Mrs. Parker looked up.
“Ready for what?”
Owen suddenly looked nervous.
For the first time all evening, he looked twelve.
He rubbed the heel of his sneaker against the floor.
“There’s one more thing.”
He turned toward Mrs. Parker.
“When we found your letters, there was one that wasn’t from a student.”
Mrs. Parker froze.
I saw it happen.
It was subtle at first—the way her fingers tightened around the little orange handkerchief.
Then all the color left her face.
“Owen,” she said quietly.
He stopped.
The audience couldn’t possibly have understood the change, but I did.
Mrs. Parker wasn’t surprised anymore.
She was afraid.
Not frightened exactly.
More like someone standing in front of a door she’d spent years keeping closed.
Owen lowered the microphone.
“We don’t have to,” he whispered.
Mrs. Parker stared at him.
“What letter?”
“The one inside the green music book.”
Mrs. Parker closed her eyes.
