Read Online On a Clear Day by Walter Dean Myers - Free Book Online
Authors: Walter Dean Myers
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need to stop
it.”
“Why?”
“Everybody is afraid of letting life get away from them,”Michael said. “I think it’s like when people get
old—not just years old but in the way they think—and they see young people
flying on the momentum of just being young, they sometimes get all shook and crazy and
want to bring things back to some kind of order. Life is getting away from them. They
want to slow it down and box it up.”
“That sounds right,” I said. I poured some orange juice into
the pan, turned up the heat, and waited as the flavors came together. “In the
band, how do you know if you have the right people?”
Michael watched me take the pan off the stove and use the spoon to put
half the food onto a plate. Then I took the other half for myself, gave him a fork and
the salt shaker, and sat down.
“If you have the right people, it just works out,” he said.
He hesitated for a minute, looked at me and smiled, then dug his fork into some
mushrooms. When he lifted his head again, his eyes moved around the room as if he was
looking for something. “You don’t always know if you have the right
people, because you can’t tell what people are like. Not really. I mean, you can
guess, but …”
A shrug. His eyes were looking around the room but not really seeing
anything, just moving, and I knew he was thinking. But
what
?
“You do computer models of groups,” he said after a while.
“But you don’t really know who the people are, right?”
“You don’t have to know who they are to know what
they’ll do,” I said.
“Are you ever wrong?”
“A lot, but it doesn’t make a
difference,” I answered. “Because if you do the model right, it means
you’ve thought through everything carefully. That’s half the
battle.”
“You’ve got carrot on your chin,” he said.
“Thank you.” I felt around, found the little piece of
carrot, and took it off.
“Dahlia.” Michael leaned forward. “The fewer people
you have in a model, the less effective it is, right?”
“It depends on their connection with group thinking,” I
said. “If they’re stuck with thinking as a group, it doesn’t matter
that much.”
“Awesome,” he said.
Silence. When he ate, he didn’t make noises on his plate with his
fork, as a Dominican man would have done. He ate quietly, his head mostly down. What the
hell was he thinking? We were sitting at opposite ends of the small table. It was only
three feet long, so we were pretty close. I kept my eyes on my plate. When he looked up,
he was checking out the rest of my little apartment.
“I think this is going to work,” he said after a while.
“I’m eager to get to the first meeting tomorrow. What do you
think?”
“I’ll tell you after I leave the meeting.”
At the door. That little smile again.
Me: “See you later.”
Michael: “You look good with carrot on your chin.”
I was embarrassed.
He left and I looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad. Even without the
carrot.
It was a twenty-five-minute ride to Dulwich College in south London. A
British girl, or she might have been Irish, with long red hair was driving the van. She
drove like a freaking maniac, and I was hoping that somebody would suggest they put the
thing on automatic. The grounds at Dulwich were large and spacious. We got out and
walked into the building. There was a big boat in the lobby, and one of the Brits
started explaining why it was there.
Then another door opened and a group of about fifty boys, sweaty, dressed
in green sweatshirts and matching pants, came rushing through. They slowed when they saw
us—I thought they were looking at Michael mostly—and just kind of milled
about, filling the air with a kind of boy stink and noise that sounded like a bunch of
puppies. They had long hair, which they busily pushed away from their faces. Then they
were looking at the rest of us.
“Your fan
it.”
“Why?”
“Everybody is afraid of letting life get away from them,”Michael said. “I think it’s like when people get
old—not just years old but in the way they think—and they see young people
flying on the momentum of just being young, they sometimes get all shook and crazy and
want to bring things back to some kind of order. Life is getting away from them. They
want to slow it down and box it up.”
“That sounds right,” I said. I poured some orange juice into
the pan, turned up the heat, and waited as the flavors came together. “In the
band, how do you know if you have the right people?”
Michael watched me take the pan off the stove and use the spoon to put
half the food onto a plate. Then I took the other half for myself, gave him a fork and
the salt shaker, and sat down.
“If you have the right people, it just works out,” he said.
He hesitated for a minute, looked at me and smiled, then dug his fork into some
mushrooms. When he lifted his head again, his eyes moved around the room as if he was
looking for something. “You don’t always know if you have the right
people, because you can’t tell what people are like. Not really. I mean, you can
guess, but …”
A shrug. His eyes were looking around the room but not really seeing
anything, just moving, and I knew he was thinking. But
what
?
“You do computer models of groups,” he said after a while.
“But you don’t really know who the people are, right?”
“You don’t have to know who they are to know what
they’ll do,” I said.
“Are you ever wrong?”
“A lot, but it doesn’t make a
difference,” I answered. “Because if you do the model right, it means
you’ve thought through everything carefully. That’s half the
battle.”
“You’ve got carrot on your chin,” he said.
“Thank you.” I felt around, found the little piece of
carrot, and took it off.
“Dahlia.” Michael leaned forward. “The fewer people
you have in a model, the less effective it is, right?”
“It depends on their connection with group thinking,” I
said. “If they’re stuck with thinking as a group, it doesn’t matter
that much.”
“Awesome,” he said.
Silence. When he ate, he didn’t make noises on his plate with his
fork, as a Dominican man would have done. He ate quietly, his head mostly down. What the
hell was he thinking? We were sitting at opposite ends of the small table. It was only
three feet long, so we were pretty close. I kept my eyes on my plate. When he looked up,
he was checking out the rest of my little apartment.
“I think this is going to work,” he said after a while.
“I’m eager to get to the first meeting tomorrow. What do you
think?”
“I’ll tell you after I leave the meeting.”
At the door. That little smile again.
Me: “See you later.”
Michael: “You look good with carrot on your chin.”
I was embarrassed.
He left and I looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad. Even without the
carrot.
It was a twenty-five-minute ride to Dulwich College in south London. A
British girl, or she might have been Irish, with long red hair was driving the van. She
drove like a freaking maniac, and I was hoping that somebody would suggest they put the
thing on automatic. The grounds at Dulwich were large and spacious. We got out and
walked into the building. There was a big boat in the lobby, and one of the Brits
started explaining why it was there.
Then another door opened and a group of about fifty boys, sweaty, dressed
in green sweatshirts and matching pants, came rushing through. They slowed when they saw
us—I thought they were looking at Michael mostly—and just kind of milled
about, filling the air with a kind of boy stink and noise that sounded like a bunch of
puppies. They had long hair, which they busily pushed away from their faces. Then they
were looking at the rest of us.
“Your fan