Read The Year the Lights Came On for Free Online Page B

could make me talk a word.”
    “You better be right,” cautioned Freeman. “You not big enough to make a good grease spot, but I’d give it a try.”
    I believed Freeman. Besides, Wesley was my brother. No one could make me betray a promise to Wesley.
    *
    Megan Priest could not be considered a No One.
    Megan Priest was a girl who belonged, by geography, to the Highway 17 Gang.
    And Megan Priest was my girl.
    At least, I suspected she was my girl. I did not know for certain how those experiences developed. Megan was kind and gentle and there was a warmth about her that only I seemed to feel. She smiled each time I looked at her and her smile would lodge in my breathing and suffocate me for an eye-blink of time. When we played softball, I could sense her eyes following me and if I stole a glance to the place where I thought she would be, she was always there, watching. (Once in a softball game, I was knocked senseless by a foul tip and when I later regained consciousness, I knew I was on a table with an ice pack on my face, and I knew, even with my eyes closed, that Megan was also there. I moved the ice pack and opened my eyes and saw her. She smiled faintly and I pretended great pain. She oohed quietly. In the thrill of her ooh, I rolled off the table and almost killed myself.)
    Megan had been in my mind for a year. I did not care if she belonged to one society and I belonged to another; it was unspoken, but Megan was special to me and I longed for the abstract language of her presence—even if I could never, ever, for all eternity and the rest of my life, permit anyone to know of my feeling for her.
    I did not know Megan was in the room that day, two weeks into our silent celebration of the REA. It was lunchtime and everyone was recessed to the invitation of a blazing outside. Because the little kids were using the softball field for a game of dodgeball, I had sneaked back into Mrs. Simmons’ room to complete a drawing I had promised. Mrs. Simmons believed I had artistic ability and she carefully, quietly, begged me to practice, baiting her encouragement with delicate overpraise. The thought of scorn for drawing bees and horses and dogs at recess haunted me and I perfected excuses for returning early to my desk. Everyone—including Wesley—believed the lies about studying for spelling. The only person who must have known the truth was Megan. She said, from across the room that day, “What’re you drawing?”
    Her voice frightened and excited me and the two emotions collided and fell in a clumsy heap in my stomach. I flipped the paper and covered it with a book.
    “Drawin’? Who’s drawin’? I’m not drawin’ nothing,” I snapped.
    “Yes, you are. You’re always drawing.”
    “Where’d you hear that?”
    “Oh, I’ve seen some. I know. Mrs. Simmons showed me some.”
    “You better not tell.”
    “What’ll you do? What’ll you do if I tell?”
    “Well—you’d better not. That’s all.”
    Megan crossed the room hesitantly, stopped and moved toward the blackboard and silently read a poster about tooth decay. The Prichard twins, Ed and Ted, had drawn the poster. The Prichard twins had six teeth between them.
    “Want a Three Musketeers?” Megan mumbled.
    “Huh?”
    “A Three Musketeers. I got one and I don’t want it. It’ll just melt.” She turned to face me, holding the candy. It was a beautiful sight, Megan holding a Three Musketeers.
    “Naw…”
    “I saw you out there lookin’ at the candy. You got a nickel?”
    It was a painful question. Megan knew I didn’t have a nickel.
    “I don’t want no candy,” I said resentfully.
    “I’m just going to throw it away…”
    “That’s crazy. If you gonna throw it away, I’ll eat it.”
    “I told you I don’t want it.”
    “Well, give it here, but don’t tell nobody you gave it to me.”
    “I won’t,” she said quickly. “Nobody’s business.”
    Megan eased away from the blackboard, cautiously looking toward the door and planning