butchers. If you begin to love this job, it’s time to leave. Our mission is to protect the public and put shades to rest in the kindest way possible.” Even as he said this, he felt like the world’s biggest hypocrite.
Dismissing Number Six, Jonah turned back to the others. “Soldiers need to know how to take care of their weapons. They are the tools of the trade. What’s the difference between sharpening a shiv and sharpening a cutting blade?”
“You use different stones to sharpen them,” Number Four said. “If you use the wrong whetstone on a shiv, it destroys the runes, rendering it ineffective.”
“Which would be a nasty surprise, if you’re counting on it, out in the field,” Jonah said. “Let’s talk methods. You encounter a hosted shade—a shade inhabiting a body. What’s your weapon?”
“Cutting blade,” Five said promptly.
“What’s your method?”
“Dismemberment.”
“Why?”
“A hosted shade can’t be killed as long as it inhabits abody. Our goal is to render the body uninhabitable. That frees the shade.”
“Ah,” Jonah said, looking at Three. “Now you have a free shade. What’s your weapon?”
“Shiv.”
“Method?”
“Impalement.”
SBy the end of the session, Jonah felt a little better about their prospects. “Next week, we fight,” he promised. “Gear up.”
Chapter Nine
Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl
The conference room at the high school was stuffy and hot, and Emma couldn’t help feeling like she and Tyler were besieged. Outnumbered, anyway. Three teachers, a counselor, and somebody called an “intervention specialist.” All members of Emma’s “team,” as Ms. Abraham, the counselor, kept pointing out.
Then why did she feel like they were playing on the other side?
Emma stole a glance at Tyler. He’d put on a collared shirt for the occasion—the first time she’d seen him in anything other than a T-shirt in the three months she’d been there. He kept pulling it away from his neck as if it was too tight. His face gleamed with sweat. Not glad to be there, but at least he’d shown up, she thought, with a rush of gratitude.
“Our goal, Emma, is to all work together for a positive educational outcome,” Ms. Abraham said. She frowned at her laptop screen as if she didn’t like what she was seeing. “Although you were admitted as a junior, you have less than Shalf of the class credits you’ll need for graduation. Which means you have some catching up to do.”
“She’s taking a full load, right?” Tyler said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “What more can she do?”
“First and foremost, she needs to pass the courses she’s taking,” Ms. Marmont, her algebra teacher said. “We’re midway through the semester, and her current grade in Algebra One is . . . let’s see . . . sixty-eight percent. She has to pass both Algebra One and Algebra Two to meet the core standards.”
“I don’t get it,” Tyler said. “Emma’s good at math. She does all kinds of measures and calculations in the shop.”
“The shop?” Ms. Beaumont, the intervention specialist, raised an eyebrow.
“Her woodshop,” Tyler said.
Emma’s team looked at one another. They had nothing to say.
“I’m good at word problems,” Emma said. “Problems where you know where you are and where you want to go and there’s a reason to get there.”
“Many colleges are looking for calculus, these days,” Ms. Abraham murmured, typing a few notes into her computer.
“What if I don’t want to go to college?” Emma said.
It was like she’d sprayed a flock of hens with a hose. Everybody started squawking at her at once, a mingle of
Ms. Abraham raised her hand to quiet them. “What would you like to do, Emma, after high school?”
“I want to be a luthier,” Emma said. Met with a circle of blank looks, she added, “I want to build guitars.”
“That’s great, Emma,” Ms. Beaumont said, “but how do you want to make a
“What I said. I want to build guitars,” she repeated stubbornly. Even though she knew that wasn’t on the official list. She had a plan, after all.
They all looked at one another. They wanted to roll their eyes. She knew they did.
“In a classroom, I can’t help but feel boxed in—sitting in the same spot, every day, while people talk at you. I need to move around. I need to make something
“Perhaps there is something in career and technical ed,” Mr. Boyd, her English teacher suggested.
“What about automotive technology?” Ms. Beaumont suggested, scanning a list. “Or audio engineering?”
“That doesn’t sound like what I want,” Emma said. “I was in an apprenticeship program in Memphis. I’d like something like that.”
“Apprenticeship program” sounded more official than “I helped my grandfather in his shop.”
“I don’t think we should rule out the idea of college just yet,” Ms. Abraham said, pushing back from her desk. “You’re just two months into your junior year. We’ve arranged for tutoring in language arts and math. You’ll need those skills, whatever you do, and a high school diploma gives you lots more options. I’m going to refer you to Ms. Britton to test for special needs. I don’t find any evidence that you’ve been evaluated for that.”
Thumbing through a file, she pulled out a sheet and handed it to Tyler. “Mr. Boykin, I’d appreciate it if you would fill out this questionnaire and return it to me in the next few days.”
Emma read the title upside down.
Ms. Abraham followed Emma’s gaze and put her hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Emma. Everybody has a different learning style. We need to figure out what works for you. Meanwhile, I’ll find out if any of the CTPDs in the area offer a woodworking track.”
“CTPDs?” Tyler asked.
“Career and technical education,” Ms. Abraham said. “We used to call them vocational schools. When we have all that, we’ll meet again at the end of the semester.” She paused. “You also need to come to class, Emma. None of this matters if you’re not in your seat. If your attendance is good, there are waivers we can apply for when it comes to testing and the core curriculum. But your attendance in Memphis was—what’s the word I’m looking for—awful. All right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Emma said.
They drove back to Tyler’s in silence, worry on both sides. She still thought of it as Tyler’s, even though he’d done his best to make her feel at home.
Her father lived in one of those neighborhoods that teeter on the knife’s edge between chic and shabby. From the outside, his house had crossed to shabby a long time ago, but inside it was all beautiful oak woodwork and rooms big enough to throw parties in. And, surrounding the house, the remains of an overgrown garden.
It was a lot of house for a single man who never had any visitors. Not one, since she’d been there. Emma was used to all the comings and goings at Sonny Lee’s shop. Tyler’s place seemed designed more to keep people out than wel come them in.
