Can’t slow down, can’t think. I’m fixated on the wall and my leg shakes and my eyes well and my breath’s shallow.
“Is it something that we were talking about?” J asks. I shake my head. No, just a thought. “Can you describe how you’re feeling right now?”
“Anxious.” I turn so he can’t read my embarrassment. Agitated, I start picking up my backpack, alternating glances (the door, his eyes, my bag), hoping he’ll catch the hint that I’m about ready to bolt—and that he’ll release me without making me talk about it.
“One second,” he says as he strolls to his bookshelf. J picks up a book and places it in my hands, then returns to his chair. My mind is blank, I’m not seeing let alone reading.
“Are you familiar with Zinn?”
I shrug. “People’s History.” My eyes are still darting, my toes fidgeting.
“Right. This is another of his books. If you’ve read that one, do you remember…?” Can’t hear the rest, too busy trying to stabilize.
“What?”
“The conclusion about who defines history,” he repeats patiently.
“Oh. Um. I dunno. The victors.”
“How could that relate to your situation?”
“I don’t know, J,” I say restlessly. “I’m having a really hard time thinking right now.”
A pause—one, two, three, four. “I hope one day I will be reading your story. That you’ll write about what happened to you. That you’ll be an advocate for survivors—that you will write your history.”
are your fingers in the margin 