Read Online Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey - Free Book Online

of trouble.
    But then my father smirks and reaches out to clap my back.
    “Rip Van Winkle! The corpse has risen! So nice of you to join us.”
    I sit and offer a weak smile.
    My mother produces a hot cup of Pablo coffee with a fair dollop of sweetened condensed milk. She leans over, hands on her knees.
    “I trust you’re enjoying your stay at our hotel, Mr. Bucktin, sir. Might I remind you that our turndown service ends at ten sharp. Will Sir take eggs for his lunch?”
    My dad snorts. My mother is the most sarcastic person in the universe. My father calls it “droll wit,” but I think it’s more or less an opportunity to get up my arse without appearing unreasonable. She’s most acerbic when she’s faintly pissed about something, which is every waking hour of the day.
    “No thanks,” I say. “What time is it?”
    “Almost noon. So you’ve only wasted half the day. It’s nice for some.”
    Her back is to me. She’s wearing a thin floral dress that clings to her in the heat. She looks good today, I have to admit. Usually she only looks like this if she’s just come back from the city, where she’s been going more often recently. I want to go hug her, to be held by her, but it would be too awkward and unusual. Still, her hair looks nice today.
    “Your hair looks nice today,” I say.
    This has her whirling around. She glares as though I’d just spat her coffee over the table and called her a courtesan.
    “What did you say?”
    “I said your hair looks nice today.”
    “Oh,” she says, and frowns, searching for a deeper meaning. She cuts her eyes. “What do you want?”
    “What? Nothing. I just said your hair looks nice.”
    “But why would you say that?”
    “I don’t know. Because your hair looks nice.”
    Exasperated, I turn to my father. He is nodding and laughing quietly, with his back to her.
    After a brief pause, she says, “Well, thank you,” in much the same way she might say, “Well,
don’t.
”
    I shrug.
    My dad smiles and folds his paper.
    “So, my boy. Couldn’t sleep, or couldn’t get enough?”
    I set my glasses and sniff. It’s difficult to play this role.
Charlie Bucktin at breakfast: Scene One
. I don’t feel the same. I’m uneasy in my own skin.
    “Yeah, no sleep last night. It’s too hot. I was just reading, I guess.”
    “I see. So what’s taken your fancy?”
    “
Pudd’nhead Wilson
. It’s really good.”
    “Ah.” And my father leans in. “It’s been years since I’ve read that. How are you liking it?”
    “Yeah, well, like I say. It’s really good.”
    I crimp my lips and raise my brows. I don’t want to play this scene out. This coffee is making me too hot. I’m sweating. I’m stuck to this vinyl seat.
    Still, it can’t mollify that uneasy feeling that I’m about to be caught. There are insects crawling on my shoulders. At any moment I expect blue-suited troops to burst and bundle into our house and cuff me from behind. Neighbors will line the street, spitting and hollering as I am led, roughly, to a flashing wagon.
    I nod toward my father’s newspaper.
    “What’s news? Anything good?”
    “Same old, my boy.”
    “Oh, okay,” I say, sipping my coffee and looking away.
    “You all right, Charlie?” My dad shifts tone. He reaches across and feels my forehead, and runs his thumb over my cowlick. I want to tell him everything. I want him to wrap me in his arms and reassure me.
    “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”
    “Well, if you’re not eating, young man,” my mother says, “I suggest you go visit Jeffrey. He’s been over five times already this morning with a bee in his bonnet. I told him to go in and wake you up, but he just trotted back home and said he’d try again later. He’s too polite, that boy.”
    Shit. The Test. I completely forgot. Little wonder he didn’t want to come inside. He wasn’t being polite, he just didn’t want to miss adelivery. Right now, Jeffrey will be huddled beside the radio, intently poised, as