My Beautiful Failure Read Online Free PDF

down the big bucks. I’ll be your first patient. If I can afford you.”
    “What about me?” Andy asked. “I won’t have to payyou, right? You’ll see me for free, right? If I need to discuss my dreams or girls or anything.”
    “I believe those two subjects will always be discussed in close conjunction,” Mitchell said, standing up.
    The bell rang. “Speaking of two subjects in close conjunction,” Andy said, “Bren-Bren has a new sweater.” Gordy frowned at Andy so hard that his chin dimpled, then pretended to dump him out of his chair. Brenda Mason was waving from the other side of the caf.
    “Actually, Mitchell and Andy both think it’s pretty cool what you’re doing,” Gordy said as he and I walked toward Brenda. “Though Andy’s thinking of calling the line and pretending to be standing on a ledge when you answer the phone. He’s been practicing a different voice and everything. People just find it easier to make fun of things like death.”
    I wasn’t sure what to say. When Gordy’s mother died, for a while it made him seem holy, like he had entered and exited a private chamber few people our age have visited. Since I saw no flaws in his personality or the way he behaved toward people, I wouldn’t diagnose him with anything but missing his mother: maybe adjustment disorder or PTSD. Mitchell thought he was smarter than everyone around him, which could be a form of narcissistic personality disorder . Andy had trouble forming his own opinions and relied on Mitchell for everything he knew, which sounded like dependent personality disorder.
    Brenda said hi to me before taking off with Gordy. She had wavy dark hair and indoor-pale skin. She was one of the smartest and nicest girls in school, but some ofher pants were so tight I thought her skeleton might start complaining. (Overemphasis on physical appearance: histrionic personality disorder ?)
    I offered Brenda a Life Saver. Five gone, nine left for me. I slid the roll deep in my pocket and gave it a protective pat.

14.
the art world
    T hat night Dad tried another take on the sunset theme he’d had success with thirty years ago. At nine o’clock Mom and Linda went into the utility room, now called the studio, to check on his progress. At eleven thirty the rest of us went to bed. At one o’clock I got up for a drink of apple juice and saw the light still on in Dad’s studio.
    I tapped on the door, then pushed. Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffman played softly on a paint-spattered CD player. In front of his easel, Dad swayed to “Barcarolle.”
    “I forgot how good I was at this,” he told me. His smile was one of a younger time. I had never seen it in person, only in his wedding picture. The small window to the driveway was partly open, but I wondered if the fumes of oil paint and solvents might have been having an effect on his brain. I also wondered if, with all the chemicals filling the room, our furnace might explode.
    “Don’t stay up too late,” I said. Dad didn’t hear me, soI popped my head farther into the room. “Not too late, okay, Dad?” I urged again.
    “I never knew you had this bossy streak, Billy,” Dad said. “You’re making me feel like I’m the kid, not you.” He rubbed a rag against a corner of the canvas. “How would you like to see a sample of the second stage of Bill Morrison’s career?”
    Dad grabbed the canvas’s bottom edge with two hands and turned it toward me. He had painted a glorious, exuberant sunset, with piercing bright rays and layers of tinted clouds—but where you would expect to see orange, gold, red, and purple, Dad’s painting was only gray and black. I didn’t know much about art. I thought only that this painting was a big disappointment. Dad waited, but I didn’t want to break his heart by saying what I felt.
    “I’m glad you’re having fun with this,” I said, hoping he hadn’t read my expression as I pulled the door closed.

15.
breakfast with champions
    T hat was intense,” Dad