Read Online The Blackberry Bush by David Housholder - Free Book Online Page A

.
    I love home and hate it—at the same time.
    It’s always great to walk in and see Opa, who’s lived with us since we moved to Los Angeles. But Mutti told me not to come home unless I get a haircut, and I’m not getting one. She used to say it was because she was afraid of long hair getting caught in the power tools that Opa and I would use, but we left those behind with the family that’s renting our house back in Germany.
    Nowadays, she just tells me it’s because I don’t have nice hair, and the less of it I have, the better. Well, I’m not cutting it today, and I’m never cutting it. It’s the one thing I can control about my looks. There’s always one pancake in a batch that is shaped funny and a little burned. That would be me.
    Johanna’s hair is perfect. She’s perfect. Being around her—and everybody who makes such a big deal over her—is hard for me. So I stay away from home as much as I can.
    Mutti told me that moving to California would be a chance for me to start over, to be more popular than I was in Germany. She meant well, but it made me dread the pressure of coming here and having to perform better, socially, for her.
    I still have very few friends, and Americans name everyone their friends. If I were to stop calling or greeting people, I would fall off of the map. No one ever takes the initiative to get to know me. No one, except Zara, really even knows I’m from another country. My English is perfect, and no one seems interested enough to ask where I come from.
    Zara is from Pakistan. There are a lot of Pakistanis and Orthodox Jews here in the Melrose District.
    I love the colorful shops here along Melrose. Wish I had lived here all my life. There is so much to see here—so much going on. LA is always in present tense. No one cares about history. It’s all about the here and now. So much right-now that it makes you dizzy. I think I just said “so much” three times.
    I go in and out of most of the shops on a regular basis. The fashions are way ahead of what we were wearing in Germany. I tell Mutti I’m with friends, but I’m usually shopping alone. Every time I ride all the way through the Melrose District, a storefront has changed hands. There’s always something new to look at.
    I wish I could resent Johanna for being the always-favored one, but she’s so likeable. Should I feel bad for wanting with all my might to dislike her? Why can’t I be likeable? She doesn’t seem to have to work at it. But the more I work at being liked, the worse it works. It’s so not fair.
    And all the girls at school, including Zara, are developing a figure. Not me. Mutti even took me to the doctor to ask what’s wrong. I have never been more humiliated in all my life than sitting there in the doctor’s office. They can’t find anything physical that might be causing it. I just look like a skinny, awkward boy with a lot of hair. I hate walking by mirrors. That’s why I never wear jeans or pants—always a stylish skirt or dress. I am traumatized by the thought of people wondering what gender I am. Can you imagine how embarrassing that is for me? Maybe they don’t wonder at all, but I worry about it anyway.
    There are days when I physically feel like I’m always about to lose my balance. It’s hard to describe. It’s like chronic tripping…constantly being “off.”
    I’m afraid of mistakes, so I speak softly and then people always have to ask me to repeat myself—which makes the awkwardness worse.
    Mutti bought me new jeans for Christmas last year, and they still have the tags on them. Like I’m going to wear them and have everyone think I’m a boy. Not going to happen. Makeup doesn’t work very well, either. My hair is bushy, my eyes are small, my nose is huge, so why draw attention to my face with cosmetics? I’m developing a mega-collection of big sunglasses. No one will have to see my eyes.
    And I’m too tall. Way too tall. It would be embarrassing to dance with a boy my