“They’d tied my hands, but they hadn’t blindfolded me. The guard next to me got out of the truck and closed the door, but didn’t slam it fully shut. I thought…I hoped that the lock hadn’t caught. They were all getting restless, irritated by the delay. I took advantage of their distraction and kicked the door. It flew open. And I moved faster than I’ve ever moved in my life.”
A few uneasy laughs rise from the class. Darius shifts his gaze to the windows, as if the memory is playing in front of him like a movie.
“The saving grace was that we were in a city—a bombed-out one, but I knew there were places to hide. I ran as fast as I could, expecting any second to get caught. Then I ducked behind the rubble of a destroyed church. A guy in fatigues was there, holding a Glock. I thought it was the end…again. But he indicated I should follow him. I took the chance. Turned out he was a Resistance Army soldier who’d heard something about a journalist hostage nearby.
“Fortunately, I knew Russian and enough Krasnovian to be able to tell him what happened. He let me travel with them to the next city. Eventually I was able to get in touch with an embassy official. Two weeks later, I was on a flight back to the States.”
The class is silent. One student tentatively raises his hand. Darius nods.
“Have you ever gone back?” the boy asks. “To Krasnovar, I mean?”
“No.” Darius turns off the projector, casting him in darkness. “The civil war ended when I was still a hostage. It’s an incredible country, but I don’t think I’d ever have a reason to go back.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hawke.” Appearing to shake herself out of a trance, Ms. Meadows gets to her feet. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time for further questions today. But we greatly appreciate your openness and honesty. That was…extraordinary.”
The class applauds in agreement.
She turns on the lights and raises her voice a notch. “Remember that Friday is the final day to turn in your collages, so if you haven’t finished yet, you’ll have to carve out class time. You can also come in during study hall or after school since we’ll be starting the photography unit right away. Have a good rest of your day.”
Students start shuffling around, several casting Darius quick glances of awe, as if they can’t believe either his story or the fact that he’s our new teacher. I still can’t quite believe it myself. He turns to speak to Ms. Meadows, his profile still etched against the screen.
Pain for him stabs through me alongside a feeling I almost don’t recognize. No one would choose to experience such a horrific ordeal, but in a strange, twisted way I envy Darius for living a life so immense that it brought him face-to-face with both the best and worst of people. He must have experienced every emotion and sensation possible, and to a degree far beyond what the rest of us can even imagine.
In a deep, closed part of me, I long to have that kind of daring. To throw myself into the world and take everything it has to give.
But that impulse is buried beneath the knowledge that I was meant to live a small life. One that will have to be enough rather than too much.
As I put my notebook back into my book bag, my elbow knocks my pen off the table. It rolls under a chair a few feet away from me, where a boy with sandy-brown hair grabs it off the floor and holds it out.
“Thanks.” I take the pen from him and stick it into my bag.
“Hell of a story, huh?” He hefts his backpack over his shoulder and nods toward Darius.
“Yes.” I eye the boy warily since I’m not used to anyone talking to me. He’s new here, I think. At least, I’ve never seen him before. So he probably doesn’t know about me.
When I start toward the door, he falls into step beside me. My shoulders tighten.
“I’m Simon,” he offers, extending a hand.
“Nell.” I shake his hand quickly and pull mine away. “You’re new, right?”
“Yeah, moved here from Portland over the summer. My dad got a job with a tech firm.”
I stop at my locker.
“I’ve seen your drawings and stuff.” Simon comes up beside me. “You’re a really good artist.” His face reddens suddenly. “I mean, not that I’m being creepy and watching you or whatever.”
“It’s okay. Thanks.” I twist the combination lock. I haven’t paid the slightest bit of attention to his artwork. Or him.
I grab my history binder and slam the locker shut. “I need to get to class.”
“Yeah, me too.” He steps back. “See you around.”
I hurry past him to the stairs. He disappears quickly from my mind, pushed aside by thoughts about Darius’s captivity.
I hadn’t known much about what happened to him—my father had told me that after the initial furor over his capture had died down, the efforts and negotiations to free him hadn’t made the national news. And though I’d been able to find some information on the school computers, my searches were restricted by the controlled internet access.
When school lets out, I walk downtown, pausing to get a coffee and to browse at the bookstore before going home. Darius’s SUV is parked in the driveway.
After changing clothes and unpacking my books, I catch a glimpse of him from my bedroom window. He’s working in the garden again, a task he’s picked up lately.
He’s wearing worn jeans and an old gray T-shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders. He moves with fluid efficiency, yanking up weeds with one tug, then turning to toss them onto a pile. His forearm muscles flex and twist. A sweat stain marks his shirt between his shoulder blades. His body looks as if it were made to be active and in motion.
Despite my discomfort over him living with us, he’s like no other man I’ve ever met. I still can’t imagine him ever tied up in captivity. He’d be like a lion chewing off his own paw.
Did he feel the way I did at Harbor View?
A “youth psychiatric facility” is nowhere near the same thing as being taken hostage by armed terrorists, but I can’t help believing there must be some similarities. At the very least, we were both trapped in a place we wanted to escape.
But we were both free in our minds. We still are. No one can touch us there.
Darius pauses in his work, lifting his T-shirt to wipe sweat from his face. Even from a distance, my gaze locks to the flat plane of his abdomen, lined with hard ridges like a cliff.
He straightens and pulls his arm across his forehead, then glances up at my window as if he feels my stare. Our gazes collide.
Stepping back, I let the curtain fall over the window. Ever since he arrived, my body has been reacting involuntarily—pulse increasing, breath shortening, chest tightening. It’s like the fight-or-flight syndrome, only I don’t know what I should fight.
Or why I should flee.
CHAPTER 6
Nell
Though the students buzz about Darius for the rest of the week, no one asks him for more details about his captivity. It’s as if everyone knows he’s said all he’s going to say, but his silence encompasses only his ordeal.
During his lectures on the history of photography, he continues to talk openly about his career. He gives us his opinions and ideas about the photographers who had the most influence on his work and encourages discussions about the current state of photography. I take so many notes that my hand hurts by the time the bell rings.