Free Hadrian's Wall by Felicia Jensen

high school in
Groveton and look for some professional course directed to the
local market—anything that gives you a chance to get a job right
away.” She stroked her forehead and sighed again. “That is, if you
really want a reasonable place in the work force.”
    At that moment the phone rang and she
dismissed me with an abrupt wave of her hand. So that was it. No
congratulations, no “Happy Birthday, my dear!” or
“Don ’t
worry, we’ll support you!” Nothing at all. I knew I would need to
learn to make my own way...alone. My mind felt the weight of
depression, but I really didn’t expect anything else.
    I returned to the dormitory. I gathered my
belongings quickly, with no real awareness of the objects and
clothes I was packing into my old suitcase. Finally, I stopped and
took a deep breath, then forced myself to look carefully at each
item, trying not to forget anything important. As if it really matters! I looked at my
stuff. It was part of my history, so I supposed I needed to
preserve it, but why? Who would want to know about my insignificant
origin? It was more likely that I would become just another
statistic.
    All of a sudden I realized that I’d
already left the gloomy environment behind and moved into the
sunshine. I was insensitive to the gravity of the situation, as if
I was on automatic pilot. I think any girl could have a hysterical
attack, but not me. Never again would anyone see me cry in public
or have an outburst because of my problems. Somewhere on the
Internet I read that what I was experiencing could be a reaction to
extreme situations—my brain’s defense against the impact of stress.
I left behind the noise of children playing on the playground and
followed the dirt road until I was off of the orphanage property.
No one noticed my departure.
    As I entered Dailey’s Crossing, I
realized that it was as silent then as it was most of the day and
night, every day of the week. The air was warm, making that reality
something more depressing than it already was. As I looked around
to say goodbye, flashes of my sad past started popping into my
mind. I rapidly blinked my eyes, trying to force the memories
away.
    The town’s few houses were all
unattractive and run-down looking, graceless, and would continue to
be for a long time. In that scenario, the grocery store was the
only innovation in ten years—a square structure painted yellow and
beige, with tall glass windows and a gas station in front. Later,
it was the little church that urgently needed renovation. The
priest who took the presbytery came from Lancaster and only on days
of worship; therefore, the church remained closed most of the
week.
    The small cemetery behind the church looked like the one in Tim
Burton’s movie, Sleepy Hollow . My father was buried there. Upon reaching the
ruins of the porch, I hesitated. From where I was standing, I could
distinguish my daddy’s headstone among those that were in the front
row, causing an ancient pain to pulsate in the bottom of my heart.
I felt inexplicably guilty, like I was abandoning him.
    I wiped my wet eyes, knowing full
well that it was stupid to feel that way. First, he’d been a man
not given to establishing roots. He was always traveling with his
band and the only reason he stopped was because he’d gotten sick.
Second, he’d want the best for me, even if that meant having to
leave the village. If that was the only way to succeed in life,
then that was what had to be done. He would approve of my
decision.
    “ One day I will return to put flowers
on his grave,” I vowed. “I will be driving a cool car with four
doors.” Wow!
That was the first optimistic thought I’d had in the last several
days !
    I don’t know how long or how far I’d
walked, pulling my old suitcase. The wheels gave me problems,
jamming in every uneven expanse of concrete, hindering my
movements. Looking around, I realized that I must have walked quite
a distance because the landscape had changed