Our Song by A. Destiny Page A

here!” I called. I had to restrain myself from squealing in excitement. Blacksmiths swear. They never squeal.
    Coach walked over, smoothly and deliberately as he always did. But when he saw what I was holding, clamped in a pair of soot-stained tongs, his sweaty, dirty face lit up.
    â€œNell! Spike!” he said.
    This wasn’t some form of football lingo. He was referring to the thing I had made—a six-inch-long, three-pound, crusty-skinned iron spike, perfect for hammering down, say, a railroad tie. I mean, if this were the 1800s and my last name was Lewis or Clark. For my current life and times, the spike was pretty much useless, but at that moment, it was my most prized possession.
    â€œI can’t believe I made that!” I said, admiring the brushy hammer strokes visible in the metal.
    â€œI knew you had it in you,” Coach said. “You beat the beast.”
    That was his affectionate name for our massive, belching forge.
    â€œAnd even,” he added slyly, “with a burned hand.”
    I gulped and clamped my left hand over the fresh scar on my right one.
    â€œYou knew about that?” I squeaked.
    â€œNellie, I see everything,” Coach said. Normally, I hated when anyone called me Nellie, but when Coach said it in that dad-like rumble of his, it actually made me happy. So did the respect I saw in his eyes for the first time ever. (At least I thought I saw it. Coach’s eyebrows were as bushy and grizzly as his beard, which made his eyes kind of hard to see.)
    Mrs. Teagle thought hiding my anvil burn was the height of foolishness. I now realized that Coach might think otherwise. The code of the barn was all about being careful and methodical, making sure you did everything possible to avoid melting your face off. We had a saying that we called out like a battle cry whenever the forge ran too hot or too cold: Respect the beast!
    If you didn’t respect the beast, the iron that you’d been carefully molding for hours could turn into a puddle. Or it wouldn’t get molten enough and your next hammer stroke would land so hard, it would make your brain jangle.
    But another rule of blacksmithing was this: no whining. It was bad form to grumble about scrapped work, sore muscles, or minor burns. For all I knew, all the guys were nursing blistered wounds—and they were as closemouthed about them as I was.
    Maybe I wasn’t so badly suited for blacksmithing after all.
    I carried my spike over to the beat-up wooden table where we were supposed to leave our finished work. I scanned the other smiths’ pieces—several really respectable horseshoes, a twisty fireplace poker, and some surprisingly delicate candlesticks. All these items were much more polished than my lowly spike, but I didn’t care. My nubbly nail reminded me of the scruffiest puppy in a litter, the one you chose out of pity, then adored more fiercely than any perfect, pedigreed dog.
    I put my spike on the table, gave it a little pat, then turned to head out. But Coach stopped me.
    â€œYou should take it with you,” he said, nodding at my spike. “It’s your first one. There’s nothing like it.”
    I blushed, then laughed to cover up the blush.
    â€œWhat am I gonna do, put it under my pillow?” I joked. “Or hang a really, really big picture on the wall?”
    â€œJust hold it in your hand,” Coach said, not joining in on my laughter or even smiling. To him, even my overgrown thumbtack was a sacred thing.
    â€œJust take in all those beautiful flaws,” Coach went on, “all those dents and scars that say, ‘A person made this. I made this.’ ”
    Who knew Coach, who routinely spat on the floor, could be so poetic? I think he was almost more moved by my success than I was.
    But I did take him up on his offer and carried my spike, cradled in both hands, out of the barn.
    It was only then that I realized I’d been too successful at