The Power of Thought

Chapter 5

  I wasn't quite sure what conversation would have led up to my writing, but it intrigued me still.

"Oh yeah? Why's that?" I asked.

     "Uncle Frank was a popular writer back in his twenties. He never talks about it now, but he wrote stories about the soldiers coming back from the war," Connor said. His blue eyes lit up a little bit and he edged closer to me. "He sold a lot of books. I don't know the exact number, but my mom told me at one point thousands of people were lining up to get a signed copy of his books."

     I felt a sense of pride in Connor. This was his family's claim to fame. This was a good example of something to proud of. Why hadn't I heard of Frank's books before?

     "What the hell? That's so cool," I said. "Why haven't I seen any of his books?"

     Connor paused a second and his eyes fell back into the shadow of his brow.

    "He stopped after awhile," he said. "Apparently he just didn't feel like writing anymore."

    My gaze dropped to the ground, probably looking at the same spot Connor's gaze was on. I didn't want to ask any more questions. I didn't like when Connor got sad. Luckily for me, he was the one who changed the subject this time.

    "Anyways," he sighed. "Uncle Frank was probably just trying to be nice since, you know, after what Aunt Gracie said and all," he said.

    I chuckled. Uncle Frank had managed to pay off Aunt Gracie's racism. I didn't feel like arguing so I put the bills back in my pocket.

    "Right. That was pretty awkward," I said.

    I got tied up in thinking about the image of Connor and I being old again. I focused on nothing in front of me except for that image. I must have been staring off into the distance for too long, because Connor shook me playfully to pull me back to the present.

    "What are you thinking about?" Connor asked.

    "I want you to be honest with me," I said.

    "Okay," he replied.

    I waited for minute, asking myself again and again whether or not I would be comfortable with Connor if he told me something I didn't want to hear. It was now or never.

    "Do you think... like your Aunt Gracie?" I asked, turning my head away, not wanting to see his response immediately. Was I fool for saying that out loud? Surely he wasn't racist. Surely he didn't think that I was better than the girls on the other side of the tracks, the ones who were even worse off than I was, and who happened to be darker than me.

    "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he said. "I mean, you'd have to be crazy to think that I would date you if I thought like my family."

    At first I was offended that he called me crazy. I was the only one allowed to call myself crazy. I ignored the crazy part and just responded with an eye roll and an obvious tone of anger.

    "You're right, I'm sorry I said anything."

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