The weeds made their way through the cracks in the asphalt.
The place seemed smaller than he remembered, and sadder than he expected.
He stood for a long time by the old perimeter, hearing the ghostly sounds in the wind: the screams of the children, the sound of the bell in the cafe, the steps on the concrete.
The voice behind him said, “Are you waiting for someone, boy?”
Isaiah turned around.
An older man in a work jacket carried a crack of keys and a paper bag of tools.
He had a white beard, broad shoulders and a sharp look, like a man who for years made sure that buildings functioned when everyone else had already abandoned them.
On the tag of the jacket was the inscription Barnes.
Isaiah introduced himself and suddenly feeling a little silly, asked if he had ever known a girl named Victoria Hayes, who attended this school many years before.
Mr.
Barnes looked at him for a moment, then looked at the fence and again at Isaiah.
“That little girl with the red ribbons?” asked.
Isaiah forgot how to breathe.
“Do you remember her?”
Barnes laughed hoarsely.
“It’s hard not to remember a kid eating lunch with that skinny, white boy everyone pretended not to see.” He moved the paper bag in one hand.
“You were him.”
