Free Some Wildflower In My Heart by Jamie Langston Turner Page B

had read his collection of stories titled Somebody Like You some ten years earlier.
    Mrs. Edgecombe returned presently and stood beside me at the library door, both index fingers held to her lips as if to ensure a double measure of quiet, while a line of children filed into the room. The children seated themselves immediately in the metal chairs that were arranged in two semicircles around a large blue wing chair, where I assumed I was to sit. Twenty-five heads were turned in my direction and as many pairs of large eyes studied me curiously.
    â€œYou may let them browse through the shelves after you read to them awhile,” Mrs. Edgecombe whispered. “Remember,” she added, placing the palms of her hands together and tapping her fingertips lightly, “you need to keep them here for an hour. If I’m not back by two-thirty, take them back to their classroom so they can get their things ready to go home. Ask Jessica March to help you if you need to know anything. She’s a very dependable little girl. My meeting should be over by then, though.” A weary look crossed her pink face. “I certainly hope it is.”
    I nodded.
    Mrs. Edgecombe glanced quickly at the large clock on the wall. “Thank you, Miss Bryce. Come by my office at the end of the day.” She left, and I closed the door.
    â€œMiz Gardner always leaves the door open,” stated a red-haired boy.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with Miz Gardner?” asked a pudgy girl, who then whispered something at which several children snickered.
    â€œWho’re you ?” asked a pale boy, rising to his knees and pointing at me. The folding chair almost buckled, but he averted a spill and quickly sat back down with a loud thump. The other children laughed raucously. There was a great scraping of metal chairs as the children twisted in their seats.
    I walked slowly to the blue wing chair and sat down without speaking. I set my purse on the floor beside my chair and placed both hands on top of the book in my lap. My instincts told me that silence was a powerful tool with children. Indeed, it seemed to be so, for the group soon fell quiet and observed me with a look of great wonder. Although I was but twenty-nine years old at the time, I had often observed families in public places and had by now concluded that the primary fault of parents was an excess of talk, much of it redundant, irrelevant, and lacking conviction. I believed a reserved and somber demeanor to be of great value in all interpersonal exchanges, and I still believe this to be true, although my acquaintance with Birdie Freeman has revealed to me certain benefits of open and friendly discourse.
    I opened the book, raised my eyes, and moved my gaze slowly across the group, looking briefly into the eyes of each child before reading from the author’s introduction the names of the characters in the story. “‘The five children in this book are Augustus Gloop, Veruca Salt, Violet Beauregarde, Mike Teavee, and Charlie Bucket, who is the hero.’” I was instantly encouraged by the thought that any writer who would bestow upon his characters such splendid names surely would not disappoint his readers in the invention of a plot.
    â€œAw, yeah. That’s a good book!” the red-haired boy said. There was an immediate eruption of questions and comments, which quickly subsided under my mirthless eye.
    After thirty minutes I had read to the end of chapter five. “Would you like for me to stop now so that you may find your own books to read?” I asked.
    As one, the children cried, “No!”
    By the end of the hour, four of the five golden ticket winners in the story had come forward, and Charlie Bucket had just discovered a dollar bill in the snow beside a curb. I knew the faces of the third-graders well by this time, having watched their responses for the past hour. As a child, I had read aloud to my mother each evening, and she to me. I had always