Read Online The Realm of Possibility by David Levithan - Free Book Online
Authors: David Levithan
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Inept But Intelligent people in our class.
I know he won't laugh at me
Or ask too many questions.
I don't know which I am more afraid of.
The truth is laughable.
And the truth isn't funny at all.
One time my mother told me she had this friend named Leo
Who carried a hula hoop around with him at school.
He kept everything inside of it. Chapters from his textbooks,
Coins for a soda. Even a comb that he'd filed down to fit.
I think my mother was in love with Leo, at least a little.
He would let her twirl the hoop with her waist and
She would hear all of his possessions turning around her.
Then they'd go outside and get stoned, or at least
That's what my mother told me.
I tell Jed I've never understood the word “stoned.”
I thought the whole purpose of smoking pot
Was to find a kind of lightness, to lift a burden.
This is my way of introducing the subject.
He says he never understood the term “pot” either
Since it's not like you're boiling the weed.
I hear “weed” and wish that finding pot
Was as easy as picking dandelions in the park.
I say, “If I wanted to find some, where would I?”
I don't add, “It's not for me,” because I swore to myself
I wouldn't say that, couldn't say that, even to Jed.
Jed looks at me curiously, but is going to play along.
“You'd go to Toby,” he says. “You know Toby.”
And I tell him it depends on the definition, because
Of course I know who Toby is, but I haven't spoken to him
Since we had recess together—the kind with jungle gyms.
“Do you want me to ask him?” Jed offers. But I say
No, I have to take care of this myself.
I think my mother has this line she's made for herself.
She'll tell me she's done drugs, but she won't tell me
What it was like. She doesn't want to make them sound good
But the stories with drugs are always the exciting ones.
I think she was high when she met my father,
Which would explain a lot of what happened next.
Because even I know that a high isn't something you can keep
Day to day. They were at a concert and she fell in love
With his shirt. I've seen the shirt in the back of the closet
At his house. It's yellow and purple. It makes no sense.
Toby is not a bad guy. He's just not my kind of guy.
I think the only thing we have in common is that
We both hate gym. When people make the distinction
Between “smart” and “intelligent,” he is an example of “smart”
And I am an example of “intelligent.” He carries a knapsack
Covered with buttons for bands whose names seem to come
From the Dictionary of Contentious Words. He sleeps in class,
Wakes neighbors at night. The principal knows him by first name But can never nail him for anything more than his attitude.
I walk over to him on the sidelines at gym, even as
I realize that not even Toby would have pot in his gym clothes.
“What's up?” he asks, like we talk all the time.
“Not much,” I reply automatically. Then I teeter
And am about to walk away when he says,
“Did you want to ask me something?”
Not like he knows the answer. I'm speechless, so he says,
“You looked like you wanted to ask me something.”
And I say, “I need to get some pot.”
Just like that. I expect alarms to go off,
All the kids on the field to stop and gape.
I expect to have become a lesser person.
Or at least for Toby to be surprised.
But he just says, “Not here. How much?”
I have no idea. He prompts me,
“A nickel? A dime? A quarter?”
And I have no clue whether he's talking cost
Or some other measure. So I just say,
“A half-dollar,” and he whistles like I'm
A real player. “Come over at four,” he says.
And I nod, thinking as I walk back to pick up
My field hockey stick that this is the first time
That a boy's asked me over in a while.
My mother likes to say she was never a genius
Because she probably killed too many brain cells.
From the way she says it, I know she thinks
I am most probably a genius, and I have
Way too many brain cells left.
She is always telling me to have fun.
I want
I know he won't laugh at me
Or ask too many questions.
I don't know which I am more afraid of.
The truth is laughable.
And the truth isn't funny at all.
One time my mother told me she had this friend named Leo
Who carried a hula hoop around with him at school.
He kept everything inside of it. Chapters from his textbooks,
Coins for a soda. Even a comb that he'd filed down to fit.
I think my mother was in love with Leo, at least a little.
He would let her twirl the hoop with her waist and
She would hear all of his possessions turning around her.
Then they'd go outside and get stoned, or at least
That's what my mother told me.
I tell Jed I've never understood the word “stoned.”
I thought the whole purpose of smoking pot
Was to find a kind of lightness, to lift a burden.
This is my way of introducing the subject.
He says he never understood the term “pot” either
Since it's not like you're boiling the weed.
I hear “weed” and wish that finding pot
Was as easy as picking dandelions in the park.
I say, “If I wanted to find some, where would I?”
I don't add, “It's not for me,” because I swore to myself
I wouldn't say that, couldn't say that, even to Jed.
Jed looks at me curiously, but is going to play along.
“You'd go to Toby,” he says. “You know Toby.”
And I tell him it depends on the definition, because
Of course I know who Toby is, but I haven't spoken to him
Since we had recess together—the kind with jungle gyms.
“Do you want me to ask him?” Jed offers. But I say
No, I have to take care of this myself.
I think my mother has this line she's made for herself.
She'll tell me she's done drugs, but she won't tell me
What it was like. She doesn't want to make them sound good
But the stories with drugs are always the exciting ones.
I think she was high when she met my father,
Which would explain a lot of what happened next.
Because even I know that a high isn't something you can keep
Day to day. They were at a concert and she fell in love
With his shirt. I've seen the shirt in the back of the closet
At his house. It's yellow and purple. It makes no sense.
Toby is not a bad guy. He's just not my kind of guy.
I think the only thing we have in common is that
We both hate gym. When people make the distinction
Between “smart” and “intelligent,” he is an example of “smart”
And I am an example of “intelligent.” He carries a knapsack
Covered with buttons for bands whose names seem to come
From the Dictionary of Contentious Words. He sleeps in class,
Wakes neighbors at night. The principal knows him by first name But can never nail him for anything more than his attitude.
I walk over to him on the sidelines at gym, even as
I realize that not even Toby would have pot in his gym clothes.
“What's up?” he asks, like we talk all the time.
“Not much,” I reply automatically. Then I teeter
And am about to walk away when he says,
“Did you want to ask me something?”
Not like he knows the answer. I'm speechless, so he says,
“You looked like you wanted to ask me something.”
And I say, “I need to get some pot.”
Just like that. I expect alarms to go off,
All the kids on the field to stop and gape.
I expect to have become a lesser person.
Or at least for Toby to be surprised.
But he just says, “Not here. How much?”
I have no idea. He prompts me,
“A nickel? A dime? A quarter?”
And I have no clue whether he's talking cost
Or some other measure. So I just say,
“A half-dollar,” and he whistles like I'm
A real player. “Come over at four,” he says.
And I nod, thinking as I walk back to pick up
My field hockey stick that this is the first time
That a boy's asked me over in a while.
My mother likes to say she was never a genius
Because she probably killed too many brain cells.
From the way she says it, I know she thinks
I am most probably a genius, and I have
Way too many brain cells left.
She is always telling me to have fun.
I want
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