Read Online The Reluctant Journal of Henry K. Larsen by Susin Nielsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susin Nielsen
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Robot-Voice.
“No, you’re not. You had a brother, and you loved him. And I bet you still love him, even if you’re really angry with him, too. Those conflicting emotions are totally normal.”
I didn’t answer.
“Your dad told me what happened in the park a month before Jesse died –”
“System Meltdown!” I shouted in Robot-Voice. “System Meltdown! System Meltdown!” People on the sidewalk were turning to stare.
“It’s okay, Henry. Calm down –”
“System Meltdown!” I kept shouting as I spun in circles, flailing my arms.
“Why don’t we go back to the office –”
“System Meltdown!” I shouted again, then I ran away from Cecil as fast as my pygmy legs and my wobblies would carry me, which wasn’t very fast. But Cecil didn’t take up the chase. I guess he figured it wouldn’t look good – an old guy in a ponytail trying to tackle a kid.
When I got home, Dad still wasn’t there, so I went intohis room and pulled the shoebox out from under his bed.
“Shithead,” I whispered. “Thanks for ruining my life.”
Then I changed into my pajamas and ate four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a row.
S ATURDAY , F EBRUARY 16
INTRIGUING FACT: Weekends didn’t exist till the 1940s. Henry Ford was one of the first bosses to give his workers two days off in a row, in 1926; he figured people buying his Model T’s needed leisure time to drive them.
Before IT happened, I loved weekends. My family was good at them. In nice weather, we’d pack up the car and go camping or fishing. In bad weather, we’d bake bread and cookies and play board games and, of course, watch “Saturday Night Smash-Up.”
These days, weekends are torture. Today, for example, Dad spent a lot of time in bed with a “cold.” I’m pretty sure this was code for “hangover.” Usually he just drinks beer, but on Friday night he brought home a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and I noticed this morning that it was half-full.
Since he wasn’t feeling well, I did some chores around the apartment. I even put on rubber gloves and plugged my nose and scrubbed out the toilet, for the first time since wemoved in. Gross. Then I lugged a garbage bag full of dirty clothes to the laundry room in the basement. All the way down in the painfully slow elevator, I fantasized about seeing the GWF Smash-Up Live! in Seattle. But we could never afford it. I know I have to let it go.
When I got to the laundry room, all of the washing machines were full. One of them had finished its cycle, so I pulled the clothes out and placed them on the counter. Believe me, I had no desire to touch someone else’s clothes – especially not someone else’s
frilly undergarments
. But when something fell on the floor, I had no choice but to pick it up. It happened to be a very red BRA with big huge CUPS, and just as I was placing it on the counter, I heard, “Are you fondling my brassiere?”
Karen. She was standing in the doorway to the laundry room, arms crossed, smirking.
In an instant, my face felt like it was on fire, and I knew that even my freckles were blushing. “I was just emptying the machine so I could use it,” I said, hating her.
“You shouldn’t do that, you know,” she said as she started to toss her stuff into a dryer. “No one likes a stranger pawing through their clothes.”
“I wasn’t pawing!”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she said, smirking again.
Then, to make a crap day crappier, Mr. Atapattuentered the laundry room. “Henry, greetings! How are you?”
“Fine,” I muttered as Mr. Atapattu opened a dryer and started removing his clothes.
“He was pawing through my underwear,” Karen said, and it dawned on me that she was enjoying herself.
“I was not!! I was just emptying the machine!”
Mr. Atapattu tilted his head toward Karen. “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met. Suresh Atapattu, 213.”
“Karen Vargas. 311.”
They shook hands.
“I was just telling Harry here –” Karen began.
“Henry!” I
“No, you’re not. You had a brother, and you loved him. And I bet you still love him, even if you’re really angry with him, too. Those conflicting emotions are totally normal.”
I didn’t answer.
“Your dad told me what happened in the park a month before Jesse died –”
“System Meltdown!” I shouted in Robot-Voice. “System Meltdown! System Meltdown!” People on the sidewalk were turning to stare.
“It’s okay, Henry. Calm down –”
“System Meltdown!” I kept shouting as I spun in circles, flailing my arms.
“Why don’t we go back to the office –”
“System Meltdown!” I shouted again, then I ran away from Cecil as fast as my pygmy legs and my wobblies would carry me, which wasn’t very fast. But Cecil didn’t take up the chase. I guess he figured it wouldn’t look good – an old guy in a ponytail trying to tackle a kid.
When I got home, Dad still wasn’t there, so I went intohis room and pulled the shoebox out from under his bed.
“Shithead,” I whispered. “Thanks for ruining my life.”
Then I changed into my pajamas and ate four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a row.
S ATURDAY , F EBRUARY 16
INTRIGUING FACT: Weekends didn’t exist till the 1940s. Henry Ford was one of the first bosses to give his workers two days off in a row, in 1926; he figured people buying his Model T’s needed leisure time to drive them.
Before IT happened, I loved weekends. My family was good at them. In nice weather, we’d pack up the car and go camping or fishing. In bad weather, we’d bake bread and cookies and play board games and, of course, watch “Saturday Night Smash-Up.”
These days, weekends are torture. Today, for example, Dad spent a lot of time in bed with a “cold.” I’m pretty sure this was code for “hangover.” Usually he just drinks beer, but on Friday night he brought home a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and I noticed this morning that it was half-full.
Since he wasn’t feeling well, I did some chores around the apartment. I even put on rubber gloves and plugged my nose and scrubbed out the toilet, for the first time since wemoved in. Gross. Then I lugged a garbage bag full of dirty clothes to the laundry room in the basement. All the way down in the painfully slow elevator, I fantasized about seeing the GWF Smash-Up Live! in Seattle. But we could never afford it. I know I have to let it go.
When I got to the laundry room, all of the washing machines were full. One of them had finished its cycle, so I pulled the clothes out and placed them on the counter. Believe me, I had no desire to touch someone else’s clothes – especially not someone else’s
frilly undergarments
. But when something fell on the floor, I had no choice but to pick it up. It happened to be a very red BRA with big huge CUPS, and just as I was placing it on the counter, I heard, “Are you fondling my brassiere?”
Karen. She was standing in the doorway to the laundry room, arms crossed, smirking.
In an instant, my face felt like it was on fire, and I knew that even my freckles were blushing. “I was just emptying the machine so I could use it,” I said, hating her.
“You shouldn’t do that, you know,” she said as she started to toss her stuff into a dryer. “No one likes a stranger pawing through their clothes.”
“I wasn’t pawing!”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she said, smirking again.
Then, to make a crap day crappier, Mr. Atapattuentered the laundry room. “Henry, greetings! How are you?”
“Fine,” I muttered as Mr. Atapattu opened a dryer and started removing his clothes.
“He was pawing through my underwear,” Karen said, and it dawned on me that she was enjoying herself.
“I was not!! I was just emptying the machine!”
Mr. Atapattu tilted his head toward Karen. “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met. Suresh Atapattu, 213.”
“Karen Vargas. 311.”
They shook hands.
“I was just telling Harry here –” Karen began.
“Henry!” I
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