Torn Away by James Heneghan

school. “More relaxed.”
    Declan frowned and brushed the hair out of his eyes.
    â€œBut you need to smile. And laugh. Leah says you’re not so stuck-up the way you used to be.”
    â€œI was never stuck-up,” Declan declared hotly. “And as for smiling and laughing, I leave that to those who have reason to.”
    â€œShe thinks you’re cute.”
    â€œWhere I come from cute means cunning. Like a fox.”
    â€œShe means lovable.”
    â€œIs that right now? And what did you tell her?”
    â€œMe?” Ana shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, I just told her to keep her eyes off my big brother.”
    Declan almost smiled.
    The month of the Canada Goose was a good month for sunshine. The trees were changing color and there was a hint of fall in the air as Declan and Ana set off for school each morning.
    Although Declan had earned a grudging respect from the other kids at school, he knew they did not like him. He could read it in their too polite faces, but he did not care: they were no countrymen of his. Joe was different, of course. Declan’s friendship with the Indian boy was growing stronger each day.
    Nor did most of the teachers take to him, Declan noticed. Though his natural curiosity led him to read most of the required texts, he handed in no work. He didn’t care what they thought of him.
    Mr. Hemsley, however, who taught Social Studies and who was young and cheerful, tried to encourage him. “Your test scores are very good, Declan, especially in the free response questions. I admire a student with opinions of his own.” He smiled. “Try to keep an open mind, though, and try to understand other points of view, okay?”
    Miss Oliver, the elderly English teacher, wanted to know why he had handed in no essays. “You cannot hope to pass the course on test marks alone,” she said. “You’re an intelligent boy; why do you take no part in the class discussions?”
    â€œI’ve nothing to say,” lied Declan, notrevealing the real reason, which was that participation spelled acceptance, and he had no intention of accepting any part of this alien country. That would be falling for his aunt and uncle’s trap; he wasn’t that much of a fool.
    The weather stayed warm right into November, month of the loon, and then was suddenly, sharply cold. Otter Harbour blazed an autumn bronze, and the huge old maples on the main street flared crimson against the sea and the sky and the dark embrace of the forest.

Chapter Sixteen
    â€œKeep the books, Joe, you earned them.”
    â€œI wouldn’t have got a Second in the Juniors without you, Declan.”
    â€œSure, you would, Joe. You’re a born scientist. I only did what you told me. If you’d had a half decent partner, you would have walked away with a First.”
    â€œWrestle you for them!”
    â€œThere’s the bus. See you tomorrow, Joe.”
    It is midnight and the wind and the ocean are restless and he too is restless in his bed, unable to sleep.
    He remembers.
    It is Thursday, April 16th. The day before Good Friday. Their last day.
    He sees them clearly in his memory, recalls their faces on that fateful morning, their expressions, their gestures, and he searches now for some sign in their faces and voices of their doom. But there is none.
    Mairead is excited, of course, because today is her birthday, and she is trying on her new white wool sweater, a gift from her mother. It is 7:45 in the morning and the three of them are in the kitchen where they eat. Mary Doyle is cooking breakfast and a man on Radio Ulster is singing, “Have I told you lately that I love you?” He sings it “luurv.”
    Mairead is happy. She tells her ma that she
luurvs
her sweater—it fits perfectly, and she
luurvs
her ma, and she
luurvs
her big brother, and she thanks Declan again for the beautiful notebook that is large and heavy and has blank, creamy pages, enough for