Inside Madeleine Read Online Free PDF Page B

the newspaper.
    Polly ran. First she ran outside, into her backyard, and then she ran down the alley. At the end of the block, at the end of the alley, was a field. It was an empty corner lot, the only empty lot on the square block. All during her elementary school years the neighborhood kids played kickball, kick the can, and tag there, especially during the summers. They also climbed the boysenberry tree and ate its berries.
    Polly climbed the tree. “Fuck you,” she said, picking the overly ripe berries still left on the branches at the end of September and eating them. Soon, she was calm, her lips and cheeks and fingers stained a gorgeous wash of purple.

    “Your father’s a faggot.”
    It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that. This came from Michael Turley, who lived across the street from her. He was her age, a light-haired, thick-bodied boy she’d known since birth. She played with him often over the years. He was, in fact, her first sleepover. She remembered being able to take a bath with him; they were only five. It had been exciting in an innocent, five-year-old way, splashing around with a friend. A few years later, they had a day of playing gone bad.
    “She showed me her butt,” he shrieked to his mother, pointing at Polly. Mrs. Turley didn’t do anything—she had five other kids to worry about—but after that Polly didn’t like to play with Michael. Yeah, she showed him her butt. How dare he tell on her.
    Regardless, they were neighbors. It was Saturday. Another dreadful week at Jefferson was over, and the month of September marched on. She was sitting on her bike, bored. Michael had lazily crossed the street to say that to her. Polly stared at him.
    “Fuck you,” she said and stuck out her middle finger.
    “He’s a fag. That’s what my dad says. And you’re an ugly flat-chested bitch.”
    Polly rode her bike down the street. The fire station, which sold candy as a sort of fundraising, was three blocks away, across from her old elementary school, and it was open for a couple ofhours in the morning on Saturday as well as for an hour during the week after school let out. She rode slowly. It was a gorgeous day, sunny, the Midwestern sky flat and endless above her, clouds floating by like they had all the room in the world. When she got there she hollered up the stairs, up through where the poles came down through cut-out circles in the ceiling, “Candy Box!” Then she waited.
    A fireman came down, keys clanging. His shirt, untucked, hung over his large belly. Polly’s eyes were focused on the metal locker, which was full of candy, but he grabbed her chin and she looked up at him.
    “I bet you got candy in your box, little girl,” he said, and then he smiled, showing his red thick tongue between his teeth. His hand came out and tweaked her mosquito bite that pushed on her tight green T-shirt.
    “Ouch,” she said, putting a hand over her nipple.
    “Don’t like it? Wear a bra,” he said.
    Then he opened the locker and in that moment, as the door swung open, everything that bothered Polly went away in a wash of color. There were Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Milky Ways, Snickers, penny gum, Twizzlers, Peppermint Patty’s, Jolly Ranchers, Mounds Bars, Mars Bars, Almond Joys, Paydays, and SweeTarts. There was everything a girl could want. She bought a pack of Twizzlers and rode over to McKinley’s playground. There were two black boys playing basketball and no one else. She parked her bike over by the hopscotch area and sat on some cement steps, carefully peeling one Twizzleroff at a time. She gnawed away, happy to grind her jaw. Was her dad a fag? He was different. For instance, he didn’t have a job. Maybe that made him a fag. He was gentle, too. He wasn’t prone to smacking her across the face with newspapers.
    A week later, her other nipple burst. She’d finally gotten used to the one little mosquito bite, had finally stopped scratching at it, and now this. In math class, she was