The Unicorn Anthology by Peter S. Beagle & Jacob Weisman

Author:Peter S. Beagle & Jacob Weisman [Beagle, Peter S. & Weisman, Jacob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781616962838
Publisher: Tachyon Publications
Published: 2019-03-05T21:00:00+00:00

STAMPEDE OF LIGHT

Marina Fitch

I DON'T KNOW WHEN I stopped believing I would live forever.

“Open a child’s mind and heart to the world, and you achieve immortality,” my sixth-grade teacher Mrs. Rodriguez once told me. “Whether they remember you or not, you’ll live forever.”

I remember Mrs. Rodriguez. I guess that makes her a saint.

I shaded my eyes with my hand and scanned the kids racing across the blacktop, smashing tetherballs, clambering over metal play structures. At the edge of the grass two boys raised clenched hands. I brought the whistle to my lips—they tossed dried leaves at each other. I removed the whistle. Then the boys scooped up more leaves and dumped them on of one of my second graders.

He ignored them. I frowned, trying to remember his name: ginger hair, gray eyes, square face, freckled nose. Alone. . . .

Corey Ferris, one of this year’s forgotten children. The one I couldn’t place when I saw his name on my roll sheet the first month of school. The one who never caused trouble, never answered questions. The invisible child in a class of thirty-two.

I was a forgotten child, too. Until Mrs. Rodriguez.

Corey stood with his back to me, gazing across the field. I joined him. With a squint, I peered over his head. All I could see was the far corner of the cyclone fence.

“Corey,” I said, “what are you looking at?”

He started. Shuffling away from me, he stopped, looked at the comer, then at me. “Don’t you see her?” he said.

I looked again. This time I saw her.

The woman sat in the corner, her manzanita-red hair spilling over her shoulders, dark swirls against her turquoise blouse. Her skirt, vibrant with green, raspberry, yellow, and blue, fanned across her knees. She bent over slightly, her hands skimming across her lap.

A child stood beside her. A dark-haired girl, one of Peggy’s third graders—Heather Granger. I headed toward them. The woman was probably Heather’s mother, but it never hurt to check.

An image flashed through my mind: smiling, the woman opened her arms wide. The girl rested her head in the woman’s lap—

The image vanished. A sense of loss touched me. . . .

The bell rang.

I glanced back at the worn, art deco school. My second graders were already lining up near the back stairs. Corey hovered at the end of the line, separated from the others by two paces. I turned a slow circle, searching the far corner, then the playground. Heather and the woman were gone.

I finally caught up to Peggy in the staff room after school. “Peggy, did Heather go home sick?”

Peggy shrugged into her jacket, then took the sheaf of papers out of her mouth. “Heather?”

“Heather Granger. Dark hair, quiet.”

Peggy sucked in her cheeks. “I don’t have any Heathers this year.” She frowned. “I had three last year. No Grangers. . . .”

I blinked. “You sure?”

Peggy shook her head. “Nope. No Heathers.”

I stared at the toes of my shoes, trying to recall Heather’s face. I couldn’t.

“Mary,” Peggy said, “are you okay?”

“Did you—did you see that woman on the playground at lunch?” I said, looking up.

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