LOVE SONG

I stand alone by the window in Mr. Murray’s room and watch the tug that has been guiding that same tanker up the river all semester.

At seven thirty Mr. Murray walks in. He wears a white scarf around his neck, the same white as his beard, which I think he has trimmed. He looks at me and nods his head, like he assumed, of course, Sofie Grear could be here.

“I just want to know,” I say. “Have you read Maggie Cassidy?”

“Beautiful story,” he says, taking off his scarf. “A love song to Lowell. A love song to Jack Kerouac’s people. Have you read it?”

“My friend Luke and I read it. And we read it to each other, different scenes.”

I don’t say how sometimes we read it stretched across his bed, and sometimes we put it down to kiss.

“Thank you, Mr. Murray.”

“Any time, Ms. Grear.”

I go to my locker.

Good. That felt good. Just to touch Luke in that tiny way feels so good.