I mean, what if I was some sort of maniac, and just not telling myself what I planned to do until I did it?
Because that gun totally freaked me out—I mean I really felt threatened by it—but I didn’t know why.
I had to leave now. I had to get out.
I ran lightly out of the room into the hall, just as I heard the maid let Dobey out into the kitchen, barking happily and smacking that chain around.
Along the wall I saw a number of doors.
I ran silently down the hall through the sunlight coming in from the skylight on the ceiling—very beautiful light.
I came to the last door.
I gently opened it and looked inside.
Laura’s room.
Chapter
Fourteen
I closed the door until it was almost shut.
I stood there right in front of it.
I wanted to go in.
But I didn’t go in.
I’d been thinking I was going to leave.
But suddenly, I was at her door.
I just stood there like an idiot.
If I went in, it was like I was telling myself I had some sort of crazy right to, unless all I really wanted was to just, like, violate her privacy.
I really wondered if I had any right to go in.
I thought I didn’t, but maybe I was wrong.
I didn’t know what to do, so for a minute I just stood there, kind of peeking through the crack but not seeing much, and sort of thinking about whether I had any real right to go in, and thinking that maybe, if I believed I’d really loved her, I sort of had permission, in a way, to go in—I mean, if I really loved her.
But how could I be sure I really loved her?
Maybe I just thought I still loved her, but was hiding from myself what I actually felt.
Because I will admit I was pretty mad at her.
So I just stood there and kind of racked my brains, thinking about her, wondering what I really knew about her, so I could determine, you know, whether I had any real right to go in there, and what I, you know, even really felt about her.
But it was really hard to know.
Because I never asked her about herself.
Not really.
I guess I was afraid.
And she never told me about herself.
Not really.
I guess she was afraid.
I mean, the truth is, we only had one important conversation the whole time we went out.
And I don’t mean the time when she said she loved my house, because we didn’t actually talk then—she just got mad at me.
I mean another time.
This one other time.
I shouldn’t say we had only one important conversation. That’s not really what I mean. We talked a lot and discussed our feelings, even for each other, and sometimes it was even quite personal and sort of intimate.
We talked all the time, actually—I mean usually about dumb stuff like music and movies and food or whatever, and sometimes about deeper stuff—but only once did I have a really, really important conversation with her, where I guess she tried to sort of reveal to me who she really was.
I used to think that this was sort of sad or lame or proved we didn’t really belong together, because it only happened one time.
But when I think about it, most times I talk with people, nothing important gets discussed.
I mean, most people never talk about what they really feel, and, honestly, they spend most of their time hoping they’ll never have to. I learned that from my parents.
Actually, to tell the truth, me and Laura never really even had any intention of talking at all.
I mean, it wasn’t like we decided to just open up to each other and say a bunch of super heavy stuff.
All that happened was, I sort of asked her about a book I’d lent her—well, actually that my mom had lent her—because she’d had it for a while already, like almost a month. She had talked to me about it and said she loved it so much that she’d read it three times. So I figured it was about time she gave it back to me, because my mom had asked about it and was getting impatient.
But it wasn’t really the book that was important.
I mean, we started to talk because of the book, but talking about the book kind of got me to tell Laura about this crazy stunt I pulled one day, which is what I actually want to tell you about, but sort of can’t until I tell you about the book.
But the truth is, I hardly even feel like telling you about the book.
First of all, I always found it depressing, and second of all, I never read it.
That’s true—I never did.
I will admit my mom told me all about the book. And I read the back cover. I read the back cover about a thousand times, and it described all about how the girl who wrote the book died, and that just sort of made the whole theme of the book a bit too much for me to want to deal with, even though usually I’m a pretty good reader and have read scads of things.
Anyway, I’ve kind of made a decision here, and I hope it doesn’t, like, irritate you.
I’m not going to tell you the name of the book.
You see, I think it has a sort of bad influence on people.
The book, I mean.
I’m not saying it shouldn’t be in libraries and I’m not saying it shouldn’t be read, but what I think—and this is just an impression I get, because you remember I haven’t actually read the damn thing—I think it sort of glamorizes unhappiness. I mean, it really glamorizes it.
I actually want to tell you the title of the book, and all about the girl who wrote it and what happened to her, but if I do, I know you’ll probably just rush right out to read it
