Free This Raging Light by Estelle Laure Page B

rings.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œUh-uh,” he says, “you’re going to have to trust me.”
    â€œTrust,” I say.
    â€œYou can.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTrust me.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œSo let’s go.”
    I don’t move.
    â€œNow or never,” he says. He pulls his keys from his pocket and makes a jangly noise that wakes up my feet.
    Â 
    We walk side by side out the front door. We do not see Shane or Eden or (blessed be) Elaine or any teachers. The universe is temporarily my friend.
    I want to ask Digby about Elaine, to ask him why he is taking me away, if this is because he feels sorry for me because of my short shorts and high heels, or if it’s maybe his way of calling a truce.
    I don’t.
    I walk, thinking how nice it would be to take his hand in mine.
    Oh, you of the clearest of greenest of eyes. Oh, wearer of perfect freckles.
    You are going to make worm’s meat of me.
    Â 
    We go to Philly.
    He has a plan. He announces that if we are smart about it, we can see Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell and find the time to wedge in a cheesesteak before Wrenny gets out of school. He says “Wrenny,” just like I do, and for a brief moment we are in this together.
    I close my eyes in the passenger seat as he talks and let cool October wind blow in my face. Digby is next to me taking me somewhere, and even though I think it is just plain weird that this is how my morning is turning out, when I try to think of anywhere I’d rather be right now, I cannot come up with one single place. Against all reason, I fall asleep.
    When I wake up, we are in a parking structure, and it smells like oil and trash. Digby’s watching me.
    I hope I wasn’t crashed out with my mouth open or anything.
    â€œOh good,” he says. “I was worried your nap was going to throw us off schedule.”
    â€œYou could have woken me up.”
    Shrugs. Says, “Come on, then. Let’s go learn stuff. Tour starts at nine thirty.”
    Our guide is ancient. Her name is Mildred, which, think about it, when was the last time you met someone named Mildred? We shuffle into a room where she asks people where they’re from. Switzerland, two families from Germany who don’t know each other but strike up conversations and go
“ja, ja”
and shake each other’s hands with vigor and commitment. There is a lone guy who says he’s from Colombia. An inner-city fifth grade class. Everyone coos. Mildred waits patiently and then shows us a video about the Declaration of Independence. Digby watches everything, everything, while I try not to watch him too hard.
    I want to test. If I rub my elbow against his, will electricity shoot out of my face or something?
    Mildred leads us from the dark room to Independence Hall, and we walk around. “Imagine this room full of men all making their cases, arguing. It is summer, and there is no air conditioning. They are in here for weeks.” Mildred the Passionate. Mildred the Wise.
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    I like the Liberty Bell, the crack in it, all the stories about what it means and represents. Digby, my Digby, opens doors for me, guides me through swarms of people. He is exactly the same as he is on the court. He swishes in a really boy way. He’s graceful, like Eden. He doesn’t bang into people like I do. He navigates. Aims.
    â€œNot much to do at the Liberty Bell, is there?” He says this after we have stood side by side in front of the bell for about five minutes in silence.
    â€œTake a picture?” I suggest.
    The tourists are lined up in front, the part with the crack, but he slips around to the other side, where it’s empty.
    â€œNo one would know,” I say.
    â€œThat it’s the Liberty Bell?”
    â€œYeah, I mean without the crack, what’s special about it? It’s just a dumb bell.”
    â€œJust because the crack doesn’t show doesn’t mean it’s not