The Flying Troutmans Read Online Free PDF Page B

and partly because of her habit of knocking herself in the head in a vain attempt to dislodge the fragment of scalpel stuck inside. I’m on thin ice in the social hierarchy department, she told me. I’m not exactly a popular girl.
    Hey, but, I said, where do you think it would go?
    Where what would go? she said.
    The scalpel, I said, like if you did manage to dislodge it. I mean, it would still be stuck in your head, right?
    Yeah, she said, but not in my brain. It would be somewhere between my brain and my skull, in that nook, and then it would be a simple laser procedure or something like that to remove it.
    Where’s Logan? I asked her. She didn’t know. He’d left already. Oh, okay, I said. Does he often come home drunk?
    No, said Thebes. That was an aberration. Then she started talking about her commemorative-plate project. She had to glue things onto a paper plate, things that had sort of defined her world in the last year. Her teacherhad told her that she couldn’t glue on pictures of the World Trade Center towers.
    Why can’t you? I asked her.
    Because, said Thebes, that didn’t involve me personally.
    Well, I said, but in a broader sense, yeah, it did…
    Other kids, said Thebes, have Stomp ticket stubs and birthday cake candles and photo-booth pictures, things like that, and now I have to start all over again.
    Hey, I said, why don’t you put some of your lyrics on the plate. That would be cool.
    On my plate? said Thebes. Which will be pinned up in public along the blackboard with all the others? Are you insane? Like that wouldn’t totally clinch my status as top dork of the universe. Are you going to stay in bed all day? She frowned.
    No, I said. Definitely not. We have to get ready.
    She came over and put her hands on my legs and her face close to mine. I’ll flip you later, she told me. You’ll love it.
    Hey, I said, really, your lyrics are beautiful, you know.
    No, they’re embarrassing, she said.
    Why? I asked her. I told her that I wrote sometimes. Poems or short stories, I said, whatever, if I’m feeling…you know…
    Thebes looked at me like I’d just admitted to occasionally starting grease fires at old folks homes or something, just every once in a while, just to make sense of my world. Hmmm, yeah, she said. Well, what are they about? she asked. Wait! Let me guess! Sex and death?
    And love, I told her.
    Sick, she said. She told me that tonight she had to start working on her “Helping the United Nations Rid the World of Racial Discrimination” speech and read an entire book for the read-a-thon to raise funds for the children of some Vietnamese province.
    Holy shit, I said, and lay down again. Can I just give you twenty bucks? Like, who would know if you’d read the book or not?
    She said no, that would be cheating.
    Â 
    I’ll be home at 3:45 precisely, she said. Shalom. She waved from the hall and left. I stared at the ceiling. She returned.
    Hey! she said.
    Yeah?
    Did you know that I’ve been banned from Zellers for two years for having a perfume testers war with my friends?
    No, I said, that’s funny.
    That I have friends? said Thebes.
    No! I said.
    Just kidding, she said. I had a mug shot taken, she told me. They had those measuring lines and everything. That’s why my hair is purple now. I dyed it after they took my photo so I can still cut through Zellers undercover on my way to school.
    Okay, I said. See ya later.
    Not if I see you first, said Thebes. Psych. She left. She came back again.
    Thebes, I said, you’re killing me. She asked me if I was going to see Min today.
    Yeah, I said.
    Tell her I love her, said Thebes. Hug her and kiss her for me. But gently.
    I will, I said.
    Remind her of the singing orange on the patio at Hermosa Beach, said Thebes.
    Okay, I will, I said.
    I had this singing orange, said Thebes, you know? And it killed Min. I had like this face on it—oh craps! Thebes had just