room, behind the table, lying on my left wrist funny, watching the polyester fringe on the curtains melt in drippy red corkscrews.
And that was it, at least all I remember of it. The windows were gone, and the front door, which Bobby was in the process of opening, had been blown shut by the explosion. There was the odd fire here and there in the carpeting, as if tiny pioneers had circled their wagons and were making camp for the night. Glowing charcoal briquettes had landed all over the place like meteors. The smoke detectors were screaming their heads off. I pulled myself up to the windowsill. Broken glass glistened in the shrubs and on the dewy lawn. The night air was thick and sweet.
Bobby was sitting on the front walk, rubbing his sore bottom and staring at the front door. He was probably wondering who had slammed it. He looked surprised and upset, somewhere between being pissed and wanting his Mommy.
The van was honking insistently. Bobby waved back over his shoulder to show that he was okay, but the van didn’t seem interested in that. It kept honking. People were starting to come out their front doors. Bobby got up and brushed off his pants. His monobrow furrowed as he took in the broken windows. Instead of rushing into the house to save me, he squatted down and studiously poked at some broken glass. He wasn’t more than ten feet away. It was stupid and careless of me to watch him. Bobby could have easily seen me, if he was an observant person. My head was right there, framed by the empty window. But I couldn’t stop. It was like watching my own funeral. For all Bobby and Mom knew, I was dead. I pretended that the reason he couldn’t see me was that I was a ghost.
The van was really honking now, if you can still call it honking when there’s just one long blast of the horn. Bobby shook his head and put his hands on his hips. The only word he said was, “Damn,” which, to me, sounded almost like an apology. Then he minced back over to the van. He was in a hurry, but he still managed to drag his heels a little.
Although I was glad he didn’t actually do it—trust me!—I appreciated the fact that Bobby at least considered coming into the house after me, which is more than I can say for his wife. As the van pulled away, I tried to get one last look at her face, but she was hiding it with a magazine. Then the van turned the corner.
I lowered myself down to the carpet. It was hard to believe that they were really gone. I could still smell gas, but the outside air was coming in so it didn’t smell very dangerous. I knew I should have been happy that my plan had worked, but I just sat there picking at bits of fused carpet and thinking that as low as my expectations were about some people, sometimes they weren’t anywhere near low enough.
Chapter Eleven
T heoretically, I was dead. But that didn’t mean I was safe.
The fire trucks were coming. There was no question about that. I didn’t doubt that the firemen would be very nice when they arrived. A big gallant fireman with a mustache would probably offer me his heavy yellow jacket. I would have accepted it gladly, too, along with any snacks or juice he happened to foist on me.
The problem wasn’t the fire department. It was the TV trucks. TV news people loved a good fire, particularly if there’d been an explosion. I knew for a fact that Mom and Bobby would be watching the news that night—Mom, to see close up what had happened; and Bobby, to prove to Mom how much danger he’d been in. They’d also be looking for pictures of me, their little thief, dead or alive.
I couldn’t just ask the TV people not to show me. They’d do it anyway, no matter how good a reason I gave them. They love showing people who don’t want to be seen, especially grieving families and victims of gunshots and fire. The less you want to be seen, the more the TV people want to show you. It’s perverse, but true.
I would have loved to stay for the nice firemen, and then, in
And that was it, at least all I remember of it. The windows were gone, and the front door, which Bobby was in the process of opening, had been blown shut by the explosion. There was the odd fire here and there in the carpeting, as if tiny pioneers had circled their wagons and were making camp for the night. Glowing charcoal briquettes had landed all over the place like meteors. The smoke detectors were screaming their heads off. I pulled myself up to the windowsill. Broken glass glistened in the shrubs and on the dewy lawn. The night air was thick and sweet.
Bobby was sitting on the front walk, rubbing his sore bottom and staring at the front door. He was probably wondering who had slammed it. He looked surprised and upset, somewhere between being pissed and wanting his Mommy.
The van was honking insistently. Bobby waved back over his shoulder to show that he was okay, but the van didn’t seem interested in that. It kept honking. People were starting to come out their front doors. Bobby got up and brushed off his pants. His monobrow furrowed as he took in the broken windows. Instead of rushing into the house to save me, he squatted down and studiously poked at some broken glass. He wasn’t more than ten feet away. It was stupid and careless of me to watch him. Bobby could have easily seen me, if he was an observant person. My head was right there, framed by the empty window. But I couldn’t stop. It was like watching my own funeral. For all Bobby and Mom knew, I was dead. I pretended that the reason he couldn’t see me was that I was a ghost.
The van was really honking now, if you can still call it honking when there’s just one long blast of the horn. Bobby shook his head and put his hands on his hips. The only word he said was, “Damn,” which, to me, sounded almost like an apology. Then he minced back over to the van. He was in a hurry, but he still managed to drag his heels a little.
Although I was glad he didn’t actually do it—trust me!—I appreciated the fact that Bobby at least considered coming into the house after me, which is more than I can say for his wife. As the van pulled away, I tried to get one last look at her face, but she was hiding it with a magazine. Then the van turned the corner.
I lowered myself down to the carpet. It was hard to believe that they were really gone. I could still smell gas, but the outside air was coming in so it didn’t smell very dangerous. I knew I should have been happy that my plan had worked, but I just sat there picking at bits of fused carpet and thinking that as low as my expectations were about some people, sometimes they weren’t anywhere near low enough.
Chapter Eleven
T heoretically, I was dead. But that didn’t mean I was safe.
The fire trucks were coming. There was no question about that. I didn’t doubt that the firemen would be very nice when they arrived. A big gallant fireman with a mustache would probably offer me his heavy yellow jacket. I would have accepted it gladly, too, along with any snacks or juice he happened to foist on me.
The problem wasn’t the fire department. It was the TV trucks. TV news people loved a good fire, particularly if there’d been an explosion. I knew for a fact that Mom and Bobby would be watching the news that night—Mom, to see close up what had happened; and Bobby, to prove to Mom how much danger he’d been in. They’d also be looking for pictures of me, their little thief, dead or alive.
I couldn’t just ask the TV people not to show me. They’d do it anyway, no matter how good a reason I gave them. They love showing people who don’t want to be seen, especially grieving families and victims of gunshots and fire. The less you want to be seen, the more the TV people want to show you. It’s perverse, but true.
I would have loved to stay for the nice firemen, and then, in
Similar Books
