Read Online Number 8 by Anna Fienberg - Free Book Online

andwe’ll be on the same level.” I finish the count at eight sets of four. Beautiful.
    He’s still clutching the bowl in the crook of his arm. I reach out and take it from him and he makes for the branch. When he straightens himself he breathes out in a long swoop.
    â€œAmazing, isn’t it?”
    We look together out across the street. I can see the roofs of houses, all lined up neatly like dominoes. I can even see the bird crap and cracks in the tiles. Some have little attic windows with geraniums potted on the sills. The TV antennae stand loyally at attention on every roof. Suddenly I feel a pang of gladness to be here—I think of each family caring for their home, planting their gardens and painting their fences, and for some reason they seem like brave warriors, pushing ahead in the face of death and disaster. They’re all making the best of things in the suburbs, being positive, as Mom would say.
    â€œI got one!” Asim cries and holds up a fat golden mango. He reaches for a second, twisting the stem with one hand and pulling at the fruit with the other. He looks like an expert already. I hold out the bowl to him and he pops them in. Now I’m going for it, too—there is one near my head, and three just a little further along the branch. We’re hauling them in like it’s a sea full of fish, and the bowl is starting to overflow.
    Asim takes out his pocket knife and we sit in the crook of the tree with our legs dangling down into the air as he slits the knife into a mango and licks off the juice. Then he cuts a big piece off the side and throws it to me. The flesh is a stunning yellow and I suck at it, the juice running down my chin in a river. Nothing has ever tasted so good.
    The lemony leaves surround us in a canopy, and the world is green and cool. So we pretend we are hunters of old and we’ve just caught our food—we show our war wounds: scratches from branches and a big scar I have on my arm from years ago when I broke it.
    â€œThe possums won’t like our hunting,” I say.
    Asim grins. “There will be plenty left for them, I think.”
    â€œDo you hear them thumping at night on your roof? They sound like a pack of soldiers doing their drill, up and down. And they pant so heavily. Mom told me it was the possums, but I didn’t believe her at first.”
    â€œSometimes we hear them. At first I was scared and ran into my father’s room. I thought it was robbers. But now I just think possums and go back to sleep. You probably hear them more, with your mango tree. You supply their dinner!”
    â€œYeah. And then last night, they woke me up, it must have been oh, two o’clock—yes, I remember the digital clock saying 2:22 and I thought well at least if I’m awake that number is not the
worst
thing I could see. Could have been 3:33—”
    â€œSo what happened?”
    â€œWell, the thumping was so loud, like heavy boots, and I got my flashlight and crept outside. I aimed it up onto the roof and I saw a furry animal with big dark eyes staring back at me. I guess it was stunned by the light because it just stayed there still as a statue and then, do you know what? I saw something clinging underneath. It was her baby!”
    Asim was silent for a moment. Then he said, “That was a good thing to see.”
    â€œYeah. It felt … good. But sort of sad, just the two of them. They looked like they were on the run. You know, suburbia eating up their habitat. Mom says they’re not homeless,they’re making themselves comfortable on our roof! I like that idea but she doesn’t. Says they wake her up and she’s not a good sleeper and then she has to go and make hot milk and pace and watch TV and by the time she’s done all that there’s only an hour before morning. No, she definitely doesn’t like them.” Suddenly I feel a twinge of fear, right where my heart is. “I hope she