The Half Life of Molly Pierce Read Online Free PDF Page A

Just like that.
    And I don’t want him to go but I can’t ask him to stay. I don’t even know him.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
FOUR.
    A fter school I drop Hazel and Clancy off at the bookstore and head over to Alex’s office. It’s in the middle of town and I have to drive down Prescott Street again and every time I look in the rearview mirror I see Lyle’s bike speeding toward me, weaving in and out of traffic. The truck hitting his back tire. His body flying over the roof of my car. His body hitting the pavement. His body breaking and bleeding.
    The man with the two o’clock appointment is older and he always comes out at five of three exactly, crying and red-faced and avoiding all eye contact. That’s fine by me. I can avoid eye contact with the best of them.
    Sometimes I wonder what Alex does in those five minutes between this man’s appointment and my appointment, but it’s probably something uninteresting. He probably arranges his notes. Sharpens the pencils that are on his desk. Makes sure his books are still alphabetized.
    I like Alex, really. He’s in his late thirties, maybe, and he’s attractive and he’s only rarely prying. Usually he lets me do the talking, and if I don’t feel like talking sometimes we play cards or I let him read a short story I’m working on. He asks me if I want to be a writer, but I’ve never really thought much about it. I like books, of course; I was practically raised on them. The bookstore is older than I am. There’s a room in the back where my parents kept a crib.
    “Hello, Molly.”
    “Hey, Alex.”
    I’m ushered into his tiny office, all bookshelves and hardcover copies of weird psychology encyclopedias. He’s pulled the shades half shut for me; too much light bothers my eyes.
    “And how are we this week?” he says.
    I collapse in the armchair gratefully, letting my body sink into the cushions.
    “I saw somebody die,” I say. No use beating around the bush.
    He’s reaching for his reading glasses. His hand pauses and his eyes dart to my face, checking if I’m lying. He doesn’t put it past me. Sometimes I say things just for his reaction and then I laugh like a maniac while he shakes his head and explains to me that all jokes stem from some sort of real feeling and would I like to maybe talk about that in more depth?
    “You’re serious?”
    “Prescott and Jacobson,” I say. “Motorcycle accident.”
    “That was . . . I saw that on the news this morning,” he says. He hasn’t picked up his notebook yet. I told him once I hate when he writes while I talk. It’s distracting.
    “He flew over my car,” I say. “He landed on the pavement in front of me. I had to slam on my brakes. I could have run over him. I mean—I almost did. I almost ran over him.”
    “Molly, that’s awful. I’m so sorry you had to see that,” he says. He’s sincere. But there’s something else. I don’t know what it is. It’s like he’s searching my face for someone else.
    “It wasn’t my fault. The truck behind me hit him. The truck behind me hit his tire.”
    “Of course,” Alex says. “It was an accident. It wasn’t your fault.”
    “There’s more,” I say, and I wait for him to gesture: continue. “I got out of the car. I wanted to see if he was okay.”
    “And?”
    “I took off his helmet. And . . . there was blood everywhere. There was a lot of blood.”
    Suddenly it’s hard to talk about. Suddenly I can only see Lyle’s face and Lyle’s eyes looking into mine. He looked so sad, but he looked so happy to have reached me.
    “Take your time,” Alex says.
    I take a deep breath. “Something weird happened.”
    “What was that?”
    “He . . .” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Usually I don’t tell him things like this. He always tells me to be honest with him and my parents always tell me to be honest with him but I always leave