Memories of You. Margot Dalton

on the street. I’ll have to find some way to get cleaned up first, though. Nobody would pay to have sex with a girl who looks the way I do right now. It’s been two weeks since I ran away, and I haven’t seen a mirror for a long time so I don’t know if my nose has started to heal. It doesn’t hurt quite so much anymore, but I think it’s still pretty swollen.

      I’m kind of scared at the thought of being a prostitute. Until he did what he did, I’d never even… nobody had ever touched me before. But now it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I just have to find some way to get a little money. I have to clean myself up and wash my hair, and find some clothes somewhere.

      The sky is starting to lighten, and the sun will be rising soon. Meadowlarks are singing on the prairie all around me. They sound almost crazed with happiness. It’s amazing how the dawn can still be so clean and beautiful when it shines down on a world as ugly as this.

      I’m sitting on a piece of cardboard in a wide, grassy ditch, and I’m stiff and cold, sore all over. I’d give anything to have a hot meal and a bath. A hot bath would be the most wonderful thing in the world.

      Maybe I can flag down one of the semitrailers that keep passing on the highway, and get to the city that way. But people are such busybodies. The driver will want to know where I came from. He’ll take me to the police and they’ll either put me in jail for murder or send me back home.

      Home.

      God, what a laugh. I’ll die before I go back there. But I don’t know what else to do, and I’m so scared. I’m really scared. The mist is clearing and I can see for a little way down the ditch. There’s a man over there by the intersection. He must have stopped sometime during the night. He’s got his motorcycle pulled off the highway, and he’s been camping in a little tent. Now he’s up and moving around. He’s got a portable stove set up on some rocks. I can smell bacon frying.

      Oh, Lord, it smells so good! I think he’s brewing coffee, too. Maybe a guy on a motorcycle won’t be so likely to call the cops.

      Before I can lose my nerve, I get up and begin walking down the ditch toward him. It’s funny, I’m putting one foot in front of the other but I’m not sure if I’m still upright. The world is spinning, and all of a sudden there’s sky where the ground is supposed to be.

      I feel somebody kneeling beside me, lifting me. Now I can see a face. It’s not really a man at all, just a boy not much older than me. He’s got blue eyes and thick brown hair, and he looks so nice….

      

      SHE LOOKED BLANKLY at the streaming window. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She wiped at them with the back of her hand, then fumbled in her pocket for a wad of tissues.

      Finally, she pushed the books aside, stumbled into her living room and curled on the couch, hugging her knees. She switched on the television and let waves of brightly coloured images wash over her, drowning the painful memories in gusts of canned laughter.

      

      NEXT MORNING, Camilla crossed the campus and went into the arts building. She bypassed her office and headed straight for the large theater where she taught freshman English.

      Ninety-six students were registered this term, practically an impossible number. She sighed when she looked up at the tiered rows of seats filled with anxious young people.

      While they stared down at her in hushed stillness, she moved across the front of the room, set her books on the desk and found the class list.

      “Good morning. My name is Dr. Pritchard.”

      There was a nervous murmur of greeting.

      “When I read your name,” Camilla went on, “please indicate your presence with the word here and a raised hand so I’m able to check you off on the list. Regular attendance in class is vital because we’ll be moving rather quickly through a very large body of material. Anybody who skips more than two sessions without a valid excuse will receive a grade of incomplete on the term. Is that understood?”

      The students nodded.

      Camilla looked down at her alphabetized class list. “Aaronson?”

      “Here.”

      “Anders?”

      “Here.”

      “Appleby?”

      “Yo, Doc!”

      Camilla glanced up sharply. Appleby, who wore a bandanna and a couple of earrings, gave her a cherubic smile and waved. Camilla ignored him and went on reading names.

      The sixth name was Campbell, and Camilla looked up at the speaker.

      My God, it’s Jon! she thought in confusion. But how can it possibly…that was twenty years ago, and I saw the man yesterday in my…

      She struggled to get her thoughts under control while the students watched her curiously.

      Of course. This had to be Jon Campbell’s son.

      He was no more than eighteen or nineteen, but he looked exactly like Jon as a young man. This boy had the same clean-cut good looks and direct blue eyes, the thick brown hair highlighted by streaks of gold after long days in the summer sun…

      Camilla took herself firmly in hand and continued to call off the students’ names, stealing a couple of glances at Steven Campbell as she read.

      Despite the physical resemblance, he certainly didn’t have the same open, pleasant look that Jon used to have. This boy seemed sullen and morose, coldly withdrawn.

      Still, the unexpected appearance of him in her class was unnerving. And yet, deep down, there was a warm and unsettling feeling of excitement, too, when she looked up at the boy and remembered…

      Twenty years ago, she told herself. Long ago, lost in the past.

      Not even Jon Campbell remembered.

      She shoved the thoughts out of her mind and finished taking attendance, then spoke to the students.

      “Open your notebooks and write me a two-page essay about your goals in life,” she said amid a chorus of groans.

      “What if I don’t have any?” Appleby inquired, grinning around at his fellow students.

      Camilla gave the boy a thoughtful glance. “Goals don’t necessarily have to be personal, Mr. Appleby. If you have no goals for yourself, perhaps you have some for the human race, or for the planet. At any rate, I want a two-page essay on goals, and I want it to be accompanied by your full name, and your class and student number so I can begin to get to know each of you.”

      Steven Campbell glared into the distance for a while, concentrating, then began to write. Although she was still badly shaken by the boy’s presence, Camilla found herself looking forward to reading his essay.

      She moved around the room, up and down the tiers of seats while her students worked, and passed the time answering questions, offering advice on punctuation and style.

      She paused briefly by Steven Campbell’s desk, looking down at his thick, gold-streaked hair and his broad shoulders. Even his hands were shaped like Jon’s, lean and strong, with square fingernails.

      Camilla remembered those hands…

      “Is your father by any chance a student here on campus, Mr. Campbell?” she murmured, wanting to hear his voice.

      The boy gave her a noncommittal glance. “Yeah,” he said. “My dad’s taking some classes. My little brother and sister are here, too,” he added grudgingly, looking down at his paper.

      “I beg your pardon?” Camilla asked.

      “My twin brother and sister,” the boy repeated. “They’re seven years old. They’re in some kind of special class for egghead kids.”

      “That’s our accelerated study group. In fact, I think I’ll probably be meeting your brother and sister later this afternoon.”

      The