done with us, and we all escaped to our freedom.
•••
A couple of days later, Camille fumed at the off-white square of paper in her hands with a cherry-red set of cheeks that made me laugh.
“Agh!” she muttered. “It never works!”
Miss Bernadette sat at her large desk in front of the class, grading papers and remaining purposefully oblivious to the struggling first-years. A list of instructions on the board explained how to fold messenger paper into an envelope that would deliver itself. It was flighty stationary. Most girls that came from bigger villages already knew how to fold it because so much communication in the cities relied on messenger paper. Grandmother ran the Tea and Spice Pantry in the small town of Bickers Mill, which meant I’d been working with it since I could fold a straight line. The rest of the students who came from the smallest villages, like Leda and Camille, had never used it before.
Camille frowned at her fourth misshapen page.
“You’ll get it,” I said in an encouraging tone. “Try starting over again. I’m not sure that one will even fly.”
“Oh, my aunts can hang it. They never write me back anyway.”
“Do you have anyone else you can send a letter to?”
“No,” she muttered, looking more flustered than ever. “Well, maybe Leda’s mother. She likes me.”
Leda bent over her own letter, oblivious to the rest of the world and intent on her task. My envelope, addressed to my mother, tried to escape from the books I set on top of it. The desk jerked and spasmed, forcing me to hold onto the sides to keep from getting bucked out.
Camille rolled her eyes, scrunched the paper into a ball and flicked it off her desk. It flew to the other side of the room and circled around a few desks before landing in the fire. Camille perked up.
“That’s a good thing,” I said, looking down to her other papers flopping on the floor. “At least that one flew somewhere.”
She perked up a little and started towards the front to get another one. Isabelle, a first-year with wide glasses that made her eyes as large as the circular lenses, distracted her with a question, and soon Camille was deep in conversation, her task forgotten. I eyed one of her discarded pieces on the floor. Although tattered and wrinkled, it may still fly. I picked it up and smoothed it out with the heel of my palm. After a quick check to make sure no one was paying attention, I started a second letter.
P
I miss you. I don’t have a lot of time, but I’m okay. Things are going as they should. Lots of big tests to pass, another one tonight. I’m keeping track of the news, so be careful out there, please?
Love,
B
Camille returned to her desk when I started to fold the paper. By the time I finished, she’d plopped back into her chair and caught a glimpse of my letter.
“Oh!” She cried, perplexed. “You folded another one. How did you do it so fast?”
I shoved it under the textbooks with the other and attempted an innocent smile.
“Lucky, I guess.”
She didn’t appear convinced.
“Luck, sure. Who was your letter to? You’ve never mentioned any friends at home.”
Leda looked up now, almost complete with her third attempt. It was just about ready to fly, which made it squirmy. I stumbled for a viable response to satisfy their curious gazes.
“I-it’s for a friend.”
“At home?”
“Yes!”
Surprised by my vehemence, Camille recoiled, suspicious.
“You must really miss them,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” I nodded, hoping it didn’t come out strangled. “I miss them a lot.”
Camille opened her mouth to say something else, but Miss Bernadette took her chance by calling out a warning for time. Frantic, Camille turned back to her letter, her hands flying with surprising speed. I held back my relieved breath and buried myself in a textbook before they could ask more questions.
Ten minutes later, Miss Bernadette gave us permission to release the letters. A cloud of
•••
A couple of days later, Camille fumed at the off-white square of paper in her hands with a cherry-red set of cheeks that made me laugh.
“Agh!” she muttered. “It never works!”
Miss Bernadette sat at her large desk in front of the class, grading papers and remaining purposefully oblivious to the struggling first-years. A list of instructions on the board explained how to fold messenger paper into an envelope that would deliver itself. It was flighty stationary. Most girls that came from bigger villages already knew how to fold it because so much communication in the cities relied on messenger paper. Grandmother ran the Tea and Spice Pantry in the small town of Bickers Mill, which meant I’d been working with it since I could fold a straight line. The rest of the students who came from the smallest villages, like Leda and Camille, had never used it before.
Camille frowned at her fourth misshapen page.
“You’ll get it,” I said in an encouraging tone. “Try starting over again. I’m not sure that one will even fly.”
“Oh, my aunts can hang it. They never write me back anyway.”
“Do you have anyone else you can send a letter to?”
“No,” she muttered, looking more flustered than ever. “Well, maybe Leda’s mother. She likes me.”
Leda bent over her own letter, oblivious to the rest of the world and intent on her task. My envelope, addressed to my mother, tried to escape from the books I set on top of it. The desk jerked and spasmed, forcing me to hold onto the sides to keep from getting bucked out.
Camille rolled her eyes, scrunched the paper into a ball and flicked it off her desk. It flew to the other side of the room and circled around a few desks before landing in the fire. Camille perked up.
“That’s a good thing,” I said, looking down to her other papers flopping on the floor. “At least that one flew somewhere.”
She perked up a little and started towards the front to get another one. Isabelle, a first-year with wide glasses that made her eyes as large as the circular lenses, distracted her with a question, and soon Camille was deep in conversation, her task forgotten. I eyed one of her discarded pieces on the floor. Although tattered and wrinkled, it may still fly. I picked it up and smoothed it out with the heel of my palm. After a quick check to make sure no one was paying attention, I started a second letter.
P
I miss you. I don’t have a lot of time, but I’m okay. Things are going as they should. Lots of big tests to pass, another one tonight. I’m keeping track of the news, so be careful out there, please?
Love,
B
Camille returned to her desk when I started to fold the paper. By the time I finished, she’d plopped back into her chair and caught a glimpse of my letter.
“Oh!” She cried, perplexed. “You folded another one. How did you do it so fast?”
I shoved it under the textbooks with the other and attempted an innocent smile.
“Lucky, I guess.”
She didn’t appear convinced.
“Luck, sure. Who was your letter to? You’ve never mentioned any friends at home.”
Leda looked up now, almost complete with her third attempt. It was just about ready to fly, which made it squirmy. I stumbled for a viable response to satisfy their curious gazes.
“I-it’s for a friend.”
“At home?”
“Yes!”
Surprised by my vehemence, Camille recoiled, suspicious.
“You must really miss them,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” I nodded, hoping it didn’t come out strangled. “I miss them a lot.”
Camille opened her mouth to say something else, but Miss Bernadette took her chance by calling out a warning for time. Frantic, Camille turned back to her letter, her hands flying with surprising speed. I held back my relieved breath and buried myself in a textbook before they could ask more questions.
Ten minutes later, Miss Bernadette gave us permission to release the letters. A cloud of
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