Read Online The Genius of Little Things by Larry Buhl - Free Book Online Page B

hear them, but not close enough to invade their turf. The halter-top girl proclaimed me too funny, and then she shifted to oral sex. I mean she started talking about oral sex, not performing it.
It became clear after a minute or so that the conversation would no longer involve me. I knew this because nobody asked me anything or even looked at me. My tenure in the cool kids club could have been measured with a stopwatch.
I returned to my previous perch in the shade. When it looked like Rachel wasn’t coming, I commenced with my lunch. About five minutes before the bell, Rachel bolted to my table. She wore beige overalls and a black t-shirt. Her hair was different, tamed. I could clearly see her face. Pretty, I thought.
“News room crisis,” she said, out of breath. “Is it still okay?”
I told her it would be fine. But in reality I was a little miffed. Rachel plopped her notebook and recorder next to my pickles and immediately asked what made me decide to “rock the boat on drugs.” I was momentarily confused, because the way she phrased it made it seem like I was a drug-addicted sailor.
“Your speech? You did try to rock the boat, didn’t you?”
“I cited statistics, that’s all.”
“What about STDs?”
I stuffed two chips into my mouth and considered what she was asking. Surely she didn’t want to know whether I had any STDs. As I’ve said before, I dislike ambiguity.
She was staring at me, pen poised.
“I was researching drugs and STDs for an audition for the debate team,” I said.
“You’re joining the debate team?”
“Probably not.”
She spent the next minute writing. She used one of those oversized grippy pens that made her look like a preschooler trying to write for the first time. Then she asked me to describe a typical day. By that time I had already taken a bite of my pickle. She turned off her recorder and waited patiently for me to finish chewing.
“I go to the library,” I said, after swallowing.
She turned on the recorder. “Every day?”
“Not on Sunday.”
“And drugs? Do you use them?”
“Only allergy meds.”
“My mother and I are both allergic to peanuts,” she said. “Isn’t that strange? Allergies are hereditary, I think.”
I didn’t tell her about my BiMo’s food allergies. That would have led to the revelation about how she died, and that was a box that didn’t need to be opened.
“What are you eating?”
I showed her what had not been consumed. I told her I brought the same lunch every day.
“Fascinating,” she said, in a tone that suggested she thought it was more odd than fascinating. Then she leaned in.
“Tell me about little Tyler.”
I coughed.
In sixth grade, there was this kid, Charlie, who referred to his male organ as “little Charlie.” It was an irritating and juvenile way of referring to one’s privates, which, in my opinion, should not be referred to at all. I was fairly certain Rachel was not asking about my genitals. Rather, she was fishing for information on my childhood, which was almost as bad.
“I read a lot of books,” I said.
Rachel jotted down far more things than I had stated. I wanted to pivot off the topic, so I cleared my throat and made some exaggerated fidgets, which may have made me look like I had poor muscle control.
“Tell me five things you’re carrying in your safari vest right now,” she said, looking up from her pad.
Across the courtyard, two guys shouted, “hands off my…” and “… yours , dude.” Students jumped up, and action rippled out beyond ground zero. Then, just as suddenly, the fight stopped. Students sat, one by one, like the wave at a football game. Rachel hadn’t noticed the truncated fight. She was staring at me.
“I prefer to not talk about personal matters.” It came out harsher than I had intended. But she had pushed me into it with her big green eyes and compliments and proper grammar and talk of “little Tyler.” Mostly, the problem was my childhood. There wasn’t much good about it, and