Read Online Just J by Colin Frizzell - Free Book Online Page B

around.
    â€œAround here, people say things without thinking, so it’s best to listen to what they mean instead of what they say. I didn’t mean anything bad about your friend, though I can understand why you’d think so,” he apologizes. “See ya,” he adds, and then he disappears over the crest without waiting for a reply.
    On the way back to the house, I think about what he said. I don’t know why I got so upset about it. It wasn’t like he used a derogatory term or anything. I wonder if Art gets offended if people call him that. I want to ask him, but I don’t know if that would offend him. I wonder if even wondering about it makes me prejudiced. So I stop.
    I start thinking about Moonlight Palace buried in the sand. How fast was it buried? Was there stuff still inside it? Was it a big hall? Did it have a chandelier? And what about going back in time? Yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but what if?
    A strong smell tantalizes me, and I look up to see that Art has a grill set up over the campfire. On the grill are a couple of steaks, a tofu something—I imagine it’s Aunt Guin’s—and potatoes wrapped in tinfoil. The smell of garlic hangs in the air.
    â€œWhere’s the garlic?” I ask him.
    â€œIn the potatoes. Do you like garlic?”
    â€œMom used to cook with a lot of garlic.”
    â€œIs that a yes or a no?”
    â€œI guess,” I respond. I try and remain indifferent when–ever possible. It makes it easier for me to change my mind without risking ridicule.
    â€œArt, do you…?” I want to ask if being called an albino bothers him. I want to ask what it’s like. I want to ask a lot of things, but all the words are stuck at the bottom of my throat, arguing with each other as to who’s going to go first, all terrified of what they may face.
    â€œNothing,” I finally say.
    He smiles and checks the potatoes with a fork. “Okay.”
    â€œI mean…never mind.”
    â€œWhen words become land mines, even your allies have to watch their step. I assure you that this field has been swept.”
    â€œDo you mind being called an albino?” I blurt out.
    â€œIt all depends on which adjective is attached,” he says, smiling. “It’s not the word that offends, or at least it shouldn’t be. It’s the sentiment behind it.”
    â€œThat’s kind of what he said.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe boy in the dunes.”
    â€œA boy in the dunes, eh?” he says, his smile now telling me there are more uncomfortable questions on the way— this time directed at me.
    â€œThere you are,” Aunt Guin says, just in the nick of time. She’s balancing a bottle of wine and a Coke on some plates. I jump up to help her.
    â€œI was starting to get worried,” she says.
    â€œI thought you had too much faith to ever worry,” Art says playfully.
    â€œIt’s not faith that saves me but a complete lack of understanding,” Aunt Guin says.
    â€œKnowing you know nothing is the greatest under–standing of all,” Art replies.
    â€œSo you’re saying that by knowing I know nothing, I know everything there is to know. That’s quite a paradox,”
    Aunt Guin says.
    â€œIt’d have to be. One duck would never be enough.”
    Aunt Guin looks over to the grill. “I see you’re having bull tonight.”
    â€œYou can say that again,” I say under my breath, but not far enough under, and they both look over at me, then back at each other.
    â€œShe may have a point,” Art says.
    â€œThere’s no way of knowing,” Aunt Guin replies, and I catch them smiling.

Chapter Fourteen
    A fter dinner we sit around the campfire. It hypnotizes me as I watch the flames closest to the wood sway gently while those farthest from the embers reach desper–ately for the sky. The occasional spark actually breaks away into the night to become one of