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His mother had tried to explain growth spurts to him and said that was why she wouldn’t buy him expensive sneakers, Chucks, because his feet were going to grow some more. He was already wearing size eights. Rigby hoped that was true; he wanted to be taller and heavier and faster and hairier too. He often looked in the mirror to see if he had developed a muzstache.The gym had been decorated with long streamers of coiled crepe paper and posters promoting war bonds and victory gardens. A phonograph with two large speakers, the kind used with movie projectors, was being operated by some ninth-grade boys, and they played mostly Harry James and Glen Miller records, music everybody knew. A few girls danced together, some jitterbugging and others showing off fancy steps they had learned in their dancing classes including some strange Charleston moves. Most of the boys stayed by the far wall, trading insults and jokes about the girls and most of the girls stayed near the folded wall in groups. It was hard to keep my mind on the task at hand. "Stay still," I told him. "Let me free you." I opened the heavy lock at his neck first and the collar fell away. The skin there looked burnt. He stretched his neck and sighed. Then, he held out his hands so that I could open the shackles. They fell to the ground with a heavy, loud clang, as well. And, again, it was as if his wrists were scalded by the iron. Without thinking about what it would look like, I fell to my knees and worked the lock on his leg irons. When the irons were open, I looked up at him. The first thing I noticed was that his skin seemed to be glowing. It was as if he was lit by candles from within. The second thing I noticed was his eyes on my breasts. He lifted his gaze to my face almost apologetically. "I mean no disrespect," he said. "I don't feel demeaned," I told him, standing. It was nothing like having Henry look at me. I imagined his touch would be nothing like Henry's as well. I took a breath, trying to.
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