Don't Leave Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

at Simo. “Get me all the information you can on this teacher.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “As soon as possible.”

Chapter 8

    “What happened to our house, Chuck?” Stan said.
    “You saw it,” Chuck said. They were driving away from the scene now, after two hours of watching and talking to both LAFD and LAPD. Chuck gave them as much as he could, then said he was through for the night. He had to get Stan settled down.
    “But why, Chuck, why?”
    “How the hell do I know? Why are you––” Chuck stopped when he saw the hurt look on Stan’s face.
    “You’re upset, Chuck.”
    “Ya think?”
    “You cussed.”
    “ Hell is not a cuss word, Stan.”
    “Mom says.”
    “It’s in the Bible. Hell is in the Bible.”
    “There’s fire in hell,” Stan said.
    “Let’s not talk about fire or hell,” Chuck said. Because there’s enough hell right here in this life, kid. You don’t need to pile on anymore.
    Chuck drove to the Outside Inn, the oh-so-cleverly named motel on Ventura, a block away from Ralphs. From here they could regroup, and Stan could walk to work.
    Two anemic palm trees bracketed the driveway entrance, bending as if seeking to slink away from the place. The exterior of the joint was diffuse dull-orange stucco, like a couple of painters had slapped on a coat ten years ago then knocked off early and never came back.
    After securing a room, Chuck showed Stan their new home away from home. Done up in American Plain Wrap. A queen bed, a table, small refrigerator, TV. On the wall hung a framed print, a rendering of a large, black bull looking straight out at them. Chuck thought the bull could be asking the question How did I get stuck in a lousy dive like this?
    “Where’ll I sleep?” Stan said.
    “You can have the bed.”
    “You can sleep with me, Chuck.”
    “You flop around like a halibut, brother. I’ll take the floor.”
    Stan said, “How long do we have to be here?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Where will we live for the rest of our lives?”
    Chuck guided Stan to the bed and sat him down. “Hey, you know how we’ve always talked about you getting a place of your own, a little apartment? Maybe now––”
    “Don’t make me!” Stan said. “Not yet. I want to stay with you.”
    “And you will, but if we just start to think—”
    “Not yet! I’m scared.”
    “Well stop being scared!”
    “Don’t be mad at me, Chuck, please.”
    “I’m not mad at you.”
    “You sound mad.”
    “Sound! Yeah, I make sounds! You want to hear the sound of a chicken? Buck buck buck.”
    Stan laughed. He could go from sad to laughter like a scared lizard from a rock to a hole.
    “Do the fart one!” Stan said.
    “You want farts? You got farts!” Chuck pulled up his shirt and put his hand under his arm and pumped out the farting sound middle school boys are known for. He had been the champion of that sound as a kid.
    Blat blat blat. Chuck hit them hard, slapping at his side with his elbow, making it almost hurt. He could get rid of feelings when he hurt. He wanted to now, wanted to hurt and stop feeling.
    Stan rolled back on the bed, laughing it up.
    Blat blat blat.
    More laughing from Stan, too much of course, he could get that way, but it was hard not to laugh along with him.
    Chuck put his hands up in surrender and sat on the edge of the bed. It took Stan a minute to catch his breath.
    Finally Stan sat up. “That was fun,” he said. He looked around the room. “What’ll we do now?”
    Good question, brother! We just fell down an elevator shaft with no elevator. What do we do? How do I keep you from freaking out all the time? How do I keep myself from falling further down the shaft?
    “What do you say we blow some bucks?” Chuck said.
    “Huh?”
    “We go out to a big old dinner and maybe a movie. We forget everything. How’d you like that?”
    “Yeah! Can we have pizza?”
    “We’ll have two pizzas, one each, extra large. We’ll tell 'em extra cheese—”
    “Yes!”
    “We’ll tell 'em