Where the Line Bleeds Read Online Free PDF

Bois Sauvage to work was if he was older, and only
if Ma-mee was gone. She'd spent her entire life working for one rich
white household or another to earn money to feed them, dressing them
when they were younger in clothes her employers had given her to take
to the Salvation Army, providing for them the best she could. Now it was
their turn.
    The hum of conversation in the gym was almost deafening, and already
Christophe was growing tired of the rustling of programs, the shrieking
of small children, the loud boasting of men, and the sense of interminable
wait. He hated official shit like this. He just wanted to get his diploma
and hear his name over the loudspeaker, the light patter of applause, and
then get to the cookout, to the rest of the summer, to the rest of his
life. He was ready to be done with school; he was tired of watching his
principal, sweating at the neck, now barking orders at the first five rows,
his teachers, dressed in long, loose dresses replete with maiden collars,
darting around nervously, the secretaries, bored and severe, picking at the
microphone and the fake flowers next to the podium. The gym was cold,
and he felt the sweat dry on him and goose pimples rise on his arms under
his gown as the satin, now cool like water, slid over them. The principal,
Mr. Farbege, leaned into the row and barked, "Remember your cues!" and
Christophe barely resisted the urge to flip him off. Joshua leaned over to
Christophe, the program in his hand.

    "Look at this," he said.
    Joshua thought she might do something like this. The only reason he
was looking at the program was to look at the family advertisements in the
back: he knew that he'd find at least a couple of choice photographs of his
classmates in embarrassing ads that said things like, "You're a star! Follow
your dreams" and "From Maw-maw and Paw-paw. We love you." There,
on the last page, was a small ad, measuring around three by five inches.
In it was a small picture of he and Christophe; it had been taken when
they were five. Cille had asked Aunt Rita to take it, a picture of all three
of them, on the day she left for Atlanta. She was kneeling on the ground
between them with her arms over both of their shoulders: her smile was
wide, and she had sunglasses on, large dark ovals, because as Christophe
remembered it, she had been crying. At her sides, the twins looked like
small, young-faced old men: their T-shirts hung on them, their heads
were cocked to the side, and neither of them was looking toward the
camera. Joshua was looking off into the distance, his fists clutching the
bottom of his shirt as he pulled it away from his small round stomach.
Christophe's eyes were squinted nearly shut, and the set of his mouth
was curved downward and puckered: he looked as if he had just eaten
something bitter, like he looked on the day they snuck the small, bitter
grapes from Papas old grapevine that grew curled on crude posts behind
the house and ate them.
    Under the picture was printed ins mall, bold-facedprint: Congratulations
to Joshua and Christophe. Love, Cille. That was it. Joshua knew as soon as
he saw the small picture, the miniscule line, that she wasn't coming. He
knew that she wasn't already sitting in the audience with Aunt Rita, that
she wasn't just running late, that she wouldn't appear at their cook-out
with the rest of the family, that she wasn't just going to walk casually out
of the kitchen with a pot in her arms to set on the long wax-covered table
beneath the trees while the outdoor fans buzzed in the background and
blew her dress away from her legs. Joshua let Christophe take the paper as
he leaned further back and down in his chair. He purposefully spread his
legs to take up more space so that Christy squeaked as she had to smash
her knees together to make room for him; he hated her lip-gloss and her
prissiness and for a second he felt a strong urge to press his hand across
her face, to smudge