Raft of Stars by Andrew Graff (good books for high schoolers .txt) 📕

blazing, blasting down Fischer’s fire and knocking the door off my garden shed in the process.” Miranda shook her head. “He and his friend stacked twelve pine pallets on the coals—twelve pallets, can you imagine?—to keep it going through the night, he said. Those flames were as high as the house. I’m just glad his father wasn’t home. He wouldn’t have been able to laugh at it, not then.”

Tiffany noticed the woman’s demeanor change at the mention of her husband. There was sadness there, and Tiffany wondered where the man was, who he was. Tiffany second-guessed the nobility of Miranda’s denim dress and conservative hair. Maybe it was a carryover from a bad marriage, a thing the woman couldn’t learn to shed. If that was the case, maybe Tiffany could help her loosen up, break a few rules.

“Of course,” Bobby went on, “after the search is over, there’s always plenty of paperwork to fill out for a situation like this. First the sheriff’s department paperwork. County paperwork too. I’ve even seen paperwork from as far off as Washington!”

Tiffany admired the flame that grew in Miranda’s eyes whenever she talked about Fischer. She’d seen tears threaten to choke that flame many times this evening, but the fire always won. There was a hunger in Miranda’s eyes. That’s what it was. And that hunger was fierce, and jealous, and consuming. Tiffany didn’t recognize it right away. She’d never seen that look in her own mother’s eyes, and certainly not in her dad’s. She had a childhood memory of dancing on a coffee table in front of her dad, trying to get his attention. As she remembers it, she was four or five, and she put on her nicest dress and twirled and twirled, but he never even looked at her. He just watched the TV like she wasn’t there.

“And that’s Washington, D.C., mind you,” said Bobby. “Not the state. I’ve got a cousin out there in Washington State. Good berry farming out that way.”

Tiffany stopped washing her plate and looked Miranda in the eyes. An idea had come. She desired more than anything to watch what happened to those eyes when they spotted Fischer again. Tiffany imagined an unapproachable fire of a woman, shreds of denim bursting into flame. And she wanted to go get that Breadwin boy, too, wipe the shame off his face, tell him he was good.

“Miranda,” she said, “if you want to go out there and search, right now, I’ll go with you, tonight.”

“I thought of that,” Miranda said. “Prayed about it. I know the woods pretty well, the river especially. I spent a lot of time out there when I was younger.”

“Well, let’s go, then.” It made Tiffany feel strong to say it, though she knew nothing about the forest, or spending the night in it. Her camping excursions never made it past the backyard or Burt’s fields. But standing next to Miranda, she felt brave. Here was this noble mother who loved her son, and here she was rinsing plates and feeding cookies to Bobby.

“God told me to wait here,” said Miranda, taking the plate from Tiffany’s hands.

“God told you that?” Tiffany asked.

Miranda nodded.

Tiffany felt instantly disappointed. In her brief experience with the church, when God spoke, he usually told people disappointing things, or convenient ones to suit their desires. That, or people became out-of-touch miracle seekers. Tiffany tried church once, about a week after she received the twenty-five dollars in the mail from her mother. She knew nothing of denominations, only that she felt very alone, and a group of people sounded comforting, particularly ones who were supposed to be nice. She made the mistake of walking into the sort of church where people moaned as they sang, and one of them fell down on the floor, and then two older women led her to the front during the worship service and shook her shoulders and spoke in tongues to “receive a word” from the Lord. It scared her so badly, she physically pulled away from them and ran for the door. She told Burt Akinson about it the next day at the Sunrise Café. He laughed, even though Tiffany still felt like crying.

“Pentecostals,” said Burt knowingly. “The heck you go in there for?” But then Tiffany did start to cry, and Burt cleared his throat and became gentle. “Listen, Tiff, if you’re gonna try church, listen, don’t start off with the Pentecostals. Pentecostals is like the straight whiskey of church types. Start with something tamer. Take the Baptist church in town, for instance. Stacey used to drag me there on Easters. Let me tell you, the Baptists don’t hardly do much of anything at all. They just sit there in their pretty clothes and take notes, pretend they’re happy. If you’re gonna do church, start there next time.” There never was a next time. Tiffany had made her decisions about all of that. And she was particularly annoyed right now that God, or whatever it was people called God, was the one preventing her and Miranda from going to get the boys.

“And God will tell us when we might go, too, I suppose?” Tiffany regretted her tone and knew she’d apologize for it. She couldn’t help it. She imagined Miranda’s husband, a man like her own father, cold and absent, his beautiful wife tiptoeing around in silence and serving him.

“Yes, he will,” and the certainty with which Miranda said the words made Tiffany regret her own. There was no retort in Miranda’s tone, just a stated fact. Tiffany was so surprised, she forgot to apologize.

“And,” said Bobby, “the state is going to want to have every detail in duplicate. But it shouldn’t be too complicated really, not as bad as some cases—”

“But what about the note they left?” Tiffany asked. “They said they’re going to the armory to see their dad. We know where they’re headed.” She wanted to do something. Anything.

“Paperwork is never too complicated when no harm’s really done, as is the