No one would've thought that my father worked in the morgue. Don't creepy people work in morgues? Apparently not.
I sat my stuff on an empty desk at the back of the room and shoved myself deep into the seat, trying to avoid everyone's wondering gaze.
A girl sat down next to me. She was wearing a flowery dress, tied with pink ribbons and her hair was short and curled. She had rosy cheeks and a wide smile. She watched me intently.
"Hi," she squeaked.
I looked up at her. Does she really want to talk to me, or is this a joke? Who wanted to talk to the new kid? Who wanted to speak with someone who's father worked in the freaking morgue of all places?
"Me?" I asked dumbly.
The girl nodded and smiled, her bright white teeth showing. She scratched her nose and smiled even wider—if that was possible. "Who else?"
I shrugged and opened my brand new notebook, bound by leather with carvings of trees on the front.
The girl looked glumly at her wooden desk and then back to was so awkward. Could my first day go possibly any worse?
"Are you scared?" She asked, tilting her head to the side.
I shrugged. "Not really. My father, he..." I didn't want to finish that. Just the mention of him made the girl grow a sour face.
She tried to hide it. "Your father is David Simon?"
I nodded. "Yep. Let's just pretend he doesn't work in the morgue."
"It's not that big a deal," the girl groaned. "He makes a living just like everyone else. My father works at a carpet business. He still puts money down on the table. Why does it matter if he works at a freaking morgue?"
I sighed. "Guess it doesn't matter," I admitted, "but most people freak out. I just think it proves he's braver than all the other dads."
The girl smiled her wide smile and nodded. "I like how you think. I'm Violet," she held out her hand. I didn't think children still shook hands here.
"Raven," I told her smiling.
My parents divorced when I was about nine. They got into a big argument after my brother Al died. He had Down Syndrome and so my father allowed a doctor to take him into surgery. The doctor turned out to be a fake and ended up killing Al. Of all things, a fake doctor. Mom hated Dad for it and divorced immediately. We didn't even have a funeral. Dad had worked in the morgue in Michigan but when Al's body ended up in there, he had to leave. Mom wanted nothing to do with another child that wasn't Al so I went with my Dad. We had moved three times now and we were stuck in Dixon, Arkansas. Hopefully this would stick.
The teacher, Ms. Sous walked in and dropped a stack of papers on her desk. Her short red hair was Ina frizzled mess and her blouse was only half-done. She sighed really loud and wrote her name on the board.
"Sorry I'm late everyone," she apologized in a loud yet smooth voice. "You know what it's like driving through these mountains. I witnessed a car wreck on the way here. An eighteen-wheeler smashed into the side of the mountain. Now I want you all to write a poem in your journals of the gains and losses of car wrecks."
A boy in the front row groaned and ruffled up his own hair. "Come on, Ms. Sous! A poem? Can some people just do an essay?"
Ms. Sous put her hands on her hips. "Now, Haden, have we been studying essays or poems for the past three weeks?"
The boy, Haden shrugged. "Whatever."
I carefully opened the notebook and wrote my name at the top of the page. I began to write of car wrecks, skipping lines, letting my pencil glide over the page as if it had a mind of its own. I wrote about gaining knowledge and responsibility and losing a loved one. I put myself into the poem and had myself wreck into a tree. My words ebbed into each other and my writing seemed so beautiful, Mark Twain seemed to have written it.
Before I knew it, Ms. Sous was packing up her things. "Okay everyone," she belted. "Today is an early-out so you'll be leaving now. Just set your journals in a stack on my desk. I'll see you after summer break. Have a nice holiday." I put my things into my little bag and set my journal on the desk.
I walked through the crowded hallways with no rush. I looked around at the metal lockers, linoleum floor, and happy posters hanging from floor to ceiling.
"Raven! Wait up!" Violet came running at me, gently pushing people out of her way. She fixed a ribbon on her dress and played with her hair.
"That writing assignment was amazing," I said.
Violet shrugged. "It was okay. So where are you headed? Got anything planned for Thanksgiving?"
I shook my head and walked through the doorways still flooded with other children. "Not really," I answered. "My father may cook us up something but other than that no."
Violet watched the concrete beneath our feet. "Want to come over? I have a brand new treehouse and I was thinking of decorating it."
I nodded. "Okay. I just have to stop by the morgue to tell my father."
"Do you know where it is?" Violet asked, checking her bag for anything she might've missed. She confirmed her suspicions and then buttoned it back.
I nodded and turned to the left, the crowd of kids dispersing. "Yeah. I have a vague idea but I haven't been there yet. Could you walk with me?"
Violet shrugged. "Yeah, my momma doesn't really mind what I do with my free time. Yours?"
"I just live with my father. My mother, she uh, I'm not really sure..."
Violet nodded. "I completely understand. Let's stop by the bakery on the way back!"
"Okay!"
And right there, right then, I had my first friend in Dixon, Arkansas. She liked me for who I am and didn't judge me because of what my father did, like most people. She saw through my expensive clothes and pristine profile and just saw another girl. No, she saw someone special. Someone she wanted to be friends with. And she did.
