Read Online Finding the Worm by Mark Goldblatt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Goldblatt
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sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I hope that makes me a good citizen.
As usual, I slid the paper under the door of Principal Salvatore’s office as soon as I got to school, and as usual, Miss Medina handed it back to me an hour later. Principal Salvatore had written on the back:
I’m sorry, try again.
January 14, 1970
For the Quakers’ Sake
I couldn’t stop thinking about Quentin’s sneakers. It kept nagging at me, the picture of them dangling on that branch, swaying in the breeze, waiting to be noticed. On the one hand, it was a decent tribute to Quentin, but on the other hand, it was also disrespectful to the Quakers. It was both. But the more I thought about it, the more the disrespectful part outweighed the tribute part.
Last night, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I decided to climb the tree and take them down. I felt pretty skunky about it, knowing how much thought Lonnie had put into the thing, and how much trouble he’d gone through to get them up there. It was like a work of art, in a way. Itwas something he had accomplished, and I hated to ruin it. But I figured he’d made his point. He’d shown it off to the rest of the guys on the block, and he’d even taken a Polaroid and brought it to the hospital to show Quentin. There was no need to keep it going.
So I waited until after dinner and told my mom I was headed over to Shlomo’s house to trade baseball cards, but instead I headed up to the Bowne House. Lying to my mom made me feel even skunkier than I already did, but I couldn’t very well tell her the truth.
The Bowne House might not be much to look at during the day, but after dark it’s downright creepy. What I mean is it’s got a cemetery feeling even though no one’s actually buried there. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I believe in any of that haunted house stuff. Besides, from what I’ve heard about Quakers, they’d be the most polite ghosts ever—they’d hover around, saying prayers, eating oatmeal, telling you to have a nice day.
I guess what creeps me out about the place is just the fact that it’s so old, the fact that real people were walking in and out the doors, living their Quaker lives, worrying about their Quaker stuff, not having the slightest clue that a kid named Julian Twerski would someday climb that old tree in the backyard and take down a pair of worn-out sneakers. They likely didn’t even know what sneakers were! But I was doing it for
their
sake, for the Quakers, asmuch as for Lonnie and Quentin. How could it be that they’d lived and died without knowing what I was doing for them?
As I turned onto Bowne Street, I shook my head to shake loose those thoughts. I wanted to get up the tree, get the sneakers, and get out as fast as I could. But the second I hopped the stone wall and landed on the scraggly grass of the backyard, I had a feeling I wasn’t alone. I squatted down as low as I could get and looked side to side. No one was there. But the feeling of not-aloneness was strong. It sent a shiver across the back of my neck, which came at the exact same time as a cold gust of wind. It gave me second thoughts. I decided to come back another night.
“Help me, Julian!”
It was a girl’s voice, a whisper, but still loud. It was coming from above me.
I looked straight up. “Who’s there?”
“Please, please help me!”
“Where are you?”
“I’m here, Julian!”
That was when I realized the voice was
As usual, I slid the paper under the door of Principal Salvatore’s office as soon as I got to school, and as usual, Miss Medina handed it back to me an hour later. Principal Salvatore had written on the back:
I’m sorry, try again.
January 14, 1970
For the Quakers’ Sake
I couldn’t stop thinking about Quentin’s sneakers. It kept nagging at me, the picture of them dangling on that branch, swaying in the breeze, waiting to be noticed. On the one hand, it was a decent tribute to Quentin, but on the other hand, it was also disrespectful to the Quakers. It was both. But the more I thought about it, the more the disrespectful part outweighed the tribute part.
Last night, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I decided to climb the tree and take them down. I felt pretty skunky about it, knowing how much thought Lonnie had put into the thing, and how much trouble he’d gone through to get them up there. It was like a work of art, in a way. Itwas something he had accomplished, and I hated to ruin it. But I figured he’d made his point. He’d shown it off to the rest of the guys on the block, and he’d even taken a Polaroid and brought it to the hospital to show Quentin. There was no need to keep it going.
So I waited until after dinner and told my mom I was headed over to Shlomo’s house to trade baseball cards, but instead I headed up to the Bowne House. Lying to my mom made me feel even skunkier than I already did, but I couldn’t very well tell her the truth.
The Bowne House might not be much to look at during the day, but after dark it’s downright creepy. What I mean is it’s got a cemetery feeling even though no one’s actually buried there. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I believe in any of that haunted house stuff. Besides, from what I’ve heard about Quakers, they’d be the most polite ghosts ever—they’d hover around, saying prayers, eating oatmeal, telling you to have a nice day.
I guess what creeps me out about the place is just the fact that it’s so old, the fact that real people were walking in and out the doors, living their Quaker lives, worrying about their Quaker stuff, not having the slightest clue that a kid named Julian Twerski would someday climb that old tree in the backyard and take down a pair of worn-out sneakers. They likely didn’t even know what sneakers were! But I was doing it for
their
sake, for the Quakers, asmuch as for Lonnie and Quentin. How could it be that they’d lived and died without knowing what I was doing for them?
As I turned onto Bowne Street, I shook my head to shake loose those thoughts. I wanted to get up the tree, get the sneakers, and get out as fast as I could. But the second I hopped the stone wall and landed on the scraggly grass of the backyard, I had a feeling I wasn’t alone. I squatted down as low as I could get and looked side to side. No one was there. But the feeling of not-aloneness was strong. It sent a shiver across the back of my neck, which came at the exact same time as a cold gust of wind. It gave me second thoughts. I decided to come back another night.
“Help me, Julian!”
It was a girl’s voice, a whisper, but still loud. It was coming from above me.
I looked straight up. “Who’s there?”
“Please, please help me!”
“Where are you?”
“I’m here, Julian!”
That was when I realized the voice was
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