How We Deal With Gravity Read Online Free PDF Page B

been painted yellow
a few times, so much so they stick when you open them. The stove has coils, and
they smell when you turn it on—burning off whatever was cooked last. The
fridge vibrates when you open it because the suction is so strong you actually
need to brace part of it with your foot when you tug on the door.
    It’s almost eight in the morning, and I’ve been up for the
last two hours. I pull my guitar onto my lap and strum it once, just to see if
anyone notices.
    Nothing.
    I’ll play lightly. Avery and Max’s bedroom is on the other
end of the hall, so I don’t think I’ll wake them. I loop the strap over my
head, and position myself with my knee bent on the corner of the mattress. It’s
not ideal, but I haven’t touched my guitar in days. I start to get scared I’ll
forget what it feels like, where to put my fingers, if I don’t at least play
for a few minutes.
    This guitar has always been home. As soon as I touch the
strings, I’m gone—there’s this melody I’ve been trying to work out for
weeks. I haven’t written in months, but this one phrase seems to keep repeating
every time I play. There’s something wrong with it, but I just can’t seem to
work it out. It’s kind of like my life.
    My eyes are closed when I hear the sound of someone’s
breathing. It’s not Ray, because his is heavy—labored. I’m hoping— damn it, I’m actually hoping— that
I’ll see Avery at my door, when I peel one eye open and look right at Max.
    He’s not surprised to see me. Avery must have explained to
him that I’d be in their house. He doesn’t even seem to be nervous around a
stranger. He’s just staring intently at my hands, watching my fingers move up
and down the length of the guitar. It’s like he’s memorizing every movement,
the way his eyes twitch a little with every motion.
    I don’t know what to say to him. Fuck, I’m shit with kids.
I’ve never really been around them, except for my friends when we were growing
up, but I don’t think that counts. I just keep playing instead of talking, and
Max seems to be fine with that.
    I start to change up the melody a little, and Max clearly
notices, his eyes flashing wider for a fraction of a second—like a
computer memorizing more data. He hasn’t moved a single step from his position
in the very center of my doorway. His hands are limp at his sides, and he’s
swaying a little. I’ve played for a good five or six minutes under his watch,
and at this point I’m not even being quiet anymore.
    “Do you want to try?” I say, my hands still making music.
    Max doesn’t answer, but just continues to stare. I’m not
sure what’s wrong with him. I know he doesn’t like to look people in the
eyes—I got that much from last night. And I know he doesn’t like to talk
much. Hell, I don’t either—I get him more than he knows.
    The sounds downstairs start to pick up, so I stop strumming
and pull the guitar strap from around my neck. Max is still looking at it, but
not moving from his spot. I lean it against the edge of the mattress, there and
available, while I leave the room. Maybe it’s just a weird fantasy, but part of
me feels like maybe if I’m not looking, Max will pick it up and start to play.
    I’m halfway down the stairs when I lean back to peek to see
if Max has gone into my room, but he hasn’t. I can still see his feet, his body
swaying in the doorway. He probably doesn’t want to get in trouble with his
mom—I can see Avery being strict with him, telling him not to touch stuff
that isn’t his.
    As soon as the smell hits my senses, I’m suddenly fifteen
again. Ray’s skillet is bubbling with bacon and sausage—and I swear it’s
swimming in the very same grease it was when he used to make me breakfast years
ago.
    “Now that’s how a man likes to wake up,” I say, pulling my
arms over my head into a wide stretch and patting Ray on the back.
    “Breakfast ain’t free, ya know. Take the trash out, would
ya? There’s old