Freewill by Chris Lynch Page A

grandfather.
    â€œPromise,” she says.
    â€œI promise,” you say.
    â€œNo, promise ,” she says.
    â€œYes, promise ,” you say. And wonder why it is you have to repeat everything.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    You are no sooner in the door—and not the little door into the little isolated freezer case of the woodworking gulag, but the big door into the healthy free-range world of the general Socratic population—than Mr. Jacks is right up there in your face, glad-handing and oversmiling you back to lifelike civilization.
    â€œGreat to see you back so soon, Will,” Mr. Jacks says, putting an arm around your shoulders.
    Like you were Charles Lindbergh. Before he misplaced his baby. They taught you stuff like that once. When you were suitable for history.
    Or maybe not Lindbergh. Maybe more like the guy who murdered the baby.
    He is squeezing you awfully tight. “I won’t try to escape,” you say.
    He laughs out loud. Mr. Jacks is a decent enough guy, but you have never heard him laugh. Kind of like hearing a cat yodel.
    â€œNo, no, no, Will, not at all . . .” He is not only squeezing you, but steering you down the hall. “I’m just really surprised, and pleased, to see you up and around, and back with us.”
    You can’t even manage it, to do the self-preservation thing briefly. To attempt to even look like you are paying hard attention to the man. He is talking, and you are drifting, like a kite.
    People look like they are retreating as you pass throughthe corridors. You see faces—not clearly, but they are there—seemingly forever. Two girls, bumping shoulders, hush-toning as girls do. But they don’t seem to pass. They are looking at you—well of course they are—and you are looking at them. You are going your way and they are coming this way, but you don’t ever reach, ever pass. You look at Jacks, like for an explanation, then look at the girls, only they are boys.
    They are looking at you, though. Make no mistake.
    You want to talk to students. You want to talk. You want to shake somebody’s hand and say, listen, I am sorry just like you. Sorrier than you, even.
    But as you feel yourself pulling ever gently out of Mr. Jacks’s benevolent grip, you feel him tightening up. No matter anyway. Faces are not opening up to you. They are closing, or shrinking or—inasmuch as you can tell as the viscous shield between you thickens—clenching at the sight of you.
    The only certainty is that you are noticed.
    Why? Why should you matter now? And why should Jacks even be aware of your arrival? Even if he cared, which you must seriously doubt no matter how genial a guy he is, why would he know? You are one problem amid his hundreds of problem chores, and you’re not even supposed to be back for another while yet.
    Finally, you feel, hear, see, something different.
    â€œYo, nice work,” comes the muffled voices as you arebumped by a passing student. You turn from Jacks to catch just the black coat, dark hair, black hat, swinging side-to-side gait.
    You wipe to clear the eye. Jacks swings you back around to him.
    â€œI have been thinking about this a lot, Will, and I don’t think you are quite ready . . .”
    â€œThinking . . . thinking a lot about me ?”
    â€œYes, you shouldn’t risk . . .”
    â€œWhen would you have had time to think about me?”
    â€œIt is just too soon. You need to be fully . . .”
    He’s been tipped. Of course he’s been tipped. He has been waiting for you. Alerted by one or more of your grandparents who are probably under official orders to let the world know where you are at all times. What do you think about that? You have become so important all of a sudden that everywhere you go, somebody has made a call to tip somebody off. Your every move is under surveillance.
    â€œAm I going to have to wear one