Read Online The Girl in the Well Is Me by Karen Rivers - Free Book Online Page B

least favorite metal. I like gold better, and bronze even better than that.
That’s just like you
, Robby would say,
to like the color that means third place. You’re such a loser, Loser.
    You’re a loser,
I’d say back.
You’re Prince Loser of Losertown, Lord of Losertania.
    And he’d be like,
That isn’t even funny, it’s just dumb, Dumbo. Queen Dumbo of Dumboland.
    Robby would be able to use his boy-­strength to get out of this well without a rope. That’s the kind of thing he does. He gets out of trouble. I fall into wells. When I finally get out, he’ll probably say, “Why’d you stay down there so long? Are you retarded?”
    And I’ll say, “Don’t use that word, you freak.”
    And he’ll say, “Don’t call me a freak, you jerk.”
    And then I’ll probably punch him or maybe do that thing where I push in the back of his knees and he falls over. And then he’ll probably punch me back or sit on me and spit onto my face, that long gob of saliva dangling over my lips. And then I’ll probably throw up.
    I miss Robby and all his gangly strength and the way he hops up and down from foot to foot when he’s waiting for something to happen, like he has too much energy to actually contain in his human body.
    â€œHelp,” I say, just to see if my voice still works or to see if the silent silver has stolen my sounds away. I sound croaky, like a frog. A hopping frog. Robby, the jumping frog. Dad used to say Robby was frogging when he hopped from foot to foot. “Stop frogging, Robb-­o,” he’d say. “You’re making me tired.” And Robby would stop frogging. Dad had that kind of power. I’d say, “Stop frogging, Robb-­o,” and he’d say, “Zip it, Skippy,” and he’d frog even more. Frog, frog, frog.
Ribbit, ribbit
.
    â€œWoe is me,” I croak to the imaginary silver coyote that’s fallen on my head. Then in a French accent, “Vat did ve do to deserve this,
mon ami
?
Zut alors! Au secours!
”
    No one in Nowheresville speaks French, except for
le coyote d’argent
, naturally. Animals know either all languages or none, I forget which. I learned French the summer before last at camp. It was French or canoeing, and I don’t like the water any more than I like the fish that lurk around in it, looking hungrily at all that skin on your bare, kicking legs.
    â€œ
Je ne sais pas
,” my imaginary head-­coyote says. “
Je t’aime. Ou est la salle de bain?
”
    Then we’re quiet for a while because that is all the French I know, and I guess it’s the limit of his vocabulary, too. Maybe if I knew the real French word for coyote, we’d be better friends and he’d save me, knitting me a rope ladder to the top out of his silky fur.
    â€œ
Au revoir
,” I say to him, and then he’s gone in a shivery blink.
    I hear more footsteps.
    â€œCroak, croak,” I croak and the animal barks,
Le woof! Le woof!
He is also
français
!
Mon dieu!
Maybe it is Lassie, this time! Lassie is a dog from an old TV show. Robby and I, we watched all of those shows. After a while, they were boring, but there was something good about them, too. They were like the hand-­knitted afghans that you cover yourself with at your Grandma’s house. Boring, safe, slightly annoying. Lassie was a bit like that, but she also always saved the day. No one was ever left to die. Not in one single episode.
    â€œLassie!” I shout. “I am in the well! I mean,
Je suis
in the well!
Dans
the well!
Dans LE
well!”
    We never used to watch dumb old shows like
Lassie
back in New Jersey. We watched reality TV, like
The Singer
with Mom and Dad on the massive TV in the living room, which is one of the many things that is now gone gone gone into a huge underground storage tank at the bank where they keep the things stolen by wrongdoers. The TV. The living