My Name Is Not Easy by Edwardson, Dahl (the reading list TXT) 📗

high. But her hand reaching for Isaac’s shoulder is hard as a steel trap.

“Th

ere’s a family in town where he can stay for a while, until we get things sorted out.”

Th

ey’re stealing Isaac.

My heart starts to beat so fast, I’m sure I’m gonna choke.

“It’s only temporary,” she says.

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Th

ey’re taking Isaac away. Forever. Th

at’s what she’s really

saying. I can feel it. But I don’t speak. My throat is frozen.

Another lady bursts out of the offi

ce, waving a piece of

paper. Th

is lady is big and solid and wears a skirt and sweater the color of ashes.

Th

e old lady looks at her. “Father’s gone to get the station wagon,” she says.

Father’s gone to get the trap. Th

at’s what she really means.

“Here’s the affi

davit, Sister,” the lady in gray says, handing

the paper to the old lady.

I watch the way Sister holds that paper, reading it slowly, and I think about that word, affi

davit. It’s a word I never heard

before.

“It’s a permission form, Mildred, not an affi

davit,” Sister

says sharply, reading it slowly, like she’s looking for something.

Something bad. “In loco parentis,” she says. “Good.”

“Father will need to have it notarized,” Mildred says, looking up. “Oh look, he’s already got the car.”

Sister looks out the window, and I do, too, still chewing on that stringy word: notarized. It sounds like something that might hurt. Outside a long, square car pulls up in front of the school.

“Come along then, Isaac,” Sister says, pulling Isaac by the shoulder. Me and Bunna start to follow, but she turns to look back at us, still clutching Isaac. “You two, go with the other students,” she says.

We look back, but the others are gone. Th

e hallway is

empty and dark and full of nothing but whispery echoes and 20

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N E V E R C R Y / L u k e

dark shadows. Sister looks back, too, then nods. “All right then, gentlemen. You two may follow. I’ll get you settled after.”

After feels like a big black hole, and Sister is perched on the edge of it, clutching Isaac. Isaac’s eyes are spots of bright black terror.

What am I going to do?

We follow Sister outside, where the one she calls Father—

the one with the squashed face—is sitting in that car, waiting.

And before I even get a chance to move or call out, “NO!”

Father reaches out, pulls Isaac inside the car, and Sister slams the door, stepping back, her white dress fl apping in the night.

He’s got our baby brother; that priest has Isaac.

Isaac is trying to pull away from him, all right, but he’s too little. And I’m trying to run after him, but that old nun is clutching me now, her skinny fi ngers sharp as steel.

“Th

at’s enough,” she says. “He’ll be fi ne.”

Her voice sounds just like a seagull, a seagull circling above someone’s meat rack, getting ready to steal.

We watch as the car drives off , Isaac’s face pressed up against the window, his eyes pleading, me standing there.

Helpless.

What am I going to tell Mom? What the heck am I ever going to tell our mom? I was supposed to take care of my brothers.

Bunna and I follow Sister, like she says, the two of us pressed together tight—a broken fi st of brothers. She takes us to the place where there’s food and leaves us, still clinging together, at the tail end of the food line. We’re too scared to eat right now but too hungry not to.

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I can still see Isaac’s tear-streaked face pressed against the window of that car. Like it’s happening over and over, like time’s folded in on itself, and part of me is always going to be trapped on this side of things, watching that car disappear into the dark woods with my little brother trapped inside.

Gone.

I’m starving, all right, but all I know right now is that hunger feels the same as fear, sitting in my stomach, hard.

Th

ey call the place where us kids are supposed to eat a cafeteria. It’s big and square with long tables and steaming food and it’s got two sides: the Indian side and the Eskimo side.

“What about Isaac?” Bunna whispers. “Where’s Isaac

gonna eat?”

“He’s okay,” I lie. “Th

ey gonna feed him better food where

he’s at.”

Like I know.

Th

e nun with the meat is tall enough to be one of the iñukpasuks, one of big people, but I don’t say this to Bunna.

“Don’t touch the meat,” I whisper.

Bunna is really hungry, but he’s scared enough to pull his tray back quick when I whisper it. I’m not sure what made me say it—I just don’t trust this place, not even the meat. Especially not the meat. Who knows where it comes from?

“No meat?” the iñukpasuk says. Her face looks confused, and even though she’s very big, I see right away that her face is more of a girl’s face, the kind of girl who is someone’s friend.

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“Are you boys sick? Maybe I ought to take you to the infi rmary?