Darkness Before Dawn (23 page)

“Why didn't you have him locked up?” my mother demanded.

“You can't get arrested for talking to girls,” Mr. Hathaway explained gently. “According to my cousin, who found out about all this later, Jonathan tried to use his usual smooth style with the high school girls there, but most of them ignored him—maybe because of the cut on his face. A fifteen-year-old named Candy, however, must have fallen under his spell in spite of the scar.” Mr. Hathaway breathed deeply and looked at the floor.

“He took her to a motel room ...”

I bet it smelled like lavender,
I thought.

“... and he assaulted her.” The silence in my living room was thick as mud.

“Did he use a knife?” I asked.

“Yes, the silver knife his mother gave him when he was eight years old,” Mr. Hathaway said sadly. “He loved that knife—carried it with him always. It was the only gift she ever gave him.”

“Jonathan is very sick, Mr. Hathaway,” my father said.

“I know. He will be in prison for quite a while. His sentence for the attack on the girl in Kentucky was thirty years, with no chance of parole before that.”

Inwardly, I sighed with relief. It was as if a dark storm cloud had been lifted from me, as if I hadn't breathed since that horrible night in February. “Thank you for telling us this, Mr. Hathaway. I'm glad I don't have to live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder to see if Jonathan is behind me.”

He stood to leave then. He shook my parents' hands and gave me one last, thoughtful look. “Good-bye, Mr. Hathaway,” I said. “I'll be fine.” I remembered Edna's words once more:
Yo' spirit is a shinin' silver star, chile. Can't nobody take that away from you.

Outside, the sun was bright, the air was soft and pleasant, and no clouds could be seen in the pale blue sky.

W
e waited in the
darkness for the signal to begin. I wondered what was taking so long. I heard someone whispering behind me. Our silky gowns were rustling softly as we, the graduating seniors, adjusted our hats, hair, and nerves. We stood nervously in two lines that curved from the back of the auditorium out into the hallway halfway up a flight of stairs. We were in alphabetical order for the very last time, the boys in gowns of navy blue, the girls in silver.

I was one of the first in line because I had to sit on the stage. Even though it was hot, I was shivering in the darkness while we waited for the lights to come up to announce the beginning of the ceremony. I closed my eyes, but the darkness seemed like it was trying to grab me. I blinked, and the shadows were breathing on my neck, chasing through my thoughts.

I let the shadows walk me back through the last two years, through loss, pain, death, and humiliation. Dark memories of fire and blood were running in slow motion through my head. I thought about Rob, who died in that car crash in November of our junior year. I thought about my Andy, my dear sweet Andy, who left me—left us all—the following April. And I tried not to think about my own dark stain.

Like silent trumpets, the lights of the auditorium suddenly blazed. We seniors cheered, the audience stood and applauded, and then we heard the tinny sound of “Pomp and Circumstance” coming from the school orchestra sitting at the front. I always cry when I hear that song. As we marched proudly down the aisle, our excited parents flashing cameras and waving with joy, I thought back to my first day of school as a kindergartener, how scared I was and how a skinny little boy named Andy Jackson shared his peanut butter sandwich with me. I thought about grade school and long division, junior high and locker partners, high school and basketball games, hospitals and funerals.

As senior class president, I had to give a speech, but I didn't know if I could stand in front of that huge room of parents and students and put the shadows into words. I climbed the steps slowly—this was no time to trip or stumble—and I watched the others march in. The rest of the graduates proudly filed into rows of gowns and hats into the seats in front of me, their faces were unwrapped packages of smiles and success. We sat down, the lights were dimmed, and the ceremony began with the usual speeches
from school board members and declarations by the principal. My speech was the very last of the evening—our final good-bye. I held the pages tightly in my hand as I skimmed the words once more. I tried to relax a little, and I grabbed the tiny butterfly hanging from the thin silver chain around my neck. When it was time, I was ready.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our final speaker of the evening: our senior class president, Miss Keisha Montgomery, who will deliver the parting address from the senior class,” I heard Ms. Wiggersly say. Every member of the senior class stood and applauded as I walked slowly to the podium. I felt their strength and I didn't cry. I knew my parents, sitting out there in the audience with Monty, Angel, and Joyelle, were probably shedding a couple of tears. I breathed slowly and evenly as I adjusted my eyes to the brightness of the stage lights and the darkness of the auditorium in front of me. I was not afraid.

I began: “We, the members of this graduating class, are joined together forever in a circle of friendship and memories. We have read of death in our history books; we have seen death's face up close. We have studied the problems of society; we have seen how those problems can devastate a friend. Because of our unusual difficulties, we have become stronger. Our shared tears have become the glue that binds us together in love.

“Two members of our graduating class will not be marching out of this room with us tonight. They will not go to college, or marry, or discover a cure for cancer. Andy
Jackson and Robbie Washington are forever silent, but never forgotten. Their spirit lives with each of us, in each of us, and joins us together in this powerful circle of love.

“Let us not leave this place in sorrow, however. Our spirits are too strong to dwell only in the past. Let us take our spirits now, like the flames of many candles, to a new world, a world of hope and possibilities, a place where butterflies are magic and dreams can never die.

“I would like to ask the senior class to stand now, and to join hands—all of you.” The seniors looked around in slight confusion, but obeyed, joining hot and sweaty hands together for what was surely their very last time together. They looked up at me with expectation.

“I wrote this poem when I came back to school this spring.” My voice stammered a bit. “It is called, ‘Let Our Circle Be Unbroken.'” I paused, breathed deeply, and began. “Please repeat after me,” I said. “Let our circle be unbroken.”

“Let our circle be unbroken,”
they repeated, their voices loud and strong.

 

let our joys and sorrow sing

let our joys and sorrow sing

let all children hear our message

let all children hear our message

let our mighty spirits bring

let our mighty spirits bring

all the power of the seniors

all the power of the seniors

all our dignity and pride

all our dignity and pride

let our circle be unbroken

let our circle be unbroken

as we clasp our hands and guide

as we clasp our hands and guide

all our voices to the heavens

all our voices to the heavens

as each hand to hand is pressed

as each hand to hand is pressed

and our love and will is strengthened

and our love and will is strengthened

and our minds and bodies blessed

and our minds and bodies blessed

by the power of the ancients

by the power of the ancients

and the wisdom of the winds

and the wisdom of the winds

let our circle be unbroken

let our circle be unbroken

for our circle never ends

for our circle never ends

The seniors cheered, holding their hands together high above their heads. The lights brightened the room again, the orchestra began to play, and the trumpets sounded. And all of us, the senior class, clutched our diplomas, left the shadows of the past behind us, and marched proudly out of the auditorium into the dawn of our tomorrows.