As I Die Lying Read Online Free PDF Page A

the highway. Somewhere in the street,
music played on a tinny radio. From down the hall, inside my
parents' bedroom, came faint, rusty squeaking sounds. Questions
circled around in my head like spun stars, burning brightly before
dying and turning black, then falling one by one into the void of
sleep.

 
     
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
    The next afternoon, still dizzy from
promises of love, I showed Sally the nest. I led the way through
the weeds and branches, and then held the vegetation aside so she
could see the secret, sacred place.
    "Any bugs in there?" She gave me a silver
grimace.
    "No, it smells a little like wet dog hair,
but you get used to it after a while."
    She crawled through the tunnel, brushing a
prairie rose vine away from her face and sending a pink snow of
petals to the ground. She dragged Angel Baby by one arm, and the
doll's yellow hair tangled in thorns, causing Sally to whimper
until I tore it free. Once inside, she sat up and blinked as her
eyes adjusted to the dimness.
    "Look at my stockings. My mother's going to
kill me." She brushed at the dirt and grass stains on the knees of
her white hose.
    "Tell her you fell, then she'll feel sorry
for you instead of yelling at you."
    Sally looked around at the wooden walls that
were brown with rot, then squinted up at the hole in the roof.
"What do you do when it rains?"
    "Usually get wet."
    Her eyes grew dark, as if threatening clouds
had passed over them. "You promised not to be mean, remember?"
    I touched my heart, the one
I had crossed with a promise the day before, afraid it would stop
beating. "I wasn't trying to be smart-alecky. Sometimes I'd rather
sit here and get soaked than to be out there ." I motioned to the world
outside.
    She thought I must have meant the junkyard.
"Why don't you play in the cars instead?"
    "Because cars have windows. People can see
into them. Plus I think mice live in them. I've played in them
before, pretended they were jets and spaceships and even cars I was
driving. But I don't anymore, because of what happened."
    "What happened?" Sally sat Indian-style with
Angel Baby in her lap. I thought for a moment, then decided to
trust her. I could tell the story because she loved me. I'd never
told anyone else. Love makes you do dumb things.
    I wanted to leave this part out, because
it’s sort of embarrassing. But that one–you know, the one trying to
steal my byline–believes this type of veracity just shows how
foolish and untrustworthy I am. He's been revising this book,
thinking it will get better over time, but he doesn't even notice
if the structure is flawed.
    Here’s what I think: he’s jealous. He may be
this ancient, soul-hopping, omniscient entity, but he can’t write
worth a damn. He doesn’t have the patience for it. When you have
the whole world at your fingertips and unlimited evil to unleash,
who cares about a stupid page?
    For example, he doesn’t even realize drawing
attention to the author is a bad idea. Look, here is a flashback
told through dialogue. That’s a no-no in big-time New
York-published autobiographies, even unauthorized ones. He’s the
reason this book has been rejected so many times. Not me.
    So let us get by with it just this one time
and I swear we’ll never do it again. Otherwise we’d be here arguing
about it until hell freezes over. Which, by the way, comes up near
the end of the book, assuming he lets me get there in one
piece.
    "It happened before you moved here,” I told
Sally. “This was back in March when it was just getting warm enough
to play outside. The ground thawed out and the world was one big
mud puddle. Mother told me not to get dirty, so I went through
those trees into the junkyard, careful so I didn't get scraped on
torn-up metal. I scratched my leg there once, and it stayed red for
about a month and all this yellowy juice kept coming out of the
cut."
    Sally put the back of her hand to her mouth,
revealing the pale flash of her open palm.
    "I was in that old black Ford, the