Suckerpunch Read Online Free PDF Page A

aleck, she said, turning away from the doorway. Maybe I should send you to the Army.
    They won’t have me.
    Why not? she hollered from the end of the hallway.
    Because I don’t have a trigger finger, I hollered back.
    I clicked on the television and watched the news for a while. Whenever my dad watched the news, he would insert his opinion between sips from his beer. It’s about time we invaded Iraq. Sip. If my neighbor did that, I’d punch his lights out. Sip. Everyone is shooting everyone these days. Sip. That’s what she gets for leaving her baby in the car. Sip. The world is going to hell in a handbasket. Sip. No one could beat the Yankees.
    The anchorwoman said the botched terrorist attack in London was most likely attempted by the same group who were behind the last bombings. This time the bombs failed to explode correctly. I thought about how dumb the terrorists must’ve felt and imagined them pointing fingers at one another. I thought about the funeral and the tiny flowers on Mrs. Thompson’s veil. I thought about banging the anchorwoman, who had a brown helmet of hair and a pug nose but still looked hot to me, what with her big blue eyes and full lips. Then I thought about Ashley sitting beside my brother at the movies, sharing a tub of buttered popcorn. The whole thing made me ill.
    That night I dreamed I was in our swimming pool, surrounded by hundreds of lemons. They knockedagainst my shoulders and chest. I could smell their fragrant yellow skin. Beside the empty lemon tree, my dad stood in a bright blue Hawaiian shirt. A dollar per lemon, he said. So this was how I was going to make money, I thought. And then another thought: Where’s Enrique? I looked at my dad. He shrugged his shoulders, his arms now gone, his empty sleeves blue flags waving at his sides.
    Â 
    I was slow-footed and stoned at the market with a Spoon album on my iPod. The joint was Britt’s, half of it smoked in the parking lot before I wet my fingers and pinched the end.
    I pushed the shopping cart up and down the aisles, my face numb. Everything looked so good. The bananas and the peaches looked good. The garlic-flavored croutons, the jars of green olives, the cans of pinto beans. Even the filleted salmon on ice looked tasty.
    There were eleven items on the grocery list, scrawled in my mom’s neat handwriting: milk, eggs, orange juice, lettuce, Raisin Bran, ground beef, mozzarella cheese, tuna, paper towels, razors (forEnrique), and peanut butter.
    Someone tapped my shoulder and I turned around. It was Mrs. Thompson, dressed in jeans and a large sweatshirt, her hair in a messy ponytail. I pulled the earphones off and let the little speakers buzz on my stomach.
    Hi, I said.
    Hello, Marcus. I just wanted to thank you for coming to the funeral. It meant a lot to Oliver.
    He’d do the same for me, I said, wondering how bloodshot my eyes looked, if she could smell the weed on my clothes.
    Yes, he would.
    How are you doing?
    Not so good, she said, and smiled weakly. Her eyes got wet and I was afraid she’d lose it then, that I’d have to find a way to console her, stoned as I was, surrounded by the brightly colored boxes of cereal. I imagined the store’s intercom crackling overhead: Cleanup on aisle seven. Sobbing widow.
    I’m taking it day by day, she said.
    That’s the only way to take it, I said. I looked down at my shoelaces, then up at her face.
    You’re right. You had to do the same thing with your father.
    It’s better that he’s gone.
    Mrs. Thompson blinked.
    My dad, that is, I said. I didn’t want you to think—
    I knew who you meant, she said.
    I looked down at my laces again.
    Well, she said, I’ll let you get back to your shopping.
    It was nice seeing you, Mrs. Thompson.
    Please, she said. Call me Gloria.
    Okay, I said. Gloria.
    She touched my wrist before rolling her cart down the aisle. I studied her ass, her wide hips, and felt my dick getting