Read Online Read Between the Lines by Jo Knowles - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jo Knowles
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him,” I say. I carry him a whole block before he finally stops trembling. We stop and I set him down and unwrap another Slim Jim for him.
I squint up toward the street. My house isn’t too far now. My parents won’t be home, though. I imagine bringing Oliver inside and feeding him something nutritious. Maybe I’ll make him a hamburger. Then I’ll fill the kitchen sink with warm sudsy water and give him a nice bath. Maybe I’ll find a big box in the basement and decorate the outside like a present to put Oliver in and surprise my parents. I know they’ll freak out at first, but I also know they’ll love him. Just like I already do. I’ll let him nap on the couch and get some rest, then I’ll take him for another walk and show him the neighborhood.
I can’t remember the last time I looked forward to the rest of the day. I’ve forgotten about the girls and the game I’m missing tonight. And the homework I forgot to bring home. And to feel bad about the usual messages I haven’t received since I lost my part-of-the-girls status.
For the first time, I don’t feel like everyone else.
I feel like me.
This is
me.
“Ready, boy?” I ask when Oliver finishes his Slim Jim.
He wags his bum happily.
As we walk toward home, I realize I also forgot about finding a new trendy café and whatever it was I dreamed of writing. I forgot all about the man with his finger, and how he made me feel. Like a fake. A fraud.
My café fantasy was just that. A dumb dream. But this moment, this walking home with a new friend, is real. Is true. Is what I was looking for. That something more to life I’ve always wanted.
Something to care about.
I walk faster. Oliver starts to run ahead, so I jog after him. He yips at me in a friendly way, like,
I don’t know where we’re going, but I can’t wait to get there!
“Faster!” I yell, and sprint past him.
He yips again, and we charge ahead.
EVERY MORNING AT APPROXIMATELY 7:25, I pull out of my driveway and head to hell, also known as Little Cindy’s restaurant. I don’t like to talk about work. It’s temporary. My dad’s going to get me a real job at the Ford dealership he works at as soon as I turn twenty-one. Two years seems like forever. But this situation is temporary.
At approximately 7:33, I reach my first traffic light. I always gaze at the green house on the corner and remember the girl who used to live there. Her name was Marcie. She was hot. Long dark hair. Huge tits. Tight jeans. Leather boots. She never looked at me. I heard she went to New York and became a model.
Everyone I graduated with last year seems to have gone off somewhere to become something.
Except me.
At approximately 7:42, I drive past my old high school. I roll down my window, stick out my hand, and give it and everyone inside the finger. Sometimes there are still late arrivals rushing through the parking lot to get to school. I always hope they’ll see me, but they never do.
Sometimes when I stick out my finger, a car behind me honks. Sometimes with approval. Sometimes not. It makes no difference to me.
At approximately 7:53, I obey the ENTER HERE sign in the parking lot and park in the farthest corner. I sit in my car and breathe. A lot. I hate my job. My father always says beggars can’t be choosers. He says that someday I’ll be glad I had the experience. I’ll appreciate what I have more.
My dad is kind of like my dad and kind of like my best friend. We do a lot together. We lift weights at the gym. We wash his car and my car. We keep the yard up nice. We watch TV. It’s always been like that since my mother dumped us.
That’s another thing I don’t like to talk about.
I guess you could call what I do before I go inside “car meditation.” If I don’t do some serious controlled breathing and positive visualization (me, not at this job), I’ll lose it. I will do something I will regret.
I am not a patient person. I am not a
tolerant
person. That’s what they told me at
I squint up toward the street. My house isn’t too far now. My parents won’t be home, though. I imagine bringing Oliver inside and feeding him something nutritious. Maybe I’ll make him a hamburger. Then I’ll fill the kitchen sink with warm sudsy water and give him a nice bath. Maybe I’ll find a big box in the basement and decorate the outside like a present to put Oliver in and surprise my parents. I know they’ll freak out at first, but I also know they’ll love him. Just like I already do. I’ll let him nap on the couch and get some rest, then I’ll take him for another walk and show him the neighborhood.
I can’t remember the last time I looked forward to the rest of the day. I’ve forgotten about the girls and the game I’m missing tonight. And the homework I forgot to bring home. And to feel bad about the usual messages I haven’t received since I lost my part-of-the-girls status.
For the first time, I don’t feel like everyone else.
I feel like me.
This is
me.
“Ready, boy?” I ask when Oliver finishes his Slim Jim.
He wags his bum happily.
As we walk toward home, I realize I also forgot about finding a new trendy café and whatever it was I dreamed of writing. I forgot all about the man with his finger, and how he made me feel. Like a fake. A fraud.
My café fantasy was just that. A dumb dream. But this moment, this walking home with a new friend, is real. Is true. Is what I was looking for. That something more to life I’ve always wanted.
Something to care about.
I walk faster. Oliver starts to run ahead, so I jog after him. He yips at me in a friendly way, like,
I don’t know where we’re going, but I can’t wait to get there!
“Faster!” I yell, and sprint past him.
He yips again, and we charge ahead.
EVERY MORNING AT APPROXIMATELY 7:25, I pull out of my driveway and head to hell, also known as Little Cindy’s restaurant. I don’t like to talk about work. It’s temporary. My dad’s going to get me a real job at the Ford dealership he works at as soon as I turn twenty-one. Two years seems like forever. But this situation is temporary.
At approximately 7:33, I reach my first traffic light. I always gaze at the green house on the corner and remember the girl who used to live there. Her name was Marcie. She was hot. Long dark hair. Huge tits. Tight jeans. Leather boots. She never looked at me. I heard she went to New York and became a model.
Everyone I graduated with last year seems to have gone off somewhere to become something.
Except me.
At approximately 7:42, I drive past my old high school. I roll down my window, stick out my hand, and give it and everyone inside the finger. Sometimes there are still late arrivals rushing through the parking lot to get to school. I always hope they’ll see me, but they never do.
Sometimes when I stick out my finger, a car behind me honks. Sometimes with approval. Sometimes not. It makes no difference to me.
At approximately 7:53, I obey the ENTER HERE sign in the parking lot and park in the farthest corner. I sit in my car and breathe. A lot. I hate my job. My father always says beggars can’t be choosers. He says that someday I’ll be glad I had the experience. I’ll appreciate what I have more.
My dad is kind of like my dad and kind of like my best friend. We do a lot together. We lift weights at the gym. We wash his car and my car. We keep the yard up nice. We watch TV. It’s always been like that since my mother dumped us.
That’s another thing I don’t like to talk about.
I guess you could call what I do before I go inside “car meditation.” If I don’t do some serious controlled breathing and positive visualization (me, not at this job), I’ll lose it. I will do something I will regret.
I am not a patient person. I am not a
tolerant
person. That’s what they told me at
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