The Alex Crow Read Online Free PDF Page B

tip of her index finger to my name tag. It made me flinch, and wonder, as all boys do at times like these, why did I always have to go first?
    My name tag said this:
    HELLO! MY NAME IS: Ariel Burgess
    I COME FROM: Jupiter
    Mrs. Nussbaum said, “
Ariel
. That’s a lovely name. Would you care to tell us all something about yourself, Ariel?”
    I looked directly at her and shook my head.
    And since Mrs. Nussbaum brought it up, let me add something about my unwillingness to talk.
    It wasn’t that I felt embarrassed speaking English. I was confident in my ability with the language. The truth is this: I did not speak because I was unhappy and I was afraid. I was sorry for where I came from, and for what happened to so many of my friends and family members. I was sad to be an orphan—worse, a sole survivor—even if the Burgesses did graciously make me their awkward second son, Max’s non-twinned twin. And it made me feel terrible how much Max hated me, too.
    I didn’t talk because I wouldn’t tell anyone about what happened to me with the orphans in the tent city. But most of all was the feeling that I didn’t belong here, as much as everyone had seemed so intent (and self-satisfied) with the notion of “saving” Ariel; and that I would never come to understand all of the nonsense that America presented to me.
    That’s why the boy from the refrigerator didn’t say much.
    So when Mrs. Nussbaum asked me if I would care to talk about myself, what would she expect me to say? I would love to
care
about talking about myself, but I did not.
    So I said this, as politely as I could:
    â€œNo thank you.”
    Mrs. Nussbaum looked injured.
    It was a silly thing. Why would anyone ask a question to someone who has free will and then be surprised—or disappointed—by their answer? This made no sense. She asked, I answered, and then there came an awkward, silent, staring period that lasted for several minutes before Max contributed an opinion.
    â€œAllow me to break the ice,” he said. “Ariel just doesn’t like to talk.”
    Besides, Mrs. Nussbaum mispronounced my name—she called me
Air-
iel—which is how most Americans said it. Max corrected her, saying
Ah-
riel.
    It almost felt as though he were sticking up for me—something brothers should do, right?—but then Max added, “He’s stupid, besides.”
    So Mrs. Nussbaum asked Max to talk about his anger, and again seemed surprised by Max’s response that he A) remembered Mrs. Nussbaum from when this was a fat camp, and he had never been fat in his life; and B) couldn’t give a shit about Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys.
    Apparently, Max still held on to his celery grudge from two years earlier.
    â€œThis used to be a
fat camp
?” Cobie said.
    Max said, “It still
is
a fat camp. They switch it every six weeks between fat camp and the eighteenth century. When I was thirteen, my parents got me in during a fat camp cycle. It was the shittiest summer of my life. Even worse than now.”
    Mrs. Nussbaum smiled broadly. “But of course I remember you now, Max!”
    And then Cobie Petersen asked Mrs. Nussbaum, “How does it feel having the only vagina here in this entire camp?”
    Mrs. Nussbaum reddened.
    She stuttered, “I . . . I . . .”
    When she regained her composure, Mrs. Nussbaum reminded the boys of Jupiter that this session was
not
about her, but if we felt like we wanted to talk about vaginas, she thought that it could be a healthy thing for boys our age.
    I glanced over at Larry when Mrs. Nussbaum mentioned a possible vagina-talk. He looked sick.
    Then Mrs. Nussbaum patted Robin Sexton on the knee and said, “Robin? I have a cousin named Robin. His parents named him after the little boy in
Winnie-the-Pooh
. How about you? Perhaps you’d like to begin by telling us how you feel about being here, or maybe you could say something