Read Online Up High in the Trees by Kiara Brinkman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kiara Brinkman
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doesnât have a shirt on.
Listen to this, he says and he plays a harmonica. The way he plays doesnât sound like a song to me.
Then the boy goes away and the windowâs empty. I stand there watching, waiting for him to come back. I count slowly in my head. If I get to sixty, Iâm going to leave.
I count all the way to thirty-four and then the boy comes back to the window with a girl. She waves at me and this time I wave back.
The boy plays his harmonica the same wayânot like a song.
Then he says, Whatâs your name?
I donât want to tell him my name, so I donât say anything.
Hey, the boy says, whatâs your name?
The girl waves at me again. Sheâs wearing a red shirt and she has red curly hair like a clown.
Whatâs your damn name? the boy asks.
I start to walk away and push the bike along with me. I hold on tight to the handlebars. I hold on so tight that my hands go white and I canât feel my fingers. I keep looking back at the boy in the window.
He throws a shoe and it lands behind me. Itâs a small, white buckle shoe.
My shoe, my shoe, yells the girl with red hair.
I walk a little bit faster and the bike squeaks louder. I want to drop it and run, but my hands wonât let go.
I run with the bike screaming at me. I run all the way back to the white box house, where purple streamers are still blowing all over the grass. I must not have closed the door all the way because now itâs blown open.
I pull the bike up the steps with me, into the house, and I slam the door shut with my foot. Then my hands let go of the handlebars and the bike flops over onto the floor.
Dad, I yell.
In here, he says.
Dadâs sitting at the kitchen table with a big bottle of Coke and a box of pizza.
Iâm cold and my teeth are chattering. I want to go sit on Dadâs lap.
Donât slam the door like that, he says, youâll give me a heart attack.
I tell him, Sorry.
I ordered us a pizza, he says.
Dad, I say. I try to tell him what happened. I got really cold, I say.
He stands up and walks over to me. His face looks different, skinnier, because his beard is shaved-off.
Sebby, says Dad and I start crying. Dad pulls me closer. He rubs my shoulders with his hands to make me warm.
Youâre okay, Dad says and he walks me over to the sink. Dad holds my hands under the warm water. My teeth stop chattering and I feel better.
Shhh, Dad says, youâre okay.
I look up at him.
Your glasses are filthy, he says. How can you even see out of those?
I shrug and let him take my glasses. He washes them for me. When he reaches up for a dish towel, there isnât one, so he pulls off his gray T-shirt and dries my hands with it and then dries my glasses. His chest has curly black hair. Down low on his stomach thereâs a scar thatâs whiter than his skin and itâs from having his appendix taken out.
Dad holds up my glasses and looks through the lenses.
Much better, he says and puts them back on me.
Howâs that? he asks.
The yellow bike squeaks, I tell him. I donât like the sound.
Iâll look for something to spray it with, Dad says. He rolls his gray shirt into a ball and then sets it down on the counter.
Your beard is gone, I tell him.
I know, says Dad and he touches his hand to his smooth face.
Listen, after dinner, you need to take a hot bath, he says, and no more going outside without your coat.
I have a puffy green coat for when itâs cold, but I donât like to wear it. It zippers all the way up to my chin and feels too tight around my neck.
Dad opens the pizza box and lets the steam out. He pours two glasses of Cokeâone for him, one for me.
We donât need plates, Dad says, theyâll just be more dishes to wash.
So we eat out of the box.
I donât know if I should drink my Coke or not. I only take two sips. Mother didnât let me drink Coke because then I wouldnât grow, but she drank it in the
Listen to this, he says and he plays a harmonica. The way he plays doesnât sound like a song to me.
Then the boy goes away and the windowâs empty. I stand there watching, waiting for him to come back. I count slowly in my head. If I get to sixty, Iâm going to leave.
I count all the way to thirty-four and then the boy comes back to the window with a girl. She waves at me and this time I wave back.
The boy plays his harmonica the same wayânot like a song.
Then he says, Whatâs your name?
I donât want to tell him my name, so I donât say anything.
Hey, the boy says, whatâs your name?
The girl waves at me again. Sheâs wearing a red shirt and she has red curly hair like a clown.
Whatâs your damn name? the boy asks.
I start to walk away and push the bike along with me. I hold on tight to the handlebars. I hold on so tight that my hands go white and I canât feel my fingers. I keep looking back at the boy in the window.
He throws a shoe and it lands behind me. Itâs a small, white buckle shoe.
My shoe, my shoe, yells the girl with red hair.
I walk a little bit faster and the bike squeaks louder. I want to drop it and run, but my hands wonât let go.
I run with the bike screaming at me. I run all the way back to the white box house, where purple streamers are still blowing all over the grass. I must not have closed the door all the way because now itâs blown open.
I pull the bike up the steps with me, into the house, and I slam the door shut with my foot. Then my hands let go of the handlebars and the bike flops over onto the floor.
Dad, I yell.
In here, he says.
Dadâs sitting at the kitchen table with a big bottle of Coke and a box of pizza.
Iâm cold and my teeth are chattering. I want to go sit on Dadâs lap.
Donât slam the door like that, he says, youâll give me a heart attack.
I tell him, Sorry.
I ordered us a pizza, he says.
Dad, I say. I try to tell him what happened. I got really cold, I say.
He stands up and walks over to me. His face looks different, skinnier, because his beard is shaved-off.
Sebby, says Dad and I start crying. Dad pulls me closer. He rubs my shoulders with his hands to make me warm.
Youâre okay, Dad says and he walks me over to the sink. Dad holds my hands under the warm water. My teeth stop chattering and I feel better.
Shhh, Dad says, youâre okay.
I look up at him.
Your glasses are filthy, he says. How can you even see out of those?
I shrug and let him take my glasses. He washes them for me. When he reaches up for a dish towel, there isnât one, so he pulls off his gray T-shirt and dries my hands with it and then dries my glasses. His chest has curly black hair. Down low on his stomach thereâs a scar thatâs whiter than his skin and itâs from having his appendix taken out.
Dad holds up my glasses and looks through the lenses.
Much better, he says and puts them back on me.
Howâs that? he asks.
The yellow bike squeaks, I tell him. I donât like the sound.
Iâll look for something to spray it with, Dad says. He rolls his gray shirt into a ball and then sets it down on the counter.
Your beard is gone, I tell him.
I know, says Dad and he touches his hand to his smooth face.
Listen, after dinner, you need to take a hot bath, he says, and no more going outside without your coat.
I have a puffy green coat for when itâs cold, but I donât like to wear it. It zippers all the way up to my chin and feels too tight around my neck.
Dad opens the pizza box and lets the steam out. He pours two glasses of Cokeâone for him, one for me.
We donât need plates, Dad says, theyâll just be more dishes to wash.
So we eat out of the box.
I donât know if I should drink my Coke or not. I only take two sips. Mother didnât let me drink Coke because then I wouldnât grow, but she drank it in the
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