The Last Shepherd

2. BI

8« » 2 b i I have more memories of my last day of high school than all four years leading up to it. That’s because I knew it was the end. And I was prepared. From the moment I stepped onto campus, I grabbed up all the hows I could—how the I in the library’s sign was crooked, how the dandelions growing behind the gym smelled of canned beets, how the footsteps echoing through the hallway sounded like rushing water, how the rusted lower right corner of my locker was just sharp enough to catch but not tear the skin of my index finger. I tucked those hows away as the school bell rang and I hurried to Ms. Whittaker’s room and my last English class. It took Ms. Whittaker a good five minutes to get us all into our seats. Even then, we fidgeted—suddenly having grown too large for the chairs we’d sat in for the last nine months. “Ya gotta come man,” Rich said as he snapped in two every pencil in his backpack. “Did you even apply?” Mike asked. “There’s a lot of work to do on the ranch,” I said. “Bullshit.” Mike rolled a basketball back and forth over his desktop. “The problem is you’re in love with sheep,” Rich said. “Ewe oughta just marry a sheep—get it, e-w-e.” “And they accepted you at the U of A?” “Admit it,” Rich said, “You looooooove sheep.” “There’s laws against that sort of thing.” Mike tossed the basketball to Rich. “Not for Basques,” Rich said. I laughed and said, “You guys are sick.” 9« » “Quiet please,” Ms. Whittaker said, and when that didn’t work, she took off her shoe and banged it on the blackboard until we stopped talking. “Now, before I give you back your final papers, I want to read an essay one of you wrote.” A groan went up from the class. “Haven’t we suffered enough?” Rich threw his hands into the air. “Don’t worry, Mr. Clausen, it’s not yours,” Ms. Whittaker said. “I don’t think everyone would be as enthralled about the trials and tribulations of filling a Coke bottle with tobacco spit as you seem to be.” At that, Rich high-fived Mike and me as the boys in class hooted and the girls let out a disgusted “Ewwwwww.” “If you all listen quietly,” Ms. Whittaker said through the noise, “I’ll let you go early.” That got the room silent. Ms. Whittaker slipped her shoe back on, picked a paper from her desktop , and began to read. “On Sunday, May 6, 1973, I turned thirteen and my world changed. Only not in the way I thought it would.” Hearing the words I’d written made me blink as if a bright light had been shined in my eyes. The words confused me—didn’t seem to belong to me. But then as Ms. Whittaker kept reading, I couldn’t escape what was mine. I slumped in my chair and ducked low and kept my eyes on the front of my desk as if it were the edge of a cliff I was running toward; any moment the ground beneath my feet would be gone and I would be flying through midair. And then it was over. I heard voices, chairs scraping over tile, laughter; Mike and Rich arguing about whose truck was faster; someone touched me on the shoulder and said, “Nice story.” And then the classroom was empty and Ms. Whittaker was laying my essay on the desktop in front of me. “Thank you, Mathieu.” And since I wasn’t sure what Ms. Whittaker was thanking me for, I kept quiet as I folded the paper into a tight square and jammed it in my pants pocket and hurried to catch up to Mike and Rich so that I could argue that my dad’s truck was faster than either of theirs. And later, with all the things 10« » I remembered from that day, I forgot about what I’d written. That was, until the day of my father’s funeral when I found my essay in the top drawer of his dresser. My essay was at the back where Dad kept his black socks. At first, I didn’t recognize it for what it was. But then I unfolded the paper...