Page 157 of Wayfarers

“Yeah. That’s a nice way to put it. I’m not a lie anymore.” She looks at me. “That make sense?”

“Yeah. It makes a lot of sense.”

She sips her Diet Coke, leaving me space to think.

Finally I say, “I don’t know if that would work for me. I did something awful. Not on purpose, but I did it. And now it follows me around everywhere. I feel like, if people find out, they’d never want to talk to me again. But telling people doesn’t make it easier, either. I don’t know what to do. I guess I should—admit fault?”

“What did you do?” she asks me, easily.

Then she waits for me to find the words. She waits a long time.

Sylvie Too Fast

was how it all happened, the accident,

graduation, the principal

asking me more than once

to give my valedictorian speech

anyway to teach my peers a little thing

about resilience. I couldn’t do it,

knew I’d cry or fly off in my brain

halfway through, stand slack-jawed,

a walking after-school special. Too fast,

late May, my mom babbling on about how strong

I am. The night before I still hadn’t packed

and she came to my room and said, You know,

this can be a journey of healing. I laughed.

I laughed for a long time. I said, I’m not

going to heal. I’m going because it’s harder

than staying here, and I don’t deserve easy

after what I’ve done. My mom tutted,

said, It was an accident, Sylvie, said

opportunity of a lifetime and you’re acting

like the crypt keeper, said I never thought I’d raise

a daughter to be such a killjoy. Killjoy?

Sounded about right. I woke up the next day

with my gun to joy’s head, I checked my van’s