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Authors: Carrie Jones
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for Bob’s answer.
We all wait for Bob’s answer.
“Ich habe gesungen,” he says.
I sang.
Once when Emily was driving us to one of his jazz choir concerts I asked Dylan about it, about why Bob was always hanging around him but never around us.
“He’s shy,” Dylan said.
Emily and I gave each other looks and he leaned in from the backseat, his voice all emphatic.
“He’s got a lot of baggage,” Dylan said. Em turned down the music. “His mom has multiple sclerosis.”
We knew that. Everyone in Hancock County knew that. Bob’s mom used to be the band teacher, but she had to retire early because of her MS. There were all sorts of fundraising concerts for her. Dylan and I both performed in them. Still, Em nodded, all sympathetic. I stared out the window feeling evil, but I wouldn’t let it go.
“He looks at you funny, just hangs around you,” I said and I wanted to say, eating up your popcorn words and your sing me songs like I do. Like I do.
Dylan put his hand on my shoulder. “He just needs a friend. We’ve always been friends.”
“But why can’t he hang out with all of us?”
Em took a picture of us then. Dylan’s face all twisted and angry and me angry and sad and stupid all at once.
“Don’t get all hyper about it, Belle. It’s not a big deal,” his hand left on my shoulder. Em snapped off another one-handed picture and swerved. “I’m just helping him out. Is that some sort of bad thing?”
I shook my head. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “No, it’s not.”
I want to know. Do they make music together? Does he play the saxophone and does Dylan sing and is it sweeter than it was with me? Is it a bebop melody or a lullaby?
Our test is translating lyrics to German songs.
The universe is tormenting me.
The songs?
Love, Love Me Do
She Loves You
Eleanor Rigby . . . the one that has the line about lonely people and how they are everywhere.
Across the aisle, Bob hums under his breath. It sounds like a mosquito that roams around your head when you go to bed at night. It sounds like a pin pricking the tips of your fingers over and over again. It is hard not to throw my Deutsche text book at him. It is hard not to scream.
Finally, finally, finally, Tom says, just low enough for Bob to hear, but not loud enough to alert Herr Reitz, “Shut up, Bob.”
Rasheesh, who is about four feet tall and a wicked brat goes, “Yeah, Bob, shut up. You sound like a drugged-up black fly.”
Bob stops for maybe two minutes and then he starts up again.
It’s about loving someone do and always being true.
I break my pencil in half.
Top Ten Reasons Why I Can’t Believe
I’ve Been Dumped for Bob
He hums during German class.
His glasses are thicker than the soles on L.L. Bean hiking boots.
He smells funny, like mothballs or something, mixed with metal.
He hums BEATLES songs in German class.
He’s in band.
He scratches his head too much.
He hums BEATLES songs in German class OFF-KEY.
He wears tighty whitie underwear that show his butt because his pants are always doing that working man’s smile thing on him.
He hums BEATLES songs in German class OFF-KEY and taps his FEET in time.
He’s a boy.
The bell rings. We grab our books. I fold up my list and shove it in the bottom of my shoe, to remind me why I’m mad, and that it’s okay to be mad, even if I’m supposed to try to love everybody and all that Students-for-Social-Justice stuff. Bob skitters out of German class but he pauses at the door. He turns around and walks back, walks toward me, one step, two.
“Belle?” his voice cracks.
I keep gathering my books, but Tom’s turned still, standing at my elbow like some sort of protector dog.
“Yeah,” I say to Bob. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he says and he turns and runs before I can say anything back. My words, my emotions are peanut butter stuck somewhere behind my incisors. He’s sorry.
Tom comes up behind me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “I have a game
We all wait for Bob’s answer.
“Ich habe gesungen,” he says.
I sang.
Once when Emily was driving us to one of his jazz choir concerts I asked Dylan about it, about why Bob was always hanging around him but never around us.
“He’s shy,” Dylan said.
Emily and I gave each other looks and he leaned in from the backseat, his voice all emphatic.
“He’s got a lot of baggage,” Dylan said. Em turned down the music. “His mom has multiple sclerosis.”
We knew that. Everyone in Hancock County knew that. Bob’s mom used to be the band teacher, but she had to retire early because of her MS. There were all sorts of fundraising concerts for her. Dylan and I both performed in them. Still, Em nodded, all sympathetic. I stared out the window feeling evil, but I wouldn’t let it go.
“He looks at you funny, just hangs around you,” I said and I wanted to say, eating up your popcorn words and your sing me songs like I do. Like I do.
Dylan put his hand on my shoulder. “He just needs a friend. We’ve always been friends.”
“But why can’t he hang out with all of us?”
Em took a picture of us then. Dylan’s face all twisted and angry and me angry and sad and stupid all at once.
“Don’t get all hyper about it, Belle. It’s not a big deal,” his hand left on my shoulder. Em snapped off another one-handed picture and swerved. “I’m just helping him out. Is that some sort of bad thing?”
I shook my head. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “No, it’s not.”
I want to know. Do they make music together? Does he play the saxophone and does Dylan sing and is it sweeter than it was with me? Is it a bebop melody or a lullaby?
Our test is translating lyrics to German songs.
The universe is tormenting me.
The songs?
Love, Love Me Do
She Loves You
Eleanor Rigby . . . the one that has the line about lonely people and how they are everywhere.
Across the aisle, Bob hums under his breath. It sounds like a mosquito that roams around your head when you go to bed at night. It sounds like a pin pricking the tips of your fingers over and over again. It is hard not to throw my Deutsche text book at him. It is hard not to scream.
Finally, finally, finally, Tom says, just low enough for Bob to hear, but not loud enough to alert Herr Reitz, “Shut up, Bob.”
Rasheesh, who is about four feet tall and a wicked brat goes, “Yeah, Bob, shut up. You sound like a drugged-up black fly.”
Bob stops for maybe two minutes and then he starts up again.
It’s about loving someone do and always being true.
I break my pencil in half.
Top Ten Reasons Why I Can’t Believe
I’ve Been Dumped for Bob
He hums during German class.
His glasses are thicker than the soles on L.L. Bean hiking boots.
He smells funny, like mothballs or something, mixed with metal.
He hums BEATLES songs in German class.
He’s in band.
He scratches his head too much.
He hums BEATLES songs in German class OFF-KEY.
He wears tighty whitie underwear that show his butt because his pants are always doing that working man’s smile thing on him.
He hums BEATLES songs in German class OFF-KEY and taps his FEET in time.
He’s a boy.
The bell rings. We grab our books. I fold up my list and shove it in the bottom of my shoe, to remind me why I’m mad, and that it’s okay to be mad, even if I’m supposed to try to love everybody and all that Students-for-Social-Justice stuff. Bob skitters out of German class but he pauses at the door. He turns around and walks back, walks toward me, one step, two.
“Belle?” his voice cracks.
I keep gathering my books, but Tom’s turned still, standing at my elbow like some sort of protector dog.
“Yeah,” I say to Bob. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he says and he turns and runs before I can say anything back. My words, my emotions are peanut butter stuck somewhere behind my incisors. He’s sorry.
Tom comes up behind me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “I have a game
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