Read Online The Realm of Possibility by David Levithan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Levithan
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to.
“Clara,” she says, her voice so many things wrong.
And I tell her I've brought her something
To ease the pain. I move closer
Pulling the baggie out. At first she doesn't understand.
Then there's recognition. Surprise. My name, this time,
Is a full exclamation. “Clara Barger! Is that?!”
She laughs and hugs me and opens the baggie,
Probing her fingers inside, then inhaling like an old pro.
“Good stuff,” she says. And the delight in her eyes
Is my idea of heaven. I have done this one thing right.
She asks me if I have rolling papers, and then quickly tells me Not to worry, she has some of her own. When she doesn't tell me Where they are, which of her drawers, I know that I am not going To be a part of this. This is something she is going to do alone. She tells me I've done enough already, that she is happy. Even without it lit, she bends her head and inhales. Closes her eyes, but this time she is not a patient, my father's ex, Or even my mother. She is ducking out to the parking lot. She is holding the hand of a day she never felt she'd touch Again.
We always hug before I leave the room.
This time it wraps me a little more.
The sun hasn't gone down yet
But she's saying goodnight, she's saying
She has some evening plans. I tell her
To have fun, to not do anything I wouldn't do.
Which is a lie, and we both know it.
That night as I type a paper about Emerson
And talk on the phone to a boy who's only good for
Calculus, my mother blasts the stereo so loud I think
The neighbors will complain, and the air lingers
With a spice and a flame this house hasn't known
For years, unless you count dreams.
In school the next day
I talk about the novels of Jane Austen
The quadratic equation
Heisenberg's Principle of Uncertainty.
I conjugate four languages
Discuss all the periods of Picasso
And the reasons Jane Grey was beheaded.
But like always all I'm really thinking about
Is a bedroom with a woman sick inside.
Today I picture her toking up,
Smiling over the pain.
Please put that on my transcript.
In gym, I don't see him, but when I'm walking home
Toby appears at my side. He says, “Hey,”
And takes something out of his backpack.
It's a Gap bag, but I can tell there's another bag
Inside. I didn't know I'd signed up for a daily
Delivery service. I am annoyed
At myself. “I don't have any money,” I say,
“I can't.” He smiles and says, “Take it.”
We stop and he unzips my bag and puts the pot inside.
“I'll have to pay you tomorrow,” I protest.
And he shakes his head.
“Just take it.” “But I don't want it.”
And then he says,
“It's not for you.”
And I know
He knows exactly what's going on. My secret
Is so much less a secret than I ever thought.
He does the most unbelievable thing then
Right there in the middle of the road
He gives me the biggest hug and I just about fall
Apart. How can I
Thank
Protest
Comprehend
Him? He won't give me a chance
He nods once
Acknowledging me
Then walks away.
four
Charlotte
Elizabeth
Cara
Lia
Writing
I've always put thoughts in the margins. Some pages are all margins—just the words thrown down and recorded wherever they land. I have spent most of my time in high school doing this. Sometimes a word or two from the teacher will break through. But not often. Instead I just think through the pen. Whatever comes. I won't even try to explain it. There is no need to explain it. Some people like to doodle cartoon animals and other people write notes to other people. Fine for them. I've never been like that. It is always raining in my head. The closest thing I have to order is the way the lines are set on the pages. But even those I disregard. And then one day I jump right off. Instead of turning the page I just start writing on the desk. All that open surface. Right there. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. The words just start to fall there. And I feel some satisfaction from that. I've never written just for myself. And I've never written for anyone else. I write for the release
“Clara,” she says, her voice so many things wrong.
And I tell her I've brought her something
To ease the pain. I move closer
Pulling the baggie out. At first she doesn't understand.
Then there's recognition. Surprise. My name, this time,
Is a full exclamation. “Clara Barger! Is that?!”
She laughs and hugs me and opens the baggie,
Probing her fingers inside, then inhaling like an old pro.
“Good stuff,” she says. And the delight in her eyes
Is my idea of heaven. I have done this one thing right.
She asks me if I have rolling papers, and then quickly tells me Not to worry, she has some of her own. When she doesn't tell me Where they are, which of her drawers, I know that I am not going To be a part of this. This is something she is going to do alone. She tells me I've done enough already, that she is happy. Even without it lit, she bends her head and inhales. Closes her eyes, but this time she is not a patient, my father's ex, Or even my mother. She is ducking out to the parking lot. She is holding the hand of a day she never felt she'd touch Again.
We always hug before I leave the room.
This time it wraps me a little more.
The sun hasn't gone down yet
But she's saying goodnight, she's saying
She has some evening plans. I tell her
To have fun, to not do anything I wouldn't do.
Which is a lie, and we both know it.
That night as I type a paper about Emerson
And talk on the phone to a boy who's only good for
Calculus, my mother blasts the stereo so loud I think
The neighbors will complain, and the air lingers
With a spice and a flame this house hasn't known
For years, unless you count dreams.
In school the next day
I talk about the novels of Jane Austen
The quadratic equation
Heisenberg's Principle of Uncertainty.
I conjugate four languages
Discuss all the periods of Picasso
And the reasons Jane Grey was beheaded.
But like always all I'm really thinking about
Is a bedroom with a woman sick inside.
Today I picture her toking up,
Smiling over the pain.
Please put that on my transcript.
In gym, I don't see him, but when I'm walking home
Toby appears at my side. He says, “Hey,”
And takes something out of his backpack.
It's a Gap bag, but I can tell there's another bag
Inside. I didn't know I'd signed up for a daily
Delivery service. I am annoyed
At myself. “I don't have any money,” I say,
“I can't.” He smiles and says, “Take it.”
We stop and he unzips my bag and puts the pot inside.
“I'll have to pay you tomorrow,” I protest.
And he shakes his head.
“Just take it.” “But I don't want it.”
And then he says,
“It's not for you.”
And I know
He knows exactly what's going on. My secret
Is so much less a secret than I ever thought.
He does the most unbelievable thing then
Right there in the middle of the road
He gives me the biggest hug and I just about fall
Apart. How can I
Thank
Protest
Comprehend
Him? He won't give me a chance
He nods once
Acknowledging me
Then walks away.
four
Charlotte
Elizabeth
Cara
Lia
Writing
I've always put thoughts in the margins. Some pages are all margins—just the words thrown down and recorded wherever they land. I have spent most of my time in high school doing this. Sometimes a word or two from the teacher will break through. But not often. Instead I just think through the pen. Whatever comes. I won't even try to explain it. There is no need to explain it. Some people like to doodle cartoon animals and other people write notes to other people. Fine for them. I've never been like that. It is always raining in my head. The closest thing I have to order is the way the lines are set on the pages. But even those I disregard. And then one day I jump right off. Instead of turning the page I just start writing on the desk. All that open surface. Right there. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. The words just start to fall there. And I feel some satisfaction from that. I've never written just for myself. And I've never written for anyone else. I write for the release
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