again and rubs his eye.
His mood ring is glowing bright blue, like his eyes. His pupils are like pinpricks and make the blue bits of his eyes look even bigger. I’m not poetic enough to think of some fantastically beautiful description of Jackson’s eyes. All I ever come up with are wanky things like that crushed blue ice you suck through a straw. But they’re that blue. As blue as that ice. Chemical blue. He takes the card out of his back pocket again and drops another couple of pills. “Aspirin,” he explains.
I laugh, but I don’t know why. I can’t stop staring at his eyes. I have to say something about his eyes. “Your eyes are like Slush Puppies.”
“What?”
“Oh, uh, nothing. I’m . . . uh, eBay. I’m wearing the eBay shirt. Your shirt for charity.”
“Oh. Yeah. I, uh, I hope you feel better soon,” he says with some finality, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the floor, swaying a tiny bit, like he’s about to fall over. Then he takes a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He moves away, stands at the end of my bed, and cups the hand with the mood ring over a cigarette as he lights it. Fat Controller marches over.
“I’m sorry but we do have a smoking ban in this country,” she says, just like she did before with Pash, and her nostrils go all cave-dweller big. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and just stands there looking down at her, head bowed. He scratches his fingertips through his scalp and laughs.
And in that moment, it’s almost as though the scenery peels back and me and Jackson step out of it. Everything happens on the other side of the room. In the corner by Cereal Bar Girl, Pash slips over, probably on one of the many ice cubes scattered about the floor, and knocks his head on a plastic chair. There is immediate panic from everyone nearby and they all gather around him. Security guys are on their CB radios. Black Uniforms buzz around. The Fat Controller orders them about like she’s queen bee. Everyone’s preoccupied. Everyone is concerned about Pash. Everyone except Jackson. He stays right where he is at the end of my bed. He doesn’t even seem to care. He puts his hands in the tops of his pockets. He stumbles a bit, and pulls them out again and steadies himself on the bed.
And that’s when rational thought hops aboard the night train out of there. I
have
to talk to him again, I
have
to touch him again, to feel the tingle of him when he shook my hand. I have to tell him about my grandad and the moon rock and everything he means to me.
“Don’t Dream It, Be It.”
He has to know what he means to me.
Be it!
He turns around. And I just react.
“Jackson?” I say.
“Huh?” he slowly, painfully turns to face me.
“Do you want my Curly Wurly?” I blurt out, lurching to the end of the bed and thrusting the thing right up in his face.
O-M-F-G.
He looks at it all big-eyes, like it’s diseased. He thinks I’m a whale. This sad, pathetic loser who has to have chocolate on her at all times in case of emergencies. Some real fat-ass.
“All right,” he says, staring at it wide-eyed. He’s still swaying about. “Take it easy.”
It’s still there, the Curly Wurly, thrust out before him. I can’t move my arm. It’s locked like it’s turned to stone or something. “It’s OK, you can have it, take it,” I insist, jabbing him in the cheek with it. The end I’m holding is limp in my iron fist, I’m squeezing it so tightly.
“I’ll do what you want just . . . p-please, no drama,” he says, like I’ve got a knife against his cheek, not a Curly Wurly.
He’s just staring at it. There’s a blur in my eye again. I blink it away, and as I open my eyes from the blink, he’s there with his hands up in front of him. Not one person is looking our way, they’re all too worried about Pash or having breathing problems of their own to notice. Oh. My. God. He thinks it’s a weapon. Jackson thinks my Curly Wurly is a
knife
!
“Oh, no. No
His mood ring is glowing bright blue, like his eyes. His pupils are like pinpricks and make the blue bits of his eyes look even bigger. I’m not poetic enough to think of some fantastically beautiful description of Jackson’s eyes. All I ever come up with are wanky things like that crushed blue ice you suck through a straw. But they’re that blue. As blue as that ice. Chemical blue. He takes the card out of his back pocket again and drops another couple of pills. “Aspirin,” he explains.
I laugh, but I don’t know why. I can’t stop staring at his eyes. I have to say something about his eyes. “Your eyes are like Slush Puppies.”
“What?”
“Oh, uh, nothing. I’m . . . uh, eBay. I’m wearing the eBay shirt. Your shirt for charity.”
“Oh. Yeah. I, uh, I hope you feel better soon,” he says with some finality, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the floor, swaying a tiny bit, like he’s about to fall over. Then he takes a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He moves away, stands at the end of my bed, and cups the hand with the mood ring over a cigarette as he lights it. Fat Controller marches over.
“I’m sorry but we do have a smoking ban in this country,” she says, just like she did before with Pash, and her nostrils go all cave-dweller big. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and just stands there looking down at her, head bowed. He scratches his fingertips through his scalp and laughs.
And in that moment, it’s almost as though the scenery peels back and me and Jackson step out of it. Everything happens on the other side of the room. In the corner by Cereal Bar Girl, Pash slips over, probably on one of the many ice cubes scattered about the floor, and knocks his head on a plastic chair. There is immediate panic from everyone nearby and they all gather around him. Security guys are on their CB radios. Black Uniforms buzz around. The Fat Controller orders them about like she’s queen bee. Everyone’s preoccupied. Everyone is concerned about Pash. Everyone except Jackson. He stays right where he is at the end of my bed. He doesn’t even seem to care. He puts his hands in the tops of his pockets. He stumbles a bit, and pulls them out again and steadies himself on the bed.
And that’s when rational thought hops aboard the night train out of there. I
have
to talk to him again, I
have
to touch him again, to feel the tingle of him when he shook my hand. I have to tell him about my grandad and the moon rock and everything he means to me.
“Don’t Dream It, Be It.”
He has to know what he means to me.
Be it!
He turns around. And I just react.
“Jackson?” I say.
“Huh?” he slowly, painfully turns to face me.
“Do you want my Curly Wurly?” I blurt out, lurching to the end of the bed and thrusting the thing right up in his face.
O-M-F-G.
He looks at it all big-eyes, like it’s diseased. He thinks I’m a whale. This sad, pathetic loser who has to have chocolate on her at all times in case of emergencies. Some real fat-ass.
“All right,” he says, staring at it wide-eyed. He’s still swaying about. “Take it easy.”
It’s still there, the Curly Wurly, thrust out before him. I can’t move my arm. It’s locked like it’s turned to stone or something. “It’s OK, you can have it, take it,” I insist, jabbing him in the cheek with it. The end I’m holding is limp in my iron fist, I’m squeezing it so tightly.
“I’ll do what you want just . . . p-please, no drama,” he says, like I’ve got a knife against his cheek, not a Curly Wurly.
He’s just staring at it. There’s a blur in my eye again. I blink it away, and as I open my eyes from the blink, he’s there with his hands up in front of him. Not one person is looking our way, they’re all too worried about Pash or having breathing problems of their own to notice. Oh. My. God. He thinks it’s a weapon. Jackson thinks my Curly Wurly is a
knife
!
“Oh, no. No
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