Read Online Little Boy by Anthony Prato - Free Book Online

could have seen me that night. Hey,
Dad! I yelled silently within. Look over here! I’m flying
your plane, and I’m doing so well! I was so happy that I again
almost cried.
     
    Jeff, his sister, and Lynn whisked by me.
Lynn looked over her shoulder toward me, intently, as if I’d
wronged her in some way. I suppose she’d seen me dancing with
Maria. They didn’t even say goodnight. For the moment I’d totally
forgotten about my ride home. My mother was supposed to pick me up
nearby, but I didn’t want to leave.
     
    While standing there I gawked at the dark
nothingness in front of me, even though probably hundreds of my
classmates passed by and said “sup” as the dance let out. I was
swaying one hand out, one across my body, dancing with Maria time
and time again.
     
    This time, however, I was alone and cold
rather than connected and warm. Dreading myself for that emotion,
that awful uncertainty following an evening of faith, I looked
desperately at the clouds above my school. Now I was soaring
through those clouds in an F-15, the jet I would someday fly as a
U. S. Air Force pilot, the epitome of American aircraft. I was
carpet-bombing all the hoods and losers that had the chutzpa to
call themselves my peers. Everyone around me was blasted away for
good. I had the girl, I had the best girl there was to have. She
danced with me . I knew I’d see her again.
     
     

Chapter 4
    My Way
     
    That night, after the dance, I cried. I’d
been holding back tears all night, but once alone in my room, I
couldn’t help it.
     
    I smoked a cigarette to calm myself down, but
I kept on crying. All at once my nerve endings deserted me and I
couldn’t feel a thing except for an intense pain in my forehead and
the smoke wheezing into my lungs. I felt like I’d been hit in the
head with a wrench, my skull compressed on all sides. When I closed
my eyes, I saw lightening and heard thunder. My arms and legs felt
like tired lead, my stomach like a black hole. It was a cold night
outside but I was sweating anyway. I reclined on my bed, pressing
my face into the pillow, which grew damp from the perspiration on
my brow and tears on my face. I turned over onto my back and the
sweat from my brow mixed with the tears slowly streaming from my
eyes, producing a road-slick of saltwater on my cheeks.
     
    I fought with you that night, Mom, remember?
It was about my smoking, which you always suspected and I always
denied. As usual, you randomly brought it up at the worst possible
time— during the car ride home. “Girls don’t like boys who smoke,”
you said. “It’s disgusting.” It was typical of you to ruin a good
night by mentioning something like that. You are good at that. And
you are such a hypocrite, too, because you used to suck down two
packs a day. The result was the same old scene on a different day:
I yelled at you, you yelled back, and then I kicked the dashboard
as we parallel parked in front of the house. You didn’t say a word
after that.
     
    But that’s not what upset me to tears. To be
honest, I’m not sure what exactly made me cry. I remember sprinting
straight up our creaky wooden staircase to my room once I got home.
I didn’t bother to turn the stairwell light on as I ascended,
because I knew the stairs well enough the climb them with no
problem. As usual, I felt like someone was chasing me up the
stairs, like a hunter, so I hopped up two steps at a time, trying
to escape.
     
    As I reached the top step I was already out
of breath, and some tears had started falling from my eyes. I
turned quickly and tried to stare down the stairwell toward the
bottom step; I saw nothing but murky darkness. I was still scared,
though, as if someone had followed me up the staircase, crawling on
his belly, eager to snatch my legs out from under me.
     
    Reaching toward the wall I felt for the light
switch and flicked it on. Suddenly, it was so bright that I was
forced to squint my eyes for a moment, simultaneously releasing
what