Chapter Fifty-Eight

WHEN WE WAKE UP, EVERYTHING THAT was broken last night is not broken anymore. But this time I know Mom sees it, because when we come downstairs, she runs her hand over the glass that is once again smooth in the picture frames, and the part of the wall where he smashed the vase near my head.

It is a quiet, long weekend.

He never gives her keys back.

He doesn’t let us leave the house.

He keeps the phone with him.

This time, I don’t feel like challenging him. This time, I don’t feel fearless. I feel powerless.

On Sunday afternoon, I’m working on my final crow column in my room. It’s about the town hall meeting and the last bit of crow folklore—the Morrigan. In Celtic mythology, she was the shape-shifting goddess of war, fate, and death. She was most often depicted as a crow flying over battlefields and crying out for the dead. Sometimes she was seen as a predictor of death, landing on the shoulders of those who would soon meet their fate.

I’m proofreading when a shadow crosses my desk. My room stays dark, and when I look outside, I see why—there are crows filling the sky. Dark like storm clouds, so thick they’re blocking out the sun.

I open my window and watch them fly.

Auburn Township voted to allocate thousands of dollars to bring in experts to help drive the birds away. They begin their work as soon as the new year starts, so the crows have just a few weeks left here.

The wind picks up, hitting a pile of papers on my desk, and pages start to fly everywhere. I slam the window closed and turn to clean up the mess.

A familiar pink flyer lies on the floor in front of me. The scholarship contest. The deadline is tomorrow at midnight. Auburn born, Auburn proud.

This is what I know of pride. I know that it keeps the secrets of cruel men. I know that it holds us in the shadows, because we are too proud to admit we need help. I know that pride values a man’s reputation over a woman’s life. It calls her selfish for speaking up, even when she speaks the truth. Especially then.

This is what I know of Auburn. I know about frantic knocking that goes ignored in the middle of the night. I know about men who look away when their friend is the problem. I know exactly how easy it is for people here to avert their gaze at a football game, comforting themselves with a hollow sentiment: It’s none of our business.

Because this is a town where people see only what they want to see.

This is a town where they see nothing at all.

So I begin with the thesis statement, the truest sentence that I know, and every word thereafter must support my claim.

It is not the crows that make Auburn ugly.