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Authors: Susin Nielsen
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continued, stopping his rapid-fire monologue only to take a deep breath, “we need money to buy the tickets. And for gas and food and stuff.” He started to bounce on the balls of his feet. “I broke down the costs on an Excel spreadsheet last night. They’re based on three of us going. Me, you, and your dad.”
He knelt down and opened up his briefcase in the hallway. Then he handed me a sheet of paper.
Three tickets –
$200.00
Gas –
$50.00
Food –
$50.00
Souvenirs –
$100.00
Total –
$400.00
“That’s a ton of money,” I told him.
“The tickets might be a bit less, but I had to factor in all those dumb service charges. And I
know
I’m not leaving there without a GWF T-shirt and a Vlad the Impaler poster.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Me, neither. My parents make a lot of money in Hong Kong, but they’re cheapskates. They give Maria just enough for our expenses.”
We’d arrived in English class. Farley sat beside me. “Would your parents maybe lend you the money, and then we can figure out a way to pay them back?”
I looked away. How could I explain that my parents didn’t have any money?
Well, Farley, my mom can’t work because she’s in a loony bin, and our place is still for sale in Port Salish because no one wants to live in a murderer’s house. Oh, and since criminal charges were never laid against my brother because you can’t charge a dead person, the Marlins have launched a civil suit against my parents, claiming “wrongful death.” If they win, we might owe them a lot of money that we don’t have
.
Yeah, no.
“Just ask them over the weekend, okay? We
have
to go see this! We have to!”
Our teacher entered, and I thought that would shut Farley up. But he just kept whispering loudly, “Please! Please!” even after Mr. Schell started the lesson.
“Henry Larsen, tell your friend Mr. Wong to zip it,” Mr. Schell said.
But even that didn’t shut Farley up. He just kept whispering, over and over and over, “Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease –”
“Fine!” I said. “I’ll ask.”
Even though I knew I never would.
Later
I hate Cecil.
When I showed up at his office this afternoon, he said, “What do you say we go for a walk? It’s a beautiful day.”
Leaving the office seemed very “un-psychologist-like,” but it
was
a beautiful day – sunny after weeks of rain – so I said okay.
Once we were outside, he told me a long boring story about the matzo ball soup his mom would make when he had a cold and how good it made him feel. I was like
yawn
, but I nodded to be polite.
“Why don’t you tell me a happy memory about your family?” he said.
I have plenty of good memories about my family. But maybe I wanted to get a rise out of Cecil because I said, “We loved a good fart joke.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Great. Tell me one.”
“Confucius say, man who farts in church must sit in his own pew.”
He laughed. “That’s pretty good.”
So I told him another one. “What do you call a teacher who won’t fart in public? A private tutor.”
Cecil obviously likes toilet humor ’cause he laughed really hard, and I guess it made me feel good because I kept on going.
“Whenever we go to my Pop-Pop and Grams’s in Ontario, Pop-Pop
always
toots at the supper table. Like, loud.”
“Holy Moly.”
“He’s sixty percent deaf, and I guess he thinks that if he can’t hear it, we can’t either. But, of course, we can. And we have to try
so hard
not to laugh. Mom winds up snorting water up her nose. And Jesse and I have to squeeze each other’s knees really hard under the table –” I stopped.
I’d broken two rules. I’d spoken Jesse’s name aloud. And worse, I’d talked about him like he was still alive.
“Tell me another good memory.”
“No, thanks.”
“Please?”
“No, thanks.”
“Henry,” he began, “it’s okay to talk about your brother. It’s healthy.”
“I Am. An Only Child,” I answered in
He knelt down and opened up his briefcase in the hallway. Then he handed me a sheet of paper.
Three tickets –
$200.00
Gas –
$50.00
Food –
$50.00
Souvenirs –
$100.00
Total –
$400.00
“That’s a ton of money,” I told him.
“The tickets might be a bit less, but I had to factor in all those dumb service charges. And I
know
I’m not leaving there without a GWF T-shirt and a Vlad the Impaler poster.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Me, neither. My parents make a lot of money in Hong Kong, but they’re cheapskates. They give Maria just enough for our expenses.”
We’d arrived in English class. Farley sat beside me. “Would your parents maybe lend you the money, and then we can figure out a way to pay them back?”
I looked away. How could I explain that my parents didn’t have any money?
Well, Farley, my mom can’t work because she’s in a loony bin, and our place is still for sale in Port Salish because no one wants to live in a murderer’s house. Oh, and since criminal charges were never laid against my brother because you can’t charge a dead person, the Marlins have launched a civil suit against my parents, claiming “wrongful death.” If they win, we might owe them a lot of money that we don’t have
.
Yeah, no.
“Just ask them over the weekend, okay? We
have
to go see this! We have to!”
Our teacher entered, and I thought that would shut Farley up. But he just kept whispering loudly, “Please! Please!” even after Mr. Schell started the lesson.
“Henry Larsen, tell your friend Mr. Wong to zip it,” Mr. Schell said.
But even that didn’t shut Farley up. He just kept whispering, over and over and over, “Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease –”
“Fine!” I said. “I’ll ask.”
Even though I knew I never would.
Later
I hate Cecil.
When I showed up at his office this afternoon, he said, “What do you say we go for a walk? It’s a beautiful day.”
Leaving the office seemed very “un-psychologist-like,” but it
was
a beautiful day – sunny after weeks of rain – so I said okay.
Once we were outside, he told me a long boring story about the matzo ball soup his mom would make when he had a cold and how good it made him feel. I was like
yawn
, but I nodded to be polite.
“Why don’t you tell me a happy memory about your family?” he said.
I have plenty of good memories about my family. But maybe I wanted to get a rise out of Cecil because I said, “We loved a good fart joke.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Great. Tell me one.”
“Confucius say, man who farts in church must sit in his own pew.”
He laughed. “That’s pretty good.”
So I told him another one. “What do you call a teacher who won’t fart in public? A private tutor.”
Cecil obviously likes toilet humor ’cause he laughed really hard, and I guess it made me feel good because I kept on going.
“Whenever we go to my Pop-Pop and Grams’s in Ontario, Pop-Pop
always
toots at the supper table. Like, loud.”
“Holy Moly.”
“He’s sixty percent deaf, and I guess he thinks that if he can’t hear it, we can’t either. But, of course, we can. And we have to try
so hard
not to laugh. Mom winds up snorting water up her nose. And Jesse and I have to squeeze each other’s knees really hard under the table –” I stopped.
I’d broken two rules. I’d spoken Jesse’s name aloud. And worse, I’d talked about him like he was still alive.
“Tell me another good memory.”
“No, thanks.”
“Please?”
“No, thanks.”
“Henry,” he began, “it’s okay to talk about your brother. It’s healthy.”
“I Am. An Only Child,” I answered in
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