Read Online The Museum of Intangible Things by Wendy Wunder - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Wendy Wunder
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rib.
“Nothing,” I say. I will never wash this rib again. “You kissed me once,” I say.
“I remember.”
“You do?”
“Of course.”
I don’t think he remembers it the way I remember it, though. For me it was a perfect moment.
Somehow, a big group of us ended up at the beach. Boys and girls together. It was a day like today. Crisp but not cold. Sweatshirt weather. Danny’s sweatshirt was red.
A game of Nerf football started, and we ran around like a whirling rainbow of sweatshirts and Converse sneakers, and I caught the ball. Danny, his hands too big for him even then, grabbed me and pulled me onto the autumn’s dying grass. He looked at me, and without hesitation pressed his wet, red lips against mine. It was so instantaneous and unpremeditated. Time stopped. I felt relaxed. Contented. At home in myself. And for a microsecond of eternity, it was like we were in the Garden of Eden.
We had that kiss. And after that, I began to understand the story of Adam and Eve. The falling from grace. It was as if Danny’s impossibly red lips were the apple, and after I kissed them I was never again comfortable inside my own body. Something clamped around my stomach and my throat. I was suddenly ashamed and constantly aware of the fact that I was being watched. I no longer just
did
things; I wondered what I
looked like
while I was doing them.
He smiles, shakes his head as if he were remembering it too and needed to jolt himself back into the present. “Can I buy you an ice cream?” he asks. “I know a place.” He points to the spot in the parking lot where he has left the truck.
“Do you have a Toasted Almond?” I say.
“Whoa, that’s old school. And with all the nut allergies these days, I can’t risk it. I have SpongeBob, or Spider-Man with gumball eyes, or if you want something with actual milk and sugar in it, you’ll have to go for an ice cream sandwich.”
“Perfect. I enjoy ice cream sandwiches.”
Danny gestures in a gentlemanly way for me to walk in front of him. I’m shivering from having dipped my toes into the lake or from suddenly being on a “date” with Danny Spinelli. I shiver again and almost flutter a little like Noah would. Danny wraps his hoodie around my shoulders.
When we get to his truck, he jumps inside and digs around in his deep coolers for an ice cream sandwich. I never realized that there were so many muscles on top of one’s shoulder. They bulge through the soft cotton of his T-shirt as he pushes around his product in search of my old-school ice cream sandwich.
“Okay. Here we go.” He hands it to me, and I unwrap it.
“Want some?” I ask.
“No,” he says, leaning his forearms on the edge of the service window.
I’m proud of myself for taking a small girly bite and not wielding my tongue around the edges, which is what I would normally do. A speedboat buzzes like an annoying insect across the lake.
“Remember the story of the guy . . .”
“Yeah,” I say. I don’t need him to finish it. There was the story about the guy who was decapitated during the annual speedboat regatta. He flipped his boat at 200 mph, fell out, got run over by another boat, and was left with his head bobbing and floating in the water like a cantaloupe. There was also the one about the guy who fell through the ice in his snowmobile and the one about the girl who wandered home alone from the carnival and got murdered in the woods. And the legend of the hopefully vegetarian sea monster that had the head of a moose and the wrinkled gray body of an elephant. Small-town, lake-country lore designed to keep kids terrified and on land and close to home.
He unwraps a Bomb Pop, and we walk together along the beach letting the edge of the water slip beneath our sneakers.
He smiles at me, feeling the same elation I am, I can tell. I can tell because the feeling hangs between us like a rope. When you share a feeling with someone it takes on matter and weight. Even if you’re the only ones
“Nothing,” I say. I will never wash this rib again. “You kissed me once,” I say.
“I remember.”
“You do?”
“Of course.”
I don’t think he remembers it the way I remember it, though. For me it was a perfect moment.
Somehow, a big group of us ended up at the beach. Boys and girls together. It was a day like today. Crisp but not cold. Sweatshirt weather. Danny’s sweatshirt was red.
A game of Nerf football started, and we ran around like a whirling rainbow of sweatshirts and Converse sneakers, and I caught the ball. Danny, his hands too big for him even then, grabbed me and pulled me onto the autumn’s dying grass. He looked at me, and without hesitation pressed his wet, red lips against mine. It was so instantaneous and unpremeditated. Time stopped. I felt relaxed. Contented. At home in myself. And for a microsecond of eternity, it was like we were in the Garden of Eden.
We had that kiss. And after that, I began to understand the story of Adam and Eve. The falling from grace. It was as if Danny’s impossibly red lips were the apple, and after I kissed them I was never again comfortable inside my own body. Something clamped around my stomach and my throat. I was suddenly ashamed and constantly aware of the fact that I was being watched. I no longer just
did
things; I wondered what I
looked like
while I was doing them.
He smiles, shakes his head as if he were remembering it too and needed to jolt himself back into the present. “Can I buy you an ice cream?” he asks. “I know a place.” He points to the spot in the parking lot where he has left the truck.
“Do you have a Toasted Almond?” I say.
“Whoa, that’s old school. And with all the nut allergies these days, I can’t risk it. I have SpongeBob, or Spider-Man with gumball eyes, or if you want something with actual milk and sugar in it, you’ll have to go for an ice cream sandwich.”
“Perfect. I enjoy ice cream sandwiches.”
Danny gestures in a gentlemanly way for me to walk in front of him. I’m shivering from having dipped my toes into the lake or from suddenly being on a “date” with Danny Spinelli. I shiver again and almost flutter a little like Noah would. Danny wraps his hoodie around my shoulders.
When we get to his truck, he jumps inside and digs around in his deep coolers for an ice cream sandwich. I never realized that there were so many muscles on top of one’s shoulder. They bulge through the soft cotton of his T-shirt as he pushes around his product in search of my old-school ice cream sandwich.
“Okay. Here we go.” He hands it to me, and I unwrap it.
“Want some?” I ask.
“No,” he says, leaning his forearms on the edge of the service window.
I’m proud of myself for taking a small girly bite and not wielding my tongue around the edges, which is what I would normally do. A speedboat buzzes like an annoying insect across the lake.
“Remember the story of the guy . . .”
“Yeah,” I say. I don’t need him to finish it. There was the story about the guy who was decapitated during the annual speedboat regatta. He flipped his boat at 200 mph, fell out, got run over by another boat, and was left with his head bobbing and floating in the water like a cantaloupe. There was also the one about the guy who fell through the ice in his snowmobile and the one about the girl who wandered home alone from the carnival and got murdered in the woods. And the legend of the hopefully vegetarian sea monster that had the head of a moose and the wrinkled gray body of an elephant. Small-town, lake-country lore designed to keep kids terrified and on land and close to home.
He unwraps a Bomb Pop, and we walk together along the beach letting the edge of the water slip beneath our sneakers.
He smiles at me, feeling the same elation I am, I can tell. I can tell because the feeling hangs between us like a rope. When you share a feeling with someone it takes on matter and weight. Even if you’re the only ones
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