Free In the Middle of the Night by Robert Cormier Page B

television together. He flipped to the comics. Ran his eyes over the strips without enthusiasm.
    He was without enthusiasm for anything these days.
    He seldom consulted the editorial page, although he sometimes glanced at the political cartoon or forced himself to read the editorial. “You must learn about your new country, and the newspaper is the best place,” his father said. Dutifully, he scanned the editorial, something dull about wastewater treatment. His eye fell upon the Letters to the Editor space at the bottom of the page and the brief caption over the single letter printed there: “Case Open?”
    After reading the letter, he dropped the newspaper to the carpet, knowing at last that the tragedy would go on forever, that he would have to live with it for the rest of his life.
    That knowledge was lodged within him like a block of ice that would never melt.

 
    O
n his first day back at school, John Paul was glad for the bigness of Wickburg Regional. The corridors were filled with hurrying students as the bells sounded at regular intervals. No one paid attention to him. Remembering the photograph in the newspaper, he tried to shrivel into himself, wishing himself invisible. He was relieved to find that students regarded him indifferently, as usual. He avoided looking into other people’s eyes, even the teachers’.
    The only awkward moment came when he reported to his homeroom. He became aware of eyes staring at him as he took his seat in the next-to-last row, near the window. He wondered if a father or mother of one of these students had written that letter to the editor.
    Mr. Stein rapped on the desk with a ruler andsaid: “We are happy to have you back, John Paul.” Then glancing across the rows of students: “Isn’t that right, class?” A demand in his voice.
    “Right,” someone called out, followed by other friendly greetings.
    John Paul blushed furiously with both pleasure and embarrassment, as the bell rang for classes to begin.
    As usual, he was not called upon to recite. A few classmates nodded at him, neither friendly nor unfriendly, just as they had before the tragedy. As he walked out of U.S. history, a kid he did not know grabbed his hand and pumped it. “Glad you’re okay,” he said.
    Stunned, his palm instantly wet, John Paul managed to say, “Thank you.”
    He was stunned again during lunchtime when, eating alone, he saw the blond girl who had helped that day at the theater coming toward his table. He had looked up from the unappetizing hamburger plate—all food was still unappetizing to him—to see her heading his way, her eyes seeking his, her long blond hair bouncing lightly on her shoulders.
    He rose to greet her.
    She smiled at him, with her lips and her deep brown eyes, the eyes such a contrast to the fairness of her skin and her blond hair.
    “Thanks for answering my letter,” she said.
    He felt his mouth drop open in astonishment. And could not close it, as if his jaw had frozen in place.
    He had answered Nina Citrone’s letter, not this girl whose name he didn’t even know.
    “Don’t you remember me?” she said. “You must get a lot of mail. I’m Nina Citrone, from the theater …”
    “Nina Citrone?” he said. Stumbling on her name, feeling stupid.
    “Yes.”
    “But …”
    “But what?…”
    “You said I was kind and helpful that day …”
    “Oh, but you were. I was terrified. My parents never let me work, never let me do anything, and all those kids, I was really nervous …”
    “You did not look nervous …” Forgetting his contractions.
    “I know. I put on this big act. Like before the oral book reports. Did I yawn? I have these terrible things I do, like yawn, when I’m nervous. Like talking to you now. Know what? My knees are shaking. And I’ll probably yawn any minute …”
    She began to yawn, maybe on purpose, and he joined her with a fake yawn and they laughed together, as if they were old friends or maybe more than friends. Clatters of