M. T. Anderson Read Online Free PDF Page B

loopy.
    She said, “You go try to have fun like a normal person, a normal person with a real life — just for one night you want to live, and suddenly you’re screwed.”
    “You’re not screwed.”
    “I’m screwed.”
    We sat there. I wanted to say something to cheer her up. I had a feeling that cheering her up might be a lot of work. I was thinking of how sometimes, trying to say the right thing to people, it’s like some kind of brain surgery, and you have to tweak exactly the right part of the lobe. Except with talking, it’s more like brain surgery with old, rusted skewers and things, maybe like those things you use to eat lobster, but brown. And you have to get exactly the right place, and you’re touching around in the brain, but the patient, she keeps jumping and saying, “Ow.” Thinking of it like this, I started to not want to say anything. I kept thinking of nice things I could say, like, “I’m glad you went out last night, because that’s how I met you,” or, “And I think you
are
a normal person,” but they all seemed just smarm.
    So we just sat there, together, and we didn’t say anything. And it wasn’t bad.
    I hoped she could see my smile in the light of my brain.

When my father got there the next morning, he didn’t stay long. He was being very powerful and businesslike. He was dressed up, and he looked like he was ready to give some orders and sort things out. He looked like everyone around us was stupid and he was going to roll up his sleeves and do some real clarity work.
    He stood there staring at me for a few seconds, and I was like, “What?
What?
”
    He seemed surprised, and then blinked. He said, “Oh. Shit. Yeah, I forgot. No m-chat. Just talking.”
    I was like, “Do you have to remind me? What’s doing? How’s Smell Factor?”
    “Your brother has a name.”
    “How’s Mom?”
    “She’s like, whoa, she’s like so stressed out. This is . . . Dude,” he said. “Dude, this is some way bad shit.”
    I could completely feel Violet watching us. She was listening. I didn’t want to have her judging us, and thinking we were too boring or stupid or something.
    My father asked me to tell him what happened. I told him, leaving out some parts, like trying to break in to the minibar. He just kept shaking his head and going, “Yeah,” “Yeah,” “Yeah,” “Oh, yeah,” “Yeah,” “Shit,” “Yeah.”
    Finally, he stood up. I could tell he was pissed. He held up his hands. He said, “They want to subpoena your memories. This is this thing which is . . . Okay, this is bullshit.”
    After a minute, he said to someone who wasn’t there, “Okay. Okay.” He turned to me and said, “I’m going down to the police.”
    “Dad?” I said. “When am I going home?”
    Dad put his hand over his ear. “Okay,” he said. His mouth twitched. He nodded to someone.
    He hit me on the knee and left.
    I was staring at the wall and the stupid boat picture.
    I heard Quendy say to Violet, “When are your parents coming?”
    She said in a flat voice, “They’re busy.”
    “Busy?”
    “Yeah. With jobs. I guess they can’t come at all.”

The next morning, we hadn’t heard anything. We decided we needed to be cheered up big-time.
    So Marty invented this game where we blew hypodermic needletips through tubing at a skinless anatomy man on the wall. We spat the needles and tried to pin his nads.
    It was the beginning of a great day, one of the greatest days of my life. We all played the dart game, and we laughed and sang “I’ll Sex You In.” Everyone was smiling, and it was skip.
    The surprise was, Violet was the best at the dart game. She always won. I sucked.
    She tried to teach me. It was a complete turn-on. She took my hand and put the tube in my mouth.
    She whispered, “Aspirate. With the tongue.”
    People were really impressed. Link and Marty were completely hitting on Violet for it, but she didn’t pay them any attention, and sometimes she would stand there with one