When Nem checked the book after, the line next to the teacher’s name read: non-survivor of mitigating circumstances. She hadn’t expected the bloody result delivered in her own school. When she’d hoped for a minus luck event, she hadn’t seen this coming at all.

She shouldn’t have felt guilty because the woman was a mean terrible person and an equally terrible teacher. But she did feel bad for a few days. Every time that little, emotional worm squirmed in her gut though, she need only think of Ben to settle it down. His tears and the curve of his slumped shoulders only strengthened her belief in the diary’s fairness. It had dispensed justice as it saw fit and who was she to argue? A small pain for a greater gain; it had delivered the bad luck she’d hoped to find in order to grant her wish.

Twelve weeks later, she learned the Carmichaels were expecting a baby, and a thrilled Peg told her that they were “overjoyed.” So was Nem. And once she filled up that diary page, she never gave Mrs. Pension, better known as Miss Detention, another thought.

28

The Walter Bridge Literary Festival had been held for the last fourteen years in a 20-acre manicured-to-its-last-blade-of-grass, tree-filled park, adjoining the prestigious Mary Cowan University. Like all these writing events, this one attracted more mom and pop writers than professionals.

William had earned a master’s degree in literature believing this would leapfrog him ahead of the pack of hopefuls. Where did these wannabe novelists grow their belief that possessing a story idea meant a future as a writer? He’d paid his dues and groomed his patience until his best seller galloped onto the charts.

As a child, his parents taught him to bide his time and not imagine more than he deserved. Although he held no sentimentality toward them, he did heed the wisdom their actions imparted.

His father, a large man, who spent an unhappy forty hours a week behind an insurance clerk’s desk, chided him often when he caught him reading. “You a fag, are you? Reading’s for gay boys. You’d better think about work. How you’ll contribute to the goddamn world. Get your nose out of that crap or I’ll slam it down your neck so hard, you’ll be shitting pages for days.”

If he argued, there’d be a whack for his trouble. Once he’d even caught a punch to the head, which knocked him out. He’d been nine or ten.

Did he blame his mother for not defending him or spiriting them away? In retrospect, no. As a writer, you come to empathize with your fellow men and women because you spend your days walking in another’s shoes. At the time though, he had designated more guilt to her than his father. Mothers, he’d learned from the books he read, should protect their children; encourage, love and sing them to sleep with lullabies at night.

She instead simply hid his books away. Hindsight revealed she endured far worse from the man and taking what her son loved the most was her way of protecting him.