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Before I got this apartment, I stayed in a group home for troubled teenagers. There, I shared a room with a girl who chewed her fingers bloody and woke me up at odd hours by screaming in my ear.
“No way. He has a thing. A penis.” He enunciates the word carefully, like he’s not sure I’ve heard it before. I take another bite of my sandwich and mutter through a mouthful of bologna, “That’s not a penis.” He scrunches up his freckled face. “Then what is it?” “A phallic clitoris.”
I’m sitting on the mattress in my bedroom, legs crossed in front of me, eating Cool Whip from a plastic tub with a spoon. A glob falls onto my shirt; I scoop it up with one finger and suck it clean.
I’m female, yes. I like it, he sends. Your name, I mean. It’s better than mine, anyway. I mean, Stanley Finkel. It sounds like a skeevy game show host or something. Also it rhymes with “tinkle.” Which, needless to say, made grade school a blast.
My legs quiver. I twist my shirt and grip one braid, pulling until I feel the tingling pressure in my scalp. When I open my mouth, the words come out all in a rush: “Hi my name is Alvie Fitz can I play with you.”
I’ll send you some alpha brain wave recordings, then. They’re supposed to be for meditation, but I use them when I’m trying to sleep. Sometimes they help. Cool. That’s really nice of you. :) Not really. It won’t take much effort on my part.
Shes funny, one of my favorite characters
I know it’s rude to play with a puzzle while you’re talking to someone, but having something to do with my hands keeps me calm. If I didn’t carry this thing around, I’d probably have taken up smoking by now.
“I said let her go!” Stanley shoves himself between me and the policeman, shielding me with his body. His face is flushed and shiny with perspiration as he holds up his cell phone. “I’ve already dialed 911. All I have to do is hit send.”
I look at him from the corner of my eye. He stood up for me. He took a risk for my sake. Not many people have done that.
“You know,” he says, “I just figured it out.” “What?” “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” I furrow my brow. “Why.” “Neither is made of cheese.” I blink a few times. “Well, now you’re just being silly.” “But I made you smile.” His voice softens. “You’ve got a nice smile, you know.” I touch my lips, surprised. I hadn’t realized I was smiling.
😫😫😫😭😭😭 so cuutteee
“How are the pancakes?” “Very good. Better than Buster’s.” He beams.
His cheeks color. “I bought those books because I wanted to understand you better. That’s all. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. I never did.” I cross my arms, tightly gripping my own elbows.
The plane, I notice, is not as well made as the others. Its wheels are a bit crooked, its paint job clumsy, its brush strokes visible in places. “When did you put this one together.” “With my dad, when I was eight years old. It was the first one we ever built.” Of course. It had to be this one that I broke. My unhappiness must show on my face, because he adds hastily, “It’s okay. Honestly, it is.” He stares into space. “I mean, yeah, this plane is special, but . . . it’s complicated. My dad got this for me as a sort of apology.”
I touch the back of his hand, and he falls silent. For a few minutes, we don’t speak. His eyes shine with unshed tears, and he blinks rapidly, never letting them slip out. He wipes one sleeve across his eyes and smiles again.
A flower is a morbid gift, if you think about it—the severed reproductive organ of a plant, preserved and kept alive through the equivalent of a feeding tube. What sense is there in prolonging its inevitable death?
