Winger

Well, fuck that.

We hold hands for the entire flight. I point out the window, grinning, and say, “Remember?” I kiss her when we cross the Columbia River, and Annie smiles and says, “You are such a pervert.”

I imagine that there will never be a moment in my life when I am not in love with Annie Altman. Being back on Bainbridge Island is almost like filling my lungs up with the same air again, the air that smells so green and thick with the ocean.

We walk out on the beach in the freezing and damp cold of the evening. Her parents watch us go, standing in the open doorway. But they leave us alone.

“I’m going to be better, Annie.”

“First thing tomorrow, we’re going for a run. Even if it’s raining. You can tear your clothes off if you feel like it, and we’ll jump in the hot tub when we’re done.”

“You’re asking for the Wild Boy to return, you know.”

And Annie laughs and takes off, running down the beach. I chase after her, but she lets me catch her too easily, and we kiss right there as her parents watch us.

I know it’s kind of ridiculous, but I realize now how wrong that old pervert Mr. Wellins is. Almost nothing at all is ever about sex, unless you never grow up, that is.

It’s about love, and, maybe, not having it.

What an old, delusional idiot he is.

But what do I know?

I’m just fourteen.

quiet time

I’LL SAY IT NOW. I didn’t talk for those weeks because I was afraid of the words.

The words came together and said how Joey died: alone and scared.

And he never did anything bad to anyone.

Ever.

But when I was quiet, I could hold on to Annie’s hand, and that was a word that didn’t need to be spoken. And Doc Mom, sitting with her arm around me and listening and crying, that made words too.

The same words that make the horrible things come also tell the quieter things about love.

I found out something about words. There are plenty of words I can put on paper, words I can see with my eyes and scribble with my hand, that I never had the guts to say with my mouth.

Sometimes, I used to think I was brave; but I don’t believe that anymore.

And then it’s always that one word that makes you so different and puts you outside the overlap of everyone else; and that word is so fucking big and loud, it’s the only thing anyone ever hears when your name is spoken.

And whenever that happens to us, all the other words that make us the same disappear in its shadow.

Okay. I got it out.

Time to be quiet.

I can breathe again.

About Andrew Smith

ANDREW SMITH is the author of several award-winning novels for young adults, including The Marbury Lens. He lives in a very remote area in the mountains of Southern California with his family, two horses, two dogs, and three cats. He doesn’t watch television, and occupies himself by writing or bumping into things outdoors and taking ten-mile runs on snowy trails. He maintains a blog and website about his strange writing life at ghostmedicine.blogspot.com.

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Примечания

1

Okay. If you haven’t read A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, you should. Because it is fucking hilarious, and there’s no way you’d understand “Hello, Central” unless you read the book.