heard it, who couldn’t divert her attention from the rustle of turning pages
and the scratch of pencils on paper.
When it was over I suspected that I’d failed the math, and I was positive
that I’d failed the science. My answers for the science portion couldn’t even
be called guesses. They were random, just patterns of dots on that strange
pink sheet.
I drove home. I felt stupid, but more than stupid I felt ridiculous. Now that
I’d seen the other students—watched them march into the classroom in neat
rows, claim their seats and calmly fill in their answers, as if they were
performing a practiced routine—it seemed absurd that I had thought I could
score in the top fifteen percent.
That was their world. I stepped into overalls and returned to mine.
There was an unusually hot day that spring, and Luke and I spent it hauling
purlins—the iron beams that run horizontally along the length of a roof. The
purlins were heavy and the sun relentless. Sweat dripped from our noses and
onto the painted iron. Luke slipped out of his shirt, grabbed hold of the
sleeves and tore them, leaving huge gashes a breeze could pass through. I
wouldn’t have dreamed of doing anything so radical, but after the twentieth
purlin my back was sticky with sweat, and I flapped my T-shirt to make a
fan, then rolled up my sleeves until an inch of my shoulders was visible.
When Dad saw me a few minutes later, he strode over and yanked the sleeves
down. “This ain’t a whorehouse,” he said.
I watched him walk away and, mechanically, as if I weren’t making the
decision, rerolled them. He returned an hour later, and when he caught sight
of me he paused mid-step, confused. He’d told me what to do, and I hadn’t
done it. He stood uncertainly for a moment, then crossed over to me, took
hold of both sleeves and jerked them down. He didn’t make it ten steps
before I’d rolled them up again.
I wanted to obey. I meant to. But the afternoon was so hot, the breeze on
my arms so welcome. It was just a few inches. I was covered from my
temples to my toes in grime. It would take me half an hour that night to dig
the black dirt out of my nostrils and ears. I didn’t feel much like an object of
desire or temptation. I felt like a human forklift. How could an inch of skin
matter?