Read Online No One Belongs Here More Than You by Miranda July - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Miranda July
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ceiling. Up there was home. Dinner waited for us up there.
One of the many great reasons for building a basement was our access to free wood. Pip had met a girl whose father owned Berryman’s Lumber and Supply. Kate Berryman. She was a year younger than us and went to the private high school by Pip’s grandma’s house. I had never met her, but I felt glad that we were using her. We practiced a very loose, sporadic form of class warfare that sanctioned every kind of thievery. There was no person, no business, no library, hospital, or park that had not stolen from us, be it psychically or historically, and thus we were forever trying to regain what was ours. Kate probably thought she was on our side of the restitution when she struggled to pull large pieces of plywood out of the back of her parents’ station wagon. She left them in the alley behind our building, honking three times as she drove away. At her signal, we strolled out of the building, pretending to take a walk, sometimes even stopping to buy a soda, before arbitrarily, on a whim, deciding to amble down the alley. We hauled it upstairs, feeling fairly certain we had hoodwinked everyone. We were always getting away with something, which implied that someone was always watching us, which meant we were not alone in this world.
Each morning Pip made a list of what we needed to do that day. At the top of the list was usually go to bank , where they had free coffee. The next items were often vague— find out about food stamps, library card? —but the list still gave me a cozy feeling. I liked to watch her write it, knowing that someone was steering the day. At night we discussed how we would decorate the basement, but during the day our progress was slow. Mostly, what we had was a lot of pieces of wood; they leaned against the walls and lay across the couch like untrained dogs.
We were trying to nail a post into the linoleum kitchen floor when Pip decided we needed a certain kind of bracket.
Are you sure?
Yeah. I’ll call Kate and she’ll bring it.
Isn’t she in school?
It’s okay.
Pip made the call and then went to take a shower. I continued hammering long nails through the post and into the floor. The post became secure. It was a satisfying feeling. It wouldn’t withstand any kind of weight, but it stood on its own. It was almost as tall as me, and I could not help naming it. It looked like a Gwen.
The buzzer rang, and Pip ran damply to the door. It was Kate. I looked up at her from where I was sitting on the kitchen floor. She was wearing a school uniform. She was not holding the brackets. Maybe she had hidden them up her skirt.
Where are the brackets? I asked.
With panic in her eyes, Kate looked at Pip. Pip took her hand, turned to me, and said, We have to tell you something.
I suddenly felt chilled. My ears felt so cold that I had to press my hands against them. But I quickly realized this made me look as if I were covering them to avoid listening, like the monkey who hears no evil. So I rubbed my palms together and asked, Are your ears cold? Pip didn’t respond, but Kate shook her head.
Okay, go ahead.
Kate and I are going to live together at her parents’ house.
Why?
What do you mean?
Well, I’m sure Kate’s dad doesn’t want you living in his house after you stole all that stuff from him.
I’m going to work at Berryman’s Lumber to pay him back. I might even make enough money to get a car.
I thought about this. I imagined Pip driving a car, a Model T, wearing goggles and a scarf that blew behind her in the wind.
Can I work at Berryman’s Lumber, too?
Pip was suddenly angry. Come on!
What? I can’t? Just say I can’t if I can’t.
You are purposely not getting it!
What?
She raised Kate’s hand, clasped in her own, and shook it in the air.
Suddenly my ears were hot, they were boiling, and I had to fan my hands at either side of my head to cool them down. This was too much for Pip; she grabbed her backpack and marched
One of the many great reasons for building a basement was our access to free wood. Pip had met a girl whose father owned Berryman’s Lumber and Supply. Kate Berryman. She was a year younger than us and went to the private high school by Pip’s grandma’s house. I had never met her, but I felt glad that we were using her. We practiced a very loose, sporadic form of class warfare that sanctioned every kind of thievery. There was no person, no business, no library, hospital, or park that had not stolen from us, be it psychically or historically, and thus we were forever trying to regain what was ours. Kate probably thought she was on our side of the restitution when she struggled to pull large pieces of plywood out of the back of her parents’ station wagon. She left them in the alley behind our building, honking three times as she drove away. At her signal, we strolled out of the building, pretending to take a walk, sometimes even stopping to buy a soda, before arbitrarily, on a whim, deciding to amble down the alley. We hauled it upstairs, feeling fairly certain we had hoodwinked everyone. We were always getting away with something, which implied that someone was always watching us, which meant we were not alone in this world.
Each morning Pip made a list of what we needed to do that day. At the top of the list was usually go to bank , where they had free coffee. The next items were often vague— find out about food stamps, library card? —but the list still gave me a cozy feeling. I liked to watch her write it, knowing that someone was steering the day. At night we discussed how we would decorate the basement, but during the day our progress was slow. Mostly, what we had was a lot of pieces of wood; they leaned against the walls and lay across the couch like untrained dogs.
We were trying to nail a post into the linoleum kitchen floor when Pip decided we needed a certain kind of bracket.
Are you sure?
Yeah. I’ll call Kate and she’ll bring it.
Isn’t she in school?
It’s okay.
Pip made the call and then went to take a shower. I continued hammering long nails through the post and into the floor. The post became secure. It was a satisfying feeling. It wouldn’t withstand any kind of weight, but it stood on its own. It was almost as tall as me, and I could not help naming it. It looked like a Gwen.
The buzzer rang, and Pip ran damply to the door. It was Kate. I looked up at her from where I was sitting on the kitchen floor. She was wearing a school uniform. She was not holding the brackets. Maybe she had hidden them up her skirt.
Where are the brackets? I asked.
With panic in her eyes, Kate looked at Pip. Pip took her hand, turned to me, and said, We have to tell you something.
I suddenly felt chilled. My ears felt so cold that I had to press my hands against them. But I quickly realized this made me look as if I were covering them to avoid listening, like the monkey who hears no evil. So I rubbed my palms together and asked, Are your ears cold? Pip didn’t respond, but Kate shook her head.
Okay, go ahead.
Kate and I are going to live together at her parents’ house.
Why?
What do you mean?
Well, I’m sure Kate’s dad doesn’t want you living in his house after you stole all that stuff from him.
I’m going to work at Berryman’s Lumber to pay him back. I might even make enough money to get a car.
I thought about this. I imagined Pip driving a car, a Model T, wearing goggles and a scarf that blew behind her in the wind.
Can I work at Berryman’s Lumber, too?
Pip was suddenly angry. Come on!
What? I can’t? Just say I can’t if I can’t.
You are purposely not getting it!
What?
She raised Kate’s hand, clasped in her own, and shook it in the air.
Suddenly my ears were hot, they were boiling, and I had to fan my hands at either side of my head to cool them down. This was too much for Pip; she grabbed her backpack and marched
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