The Egg Code Read Online Free PDF Page A

squeaked against the floor, producing two swishy streaks like the logo for a corporation of some kind. Sinking to a crouch, she wrapped her arms around her legs. This whole I’m-taller-than-you thing has got to go, he thought. “You just have to be brave. Everything is going to be all right.”
    The health clinic was a poorly lit room located between the girls’ lavatory and a loading dock. The room smelled vaguely of Band-Aids. A glum boy sat on one of the beds, his arms folded in his lap and his saddle shoes swinging high above a nylon backpack. Lydia Tree watched the boy from across the room. Following the nurse into the clinic, Simon could hear the end of a muttered conversation between his mother and the unhappy patient.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Don’t feel good.”
    “Your mommy’s coming to get you?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Can’t you wait until the end of the day?”
    “Got sick twice.”
    “Oh, why don’t you just grow up.”
    Lydia Tree was a tall woman, thirty-nine years old. She didn’t feel particularly old—didn’t look it, either, and watch your mouth. Oh, there were a few concessions she’d had to make as of late. The dresses had gotten longer over time, the shoes less daring, the undergarments more functional. But overall, she liked what she saw. Years ago, she’d always worn her hair long. A versatile look. She could keep it straight for around the house or curl it for a formal occasion, not that Steve ever took her anyplace fancy. This phase lasted for many years, until one day she decided to try something daring.
Bernard, I feel naughty today, take
off eight inches.
Problem was, when it finally grew back, she found that it looked different. Not bad, just different. Bernard suggested a perm, maybe some copper highlights. Lydia thought it made her look like a giant cauliflower, but her friends didn’t seem to mind, and as the months passed, she began to notice similar vegetables clinging to the heads of her contemporaries. And that’s when it hit her: This is what women my age are
supposed
to look like. This is thirty-nine! Even her mother, at age seventy-two—whenever the fuck she died—even Kay Tree, who was not a beautiful woman, had always managed to stand out at Republican Party mixers. And the worst thing about it, Lydia realized, was that she’d done it to herself. A kind of death, this was. Death by hair. This growing-older business would have to be watched
very carefully
.
    “Oh, my baby.” Seeing her son enter the room, Lydia jumped up from her seat and took hold of his hands. The cigarette hidden in her palm was damp with sweat, bent out of shape.
    “Ms. Tree, would you like me to inform the principal?”
    “No, that’s not necessary. Not until we know all of the details. It still may turn out to be nothing. Oh, God, I hope it’s so.”
    Simon looked over his shoulder and smirked at the sick boy. He knew that his secret was safe with Antonio Fava. Antonio’s own tactics for getting out of class were revolting and crude. Oatmeal in the toilets—a striking resemblance! The acrid smell of fresh vomit meant freedom, a day away from the books, the scritch of the chalkboard, the female instructors who seemed like a cross between his mother, a television news anchor and a phantom in a mystifying dream. With all this hanging over his head, Antonio would never reveal Simon’s little ruse.
    “Mother, where are we going?”
    “Simon, your father’s not feeling well. He’s resting now, in a place where people will be able to take very good care of him. He wanted me to send for you. He said he wanted to see you before . . . oh, before . . .”
    Nurse Wheatt handed her a Kleenex, which Lydia used to dispose of her gum.
    “Ms. Tree, you must be strong for your son.”
    “You’ve been so good to us, Nurse Wheatt. My husband and I will remember you at Christmastime.”
    Lydia and Simon said their goodbyes, then marched out into the hallway. Simon walked in front while his