Read Online Hard Love by Ellen Wittlinger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellen Wittlinger
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with my chopsticks, ripping it to pieces, remembering how much I hated picking up that heavy bat and taking my turn at the plate, the opposing team screaming, “Easy out! Easy out!”
“Eight was too old to start baseball. All the other kids had played for years. I was never any good compared to them.”
Dad swatted that complaint out of the air. “Oh, well, all that sports stuff is a waste of time anyway. You were too smart for baseball. You didn’t need it.”
“You mean you didn’t need it.”
“If you’d really wanted to play, your mother could have driven you.”
“How was I supposed to know what I really wanted? I was eight. Besides, she did drive me to swimming lessons and karate lessons and day camp. She was busy too, you know. She worked. She had a life. You just didn’t want anything to do with either of us. You were an urban hotshot, and we were too small town for you.” I tossed the chopsticks aside.
“John, can you honestly tell me you enjoy living in Darlington? For children I suppose it’s fine, but for someone your age, it must be deadly boring.”
Of course it was boring, but I damn well wasn’t going to admit it to him. “I guess it’s boring for people who have no inner resources. It seems fine to me.” I scooped up a big batch of Emerald Chicken, hoping that if I got my inner resources filled up a little more, they’d stop churning.
He gave me an exasperated look over the top of his glasses and maneuvered the last of the Moo Shu onto a pancake. “I can see this subject is still difficult for you. I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s forget it. I bought coffee ripple ice cream for dessert.”
“Oh, well, that will make everything okay then. Yum yum. Real men eat ice cream.”
That really cheesed him off. I was acting so immaturely. “John, I can do without the sarcasm.”
“I know you can. You can do without me, too.” I got up and smacked the chair into the table. “By the way, Idon’t care what your excuse is. I’ll never be old enough to forget what it felt like when you walked out and left us.”
* * *
Marisol was hunched so closely over the pages there was barely room for her coffee cup to slip between the table and her lips. I watched her narrow her eyes and sip. She was on her third reading and had already shushed me once when I tried to interrupt to ask what she thought. If I’d known she was going to take it so seriously, I might not have even brought the thing.
Finally she looked up, her finger stabbing at the page before her. “There’s the moment of truth,” she said. “That’s what makes it worth reading.”
“Yeah?” I leaned over the table to see what she was pointing to.
“‘All I know is I don’t want anything else to change right now.’ That’s the line that lets me know this cocky guy is real, that he’s not just a slick jerk who doesn’t care about anything.”
I sat back in my chair. “You think I sound cocky and jerky?”
“It’s your style: cool, unmoved, seeing it all from a distance. Don’t tell me that surprises you. This last paragraph? You throw a tantrum, then reflect calmly on how upset they’ll be as you pick up an ice cream bar on your way upstairs. Come on. You’re not going for vulnerability here.”
“Well, why should I?”
“You shouldn’t necessarily. But that style doesn’t let your reader see much of the person behind the writing. Which is probably your intent. You’re such a hidden person anyway.”
“What?”
“Please, you aren’t going to argue about that ? You won’t even decide if you’re gay or not. You don’t want any information attached to you; you don’t want to give away any clues.”
I felt like she’d pinned my wings to a board, and now she was zooming in with the microscope.
“When I read something, I like to feel I’ve gotten to know the writer a little bit,” she continued. “For me, page after page of this kind of sarcasm gets annoying.” She put her hand
“Eight was too old to start baseball. All the other kids had played for years. I was never any good compared to them.”
Dad swatted that complaint out of the air. “Oh, well, all that sports stuff is a waste of time anyway. You were too smart for baseball. You didn’t need it.”
“You mean you didn’t need it.”
“If you’d really wanted to play, your mother could have driven you.”
“How was I supposed to know what I really wanted? I was eight. Besides, she did drive me to swimming lessons and karate lessons and day camp. She was busy too, you know. She worked. She had a life. You just didn’t want anything to do with either of us. You were an urban hotshot, and we were too small town for you.” I tossed the chopsticks aside.
“John, can you honestly tell me you enjoy living in Darlington? For children I suppose it’s fine, but for someone your age, it must be deadly boring.”
Of course it was boring, but I damn well wasn’t going to admit it to him. “I guess it’s boring for people who have no inner resources. It seems fine to me.” I scooped up a big batch of Emerald Chicken, hoping that if I got my inner resources filled up a little more, they’d stop churning.
He gave me an exasperated look over the top of his glasses and maneuvered the last of the Moo Shu onto a pancake. “I can see this subject is still difficult for you. I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s forget it. I bought coffee ripple ice cream for dessert.”
“Oh, well, that will make everything okay then. Yum yum. Real men eat ice cream.”
That really cheesed him off. I was acting so immaturely. “John, I can do without the sarcasm.”
“I know you can. You can do without me, too.” I got up and smacked the chair into the table. “By the way, Idon’t care what your excuse is. I’ll never be old enough to forget what it felt like when you walked out and left us.”
* * *
Marisol was hunched so closely over the pages there was barely room for her coffee cup to slip between the table and her lips. I watched her narrow her eyes and sip. She was on her third reading and had already shushed me once when I tried to interrupt to ask what she thought. If I’d known she was going to take it so seriously, I might not have even brought the thing.
Finally she looked up, her finger stabbing at the page before her. “There’s the moment of truth,” she said. “That’s what makes it worth reading.”
“Yeah?” I leaned over the table to see what she was pointing to.
“‘All I know is I don’t want anything else to change right now.’ That’s the line that lets me know this cocky guy is real, that he’s not just a slick jerk who doesn’t care about anything.”
I sat back in my chair. “You think I sound cocky and jerky?”
“It’s your style: cool, unmoved, seeing it all from a distance. Don’t tell me that surprises you. This last paragraph? You throw a tantrum, then reflect calmly on how upset they’ll be as you pick up an ice cream bar on your way upstairs. Come on. You’re not going for vulnerability here.”
“Well, why should I?”
“You shouldn’t necessarily. But that style doesn’t let your reader see much of the person behind the writing. Which is probably your intent. You’re such a hidden person anyway.”
“What?”
“Please, you aren’t going to argue about that ? You won’t even decide if you’re gay or not. You don’t want any information attached to you; you don’t want to give away any clues.”
I felt like she’d pinned my wings to a board, and now she was zooming in with the microscope.
“When I read something, I like to feel I’ve gotten to know the writer a little bit,” she continued. “For me, page after page of this kind of sarcasm gets annoying.” She put her hand
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