Read Online Freewill by Chris Lynch - Free Book Online Page A

know, investigators, about good reasons ? What would they know? What would you know?
    â€œHe thought he could fly, was the thing. He used to say that. That he could fly, was the thing. He used to say that. That he could fly, but he just didn’t know how. He was trying, I figure. He wasn’t trying to hurt anybody. He was just trying to fly. I figure.”
    He did say that, didn’t he? You remember that. You remember?
    â€œOh,” Angela says. Could be worse. She could be tripping over herself and saying “sorry” all over the place the way people do. Oh is okay. At least it doesn’t sound like pity, does it? Listen close, Will, because it matters. Does it sound like pity, coming out of this one?
    â€œSo that’s why you’re crazy then?” she says casually.
    Not pity. Isn’t that a relief?
    â€œYes,” you allow. “I suppose that is why.”
    She nods. “You’re one up on most of us. Least you know your reason.”
    She looks all around your room. Even you are aware of the stagnant quality of the air and the weird way everything regardless of its actual hue seems to look yellow. What is she thinking? Can you imagine?
    â€œSo, you really want to stay in here?” she asks.
    You shake your head.
    Before she proceeds any further, she gets a bit of a worry flickering across her face. “Listen,” Angela says, and wouldn’t you swear if you closed your eyes that she was speaking to more than one person? “Don’t go misunderstanding. I don’t want you thinking that we’re going to wind up going to proms together and shit, because that’s not going to happen. Right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œI just figure a soul that’s destitute enough to attend track practices is a soul that could use a hand up. Right?”
    â€œRight.”
    This is reasonable enough. Angela is quite clear on the subject of not having much use for people. You are quite clearly not much of a person. Match made in heaven.
    You get up, look about the room for clothes.
    â€œUm,” she says politely, “you will be showering, I assume.”
    You look down at yourself, as if that will tell you anything.
    â€œI wasn’t planning to.”
    She shakes her head. “Whatever. Just don’t be getting too close to me. You’re kind of ripe.”
    You wander the room, collecting bits of clothing from various surfaces, gathering them up in your arms in an aromaticlump that even you have to admit bears a strong resemblance to the laundry pile. You stop, stare.
    â€œWhat?” Angela asks.
    â€œYou really think I’m crazy?”
    She stares back. And stares back. You may not know a great deal about this girl but you know that she is not one to shy from a question. She stares some more. Looks like she wants to say something. Then looks like she wants not to. After a bit, you both give up waiting.
    How does that feel, Will? How does it feel? Are people so afraid of what will happen that they will not risk misspeaking to you?
    â€œIf you can wait ten minutes . . . I’ll be out in ten. You won’t go anywhere.”
    â€œI won’t go anywhere,” she says, graciously turning her attention to the important matters of television rather than your monumental decision to bathe.
    It’s been three days. Has it been three days? It seems that it couldn’t have been. That would be too long, that would be crazy. But when the hot water strikes the virgin surface of your skin from face to throat to chest like thousands of poison needles, you know it has been some time, much time, too much time.
    You love showers. You love showers even when you do not need them. How could it have been three days?
    You soap yourself quickly, gently, slathering copious amounts of the liquid shower gel all over. When there is no unfoamed patch of skin left visible, you raise the bottle high and douse yourself, like a locker-room scene