Read Online Before I Go by Colleen Oakley - Free Book Online Page A

if she learned as a chubby kid on the playground that survival skill of getting to the punch line before anyone else could. Typically her self-deprecation makes me cringe. I never know what to say—should I laugh along with her? Placate her with denial? I often just change the subject to smooth over any awkwardness I might feel.
    Tonight I just return her smile. “Then I broke the two cardinal rules of grocery shopping.”
    She hooks her thumb in the waistband of her pants and tugs back and forth, adjusting the fit. It’s a movement her hand makes unconsciously and often, much like my hair petting. “I’ll help you carry them in,” she says, her sausage fingers already reaching to scoop up a load of bags, like the claw in that arcade game grasping for stuffed dolls. “So you know how I was hearing that scratching noise in my walls at night?”
    I grab a few bag handles and lead her up the back steps of my house while she launches into a story about flying squirrels. At least I think that’s what she said. I’m only half paying attention. I set my haul down at the top of the landing and fish for my keys in my shoulder sack. I hear Benny whining and scratching at the other side of thedoor, and guiltily realize he hasn’t been out since I left for school that morning.
    As I open the door, a ball of fur shoots past us and down the steps.
    Sammy takes a break from her narrative to comment: “Little guy’s quick on those three legs,” then she picks back up with her tale. A high-pitched shrieking assaults us from the direction of the living room. I put the groceries on the counter and reach into my bag for a few of the carrots that I had packed that morning but not eaten. I walk into the living room and slip them through the bars of Gertie’s cage. I know that I’ve been rude, leaving right in the middle of Sammy’s story, but there’s a disconnect in that knowledge and the emotion that’s supposed to accompany it. “Here you go, girl,” I coo quietly. “I bought you some cucumbers, too. Your favorite.” She twitches her ears in appreciation and begins munching on a carrot. With her squealing silenced by food, the house is quiet and I wonder for a moment how long I can stand exactly where I am, not making a sound. Maybe Sammy will just leave. Maybe she already has.
    But when I return to the kitchen, Sammy’s coming back in the door with another load of groceries, Benny at her heels. She seems unperturbed by my bad manners and continues with her story, presumably where she left off. It takes us two more trips to get all the groceries in from the car, and the bags cover nearly every inch of floor and counter space.
    “And then the exterminator is telling me—get this—that they don’t really fly. Not like bats or whatever. They don’t have wings or anything. They glide. They should be called gliding squirrels, he says. And I said I don’t care what you call them, I just don’t want them in my house, you know?” Her deep belly laugh causes the corners of my mouth to turn up perfunctorily. I’m like Pavlov’s dog. Someone laughs, I smile in return.
    But Sammy’s not looking at my response. She’s already started tounload purchases, opening cabinets, the pantry, the fridge, placing things at random according to where she thinks they should go. When she places a Styrofoam package of chicken on the third shelf of the fridge, I open my mouth to tell her that meat goes in the drawer above the vegetable crisper. Then I close it. I don’t have the energy.
    I pick up a box of Cheez-Its from a bag on the counter. The unnaturally orange crackers pictured on the red cardboard beckon me. I used to love Cheez-Its. I slip my finger under the tab on the box top and peel open the plastic bag inside. I stand in the middle of my kitchen eating one cracker after another, while Sammy works around me.
    “I don’t know how you eat all this stuff and stay so skinny,” she says. I look up to see her holding a package of