and yet I suddenly felt it my warrant to defend this particular girl from there on out, against any vague threat that might arise. In the days that followed this event, I got into arguments with other kids my age, boys who said they, too, had seen Lindy throw up, and tried to gain an audience to laugh at her expense. I threw fits. I denied it vehemently. I raged against an unchangeable history, something that would later become a habit of mine.
    In a curious turn of events, many years after this, I ran into Mrs. Knight at a local restaurant. I was in college then, and she still looked young and lovely. She now worked as an assistant at a contractingfirm, she told me, and had given up teaching completely. But she remembered me well, she said, from the day the
Challenger
exploded. She introduced me to her husband and explained to him the nightmare it was, having charge of all those shell-shocked children, and how she still revisits the day in her head. Then she told me a story I didn’t remember.
    After Mrs. Knight had taken Lindy to the restroom and rinsed out her sweatshirt in the sink, she led her back into the hall. Apparently, I was standing there waiting for them, she said, and had taken off my long-sleeved shirt to give it to Lindy. Embarrassed and upset, Lindy ran off in the crowd without acknowledging me. Mrs. Knight said that