Read Online A Few Seconds of Radiant Filmstrip by Kevin Brockmeier - Free Book Online
Authors: Kevin Brockmeier
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his personality, with its own little interior ribbon-cutting ceremony. He has to carry it around with him, whatever it might be, or how will anyone know who he is?
In Bible the next day, before the bell rings, he shows the book to Ethan Carpenter. “This,” he says, “is the single best thing I’ve ever read. I’m talking,
in my life
.”
“Sweet. Can I borrow it?”
“What? No.”
Mr. Garland has stepped across the hall to talk to Mr. Shoaf, and Leigh Cushman—a guy with a girl’s name—is pacing at the chalkboard, smacking his palm with the back of his handlike a substitute. “You kids’re in big trouble. Take your seats. Stop talking right now, or you’re all going to D-Hall. I mean it! This instant! That’s it, every one of you’s going to D-Hall. I’m giving you all checks. One check. Two checks. Corn Chex. Wheat Chex,” and maybe in the end it was just a reflex, Kevin thinks, but if he had to guess, he would say that the reason he doesn’t want to loan the book out, to Ethan or anyone else, is because of the part of his personality that is one gigantic record-keeping system, a complex sifting and filing scheme that dictates what goes here and what goes there, turning his life into so many marks on a tablet. His mind would busy itself with the book’s whereabouts every second it was away. He knows it would.
“Okay, yes, you can borrow it, but Ethan? Look. You have to be careful.”
“Dude …” Ethan says, meaning,
You’ve seen my comic books, haven’t you?
His collection is as big as Kevin’s—bigger even. He keeps it in a row of long white boxes he tends like a garden, gently maneuvering each issue into a clear Mylar bag with an acid-free board, then taping it shut, vertically not horizontally, so that the tape doesn’t fray or separate, and arranging it with the others in alphabetical and numerical order. Side by side his comic boxes have the quality of giant Japanese fans, their slats closed
chock-chock-chock
. Kevin wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Ethan dusts them.
He surrenders the book across the aisle as Mr. McCallum begins the morning announcements. Just like that it vanishes into Ethan’s backpack, throwing a few scattered dots of color through the mesh of the front pocket.
For the rest of the day, Kevin feels the way he did that time he locked himself out of the house and saw his house keyresting on the kitchen counter. The book is behind a window. The book is his, but he cannot touch it. Part of him would rather bike back to Kroger and buy another copy than wait for Ethan to return it. He is
Like That
, always
Like That
. He is no good at hiding it. A few Saturdays ago, sitting by the fountain at the JCPenney end of the shopping mall, he realized he was missing the bag with his butter mints and his pop-its and his
Song Hits Magazine
, and Kenneth said, “Kevin. Stop it. Good Lord. Look,” gesturing to the ledge where he had set the bag while he was tying his shoes. “You’re about to cry, aren’t you? Why are you
like that
all the time?”
In SRA, Mrs. Bissard—Mrs. Bizarre, everyone calls her: it is irresistible—gives them a reading comprehension test, and as soon as Kevin has finished, he begins working on a detective story, the kind he has been writing ever since the first grade, hypothesizing that someone he knows, usually a kid from his class, has vanished, and he has been appointed to solve the crime. The Case of the Missing Sarah Watts. The Case of the Missing Craig Bateman. Or this time, for a change, a teacher: The Case of the Missing Miss Vincent.
He plunges into the mystery with, “The authorities were baffled,” then sketches the facts of the case—how two days before, in fifth period, Miss Vincent had discovered Clint Fulkerson snoring at his desk and, when she couldn’t wake him, left to fetch the principal.
“Aaaaaahhh! It was a scream, and, no doubt about it, it was Miss Vincent. The scream brought the whole school running. Clint had
In Bible the next day, before the bell rings, he shows the book to Ethan Carpenter. “This,” he says, “is the single best thing I’ve ever read. I’m talking,
in my life
.”
“Sweet. Can I borrow it?”
“What? No.”
Mr. Garland has stepped across the hall to talk to Mr. Shoaf, and Leigh Cushman—a guy with a girl’s name—is pacing at the chalkboard, smacking his palm with the back of his handlike a substitute. “You kids’re in big trouble. Take your seats. Stop talking right now, or you’re all going to D-Hall. I mean it! This instant! That’s it, every one of you’s going to D-Hall. I’m giving you all checks. One check. Two checks. Corn Chex. Wheat Chex,” and maybe in the end it was just a reflex, Kevin thinks, but if he had to guess, he would say that the reason he doesn’t want to loan the book out, to Ethan or anyone else, is because of the part of his personality that is one gigantic record-keeping system, a complex sifting and filing scheme that dictates what goes here and what goes there, turning his life into so many marks on a tablet. His mind would busy itself with the book’s whereabouts every second it was away. He knows it would.
“Okay, yes, you can borrow it, but Ethan? Look. You have to be careful.”
“Dude …” Ethan says, meaning,
You’ve seen my comic books, haven’t you?
His collection is as big as Kevin’s—bigger even. He keeps it in a row of long white boxes he tends like a garden, gently maneuvering each issue into a clear Mylar bag with an acid-free board, then taping it shut, vertically not horizontally, so that the tape doesn’t fray or separate, and arranging it with the others in alphabetical and numerical order. Side by side his comic boxes have the quality of giant Japanese fans, their slats closed
chock-chock-chock
. Kevin wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Ethan dusts them.
He surrenders the book across the aisle as Mr. McCallum begins the morning announcements. Just like that it vanishes into Ethan’s backpack, throwing a few scattered dots of color through the mesh of the front pocket.
For the rest of the day, Kevin feels the way he did that time he locked himself out of the house and saw his house keyresting on the kitchen counter. The book is behind a window. The book is his, but he cannot touch it. Part of him would rather bike back to Kroger and buy another copy than wait for Ethan to return it. He is
Like That
, always
Like That
. He is no good at hiding it. A few Saturdays ago, sitting by the fountain at the JCPenney end of the shopping mall, he realized he was missing the bag with his butter mints and his pop-its and his
Song Hits Magazine
, and Kenneth said, “Kevin. Stop it. Good Lord. Look,” gesturing to the ledge where he had set the bag while he was tying his shoes. “You’re about to cry, aren’t you? Why are you
like that
all the time?”
In SRA, Mrs. Bissard—Mrs. Bizarre, everyone calls her: it is irresistible—gives them a reading comprehension test, and as soon as Kevin has finished, he begins working on a detective story, the kind he has been writing ever since the first grade, hypothesizing that someone he knows, usually a kid from his class, has vanished, and he has been appointed to solve the crime. The Case of the Missing Sarah Watts. The Case of the Missing Craig Bateman. Or this time, for a change, a teacher: The Case of the Missing Miss Vincent.
He plunges into the mystery with, “The authorities were baffled,” then sketches the facts of the case—how two days before, in fifth period, Miss Vincent had discovered Clint Fulkerson snoring at his desk and, when she couldn’t wake him, left to fetch the principal.
“Aaaaaahhh! It was a scream, and, no doubt about it, it was Miss Vincent. The scream brought the whole school running. Clint had
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