Read Online Everyday Hero by Kathleen Cherry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathleen Cherry
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space—Starbucks. There’ll be,
like, lots of people. Now will you go to your mom’s, please ?”
“The house belongs to my grandparents, not my mother. Or it did,” I said, remembering
that it had been sold.
That is what my dad said.
Unless he lied.
“Well, go there. I’ll phone later. Happy?”
I was not happy, because a) I have a hard time identifying feelings, so it’s hard
for me to know when I’m happy or when I am unhappy, and b) because I felt confused,
which makes me want to bang my head. This is the opposite of happy.
“No,” I said.
“Just go. I don’t want to take you to meet my friend. It would look lame.”
Lame means unable to walk properly , but it also means poor, weak and unsatisfactory .
This is called slang. I believe Megan meant the latter definition.
“Friends need to give each other space,” Megan added.
I stepped back.
“I didn’t mean—” Megan began, then shrugged. “C’mon, let’s go outside and get you
a cab.” She swung her backpack onto her back. Her heels made a clip-clopping sound
as we crossed the floor.
Outside, there were colors, noises and smells. So many. Buildings, cars, streetlights,
the SkyTrain, people, the McDonald’s yellow arches, the Science World dome, a horn,
a motorcycle’s revving engine, exhaust fumes…
Too much.
I heard the pant of my breath.
It’s not that I see more but that I notice more. I noticed not only the street but
also the signs, the cars, the buses, the trees, the streetlights, the traffic lights,
the telephone poles, the overhead wires, the three crows perched on the telephone
pole. I noticed not only the bus shelter but also the toothpaste ad on its wall and
the graffiti scrawled across the seven white teeth in the toothpaste ad.
And the graffiti was rude—which is against the rules and made me want to rock and
bang my head.
“Look down. Count the beads,” Megan said.
I rubbed my fingers along their smooth polished surfaces until we stopped at a curb.
“What’s your grandparents’ address?” Megan asked.
“5900 Angus Drive.”
A cab was waiting, and its driver got out. He was a stranger. He wore white sneakers.
I said nothing.
“Take her to 5900 Angus Drive,” Megan said to him.
I rubbed the warm beads.
“Well, get in,” the man said.
My heart beat really fast, and my throat felt tight. Sweat dampened my palms. I felt
Megan’s hand on my back.
I do not like to be touched. I moved away, sliding into the backseat. The door slammed.
The car started. Something went tick…tick…tick…
The turn signal.
The vinyl felt sticky and sweaty under my bum. I don’t like sweat.
And the air smelled musty.
The taxi swung out onto the road, and I looked down at my hands. I spread them against
my thighs, pressing my fingers into the denim, watching how the cloth dimpled.
“Just down for a visit, eh?” the man asked.
I wanted to bang my head but knew I mustn’t, because that freaks people out and then
they look at me and touch me and hold me.
I tried to count.
I couldn’t. Everything moved too fast…much too fast…buildings, balconies, windows,
street signs, yield signs, no parking signs, stop signs, cars, buses, taxies, motorcycles,
bicycles, delivery vans, trees, power poles, parking meters, streetlights, traffic
lights, telephone poles, pedestrians…
Megan.
Megan stood at the crosswalk, her backpack slung over her shoulders.
That’s when I broke the rules.
Eleven
I got out of the cab. It was not a want or even a need. It was a compulsion.
A compulsion is defined as an irresistible urge to behave in a certain way, especially
against one’s conscious wishes.
Without thoughts or words, I reached forward, grabbed the door handle and pulled.
The door opened, wrenching the handle out of my hand. A blast of cold air struck
me, pushing me back against the seat.
The driver swore. He swerved toward the curb, jerking to a stop. I tumbled out, falling
onto the concrete and scraping my hands. From
like, lots of people. Now will you go to your mom’s, please ?”
“The house belongs to my grandparents, not my mother. Or it did,” I said, remembering
that it had been sold.
That is what my dad said.
Unless he lied.
“Well, go there. I’ll phone later. Happy?”
I was not happy, because a) I have a hard time identifying feelings, so it’s hard
for me to know when I’m happy or when I am unhappy, and b) because I felt confused,
which makes me want to bang my head. This is the opposite of happy.
“No,” I said.
“Just go. I don’t want to take you to meet my friend. It would look lame.”
Lame means unable to walk properly , but it also means poor, weak and unsatisfactory .
This is called slang. I believe Megan meant the latter definition.
“Friends need to give each other space,” Megan added.
I stepped back.
“I didn’t mean—” Megan began, then shrugged. “C’mon, let’s go outside and get you
a cab.” She swung her backpack onto her back. Her heels made a clip-clopping sound
as we crossed the floor.
Outside, there were colors, noises and smells. So many. Buildings, cars, streetlights,
the SkyTrain, people, the McDonald’s yellow arches, the Science World dome, a horn,
a motorcycle’s revving engine, exhaust fumes…
Too much.
I heard the pant of my breath.
It’s not that I see more but that I notice more. I noticed not only the street but
also the signs, the cars, the buses, the trees, the streetlights, the traffic lights,
the telephone poles, the overhead wires, the three crows perched on the telephone
pole. I noticed not only the bus shelter but also the toothpaste ad on its wall and
the graffiti scrawled across the seven white teeth in the toothpaste ad.
And the graffiti was rude—which is against the rules and made me want to rock and
bang my head.
“Look down. Count the beads,” Megan said.
I rubbed my fingers along their smooth polished surfaces until we stopped at a curb.
“What’s your grandparents’ address?” Megan asked.
“5900 Angus Drive.”
A cab was waiting, and its driver got out. He was a stranger. He wore white sneakers.
I said nothing.
“Take her to 5900 Angus Drive,” Megan said to him.
I rubbed the warm beads.
“Well, get in,” the man said.
My heart beat really fast, and my throat felt tight. Sweat dampened my palms. I felt
Megan’s hand on my back.
I do not like to be touched. I moved away, sliding into the backseat. The door slammed.
The car started. Something went tick…tick…tick…
The turn signal.
The vinyl felt sticky and sweaty under my bum. I don’t like sweat.
And the air smelled musty.
The taxi swung out onto the road, and I looked down at my hands. I spread them against
my thighs, pressing my fingers into the denim, watching how the cloth dimpled.
“Just down for a visit, eh?” the man asked.
I wanted to bang my head but knew I mustn’t, because that freaks people out and then
they look at me and touch me and hold me.
I tried to count.
I couldn’t. Everything moved too fast…much too fast…buildings, balconies, windows,
street signs, yield signs, no parking signs, stop signs, cars, buses, taxies, motorcycles,
bicycles, delivery vans, trees, power poles, parking meters, streetlights, traffic
lights, telephone poles, pedestrians…
Megan.
Megan stood at the crosswalk, her backpack slung over her shoulders.
That’s when I broke the rules.
Eleven
I got out of the cab. It was not a want or even a need. It was a compulsion.
A compulsion is defined as an irresistible urge to behave in a certain way, especially
against one’s conscious wishes.
Without thoughts or words, I reached forward, grabbed the door handle and pulled.
The door opened, wrenching the handle out of my hand. A blast of cold air struck
me, pushing me back against the seat.
The driver swore. He swerved toward the curb, jerking to a stop. I tumbled out, falling
onto the concrete and scraping my hands. From
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