Read Online Y: A Novel by Marjorie Celona - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marjorie Celona
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lunchtime, I discover that Miranda has slipped a little envelope into my lunchbox.
Inside is a piece of paper folded in two, a makeshift card. When I open it, there’s
a picture of me, asleep on the couch, Winkie curled up beside me. For your treasure chest, the back of the picture says, and I hold it close to my body so no one else can see.
When it rains, which is all the time, Krystal helps us into our Muddie Buddies, navy
blue–and-red waterproof jumpsuits, so that we can still go outside. But despite Krystal’s
good intentions, kindergarten is a rough place. We are always getting punched. The
older kids tell Lydia-Rose and me that we smell bad, that our clothes are secondhand
and covered in cat hair. Two girls tell me they want to push me on the swings, and
when I climb onto the swing and begin to lift off, they start to laugh and tell me
they’re going to punch me on the downswing—so I never come down, I swing higher and
higher, kick at them with my legs, dodge their fists as I swoop toward the sand.
“You have deformed knees,” the popular girl, Peggy, says to me when I show up one
day in shorts. She has perfect legs: small knees with calves that round out on both
sides, tapering to thin, delicate ankles. Like an hourglass stretched. My knee bones
jut, collide with each other, and I have to stand with my feet apart. Peggy can lift
her legs behind her head and touch her toes in a V. She has a brown oval the size
of a penny on the back of her white thigh. We all gather to see her acrobatics—but
mostly to see her underpants. Lydia-Rose steps into the circle, and Peggy points at
her forearm. “You’re the color of a baked potato,” she says. “Maybe more like dirt.”
I begin to sneak off by myself during recess, and finally I find a place at the back
of the house where I can hide behind a pile of firewood. It smells so good that I
break off a thin splinter of bark and put it in my mouth. Beyond the firewood is a
gutted Volkswagen Beetle in the middle of the lawn, the long grass pushing its way
into the interior. We are forbidden to go near it, but I can’t help myself. I crawl
in and grip the steering wheel, which is small and black and won’t turn in my hands.
The seats smell like mold, and the grass tickles my thighs. But in that car, away
from the fists of other children and Lydia-Rose’s loud cursing and Krystal’s beautiful
face, I am at my happiest. I grip the wheel, pretend my legs are long enough to reach
the pedals, and shift into first, second, third. I am five and a half and can’t imagine
having lived anywhere else but Miranda’s, having had anyone else’s life but this one.
But even though my life is moving forward, Julian starts watching me. He sits in his
car outside the day care while Lydia-Rose and I wait for Miranda to pick us up. The
first time I see him we are playing Hunter-Gatherer, a game we’ve made up about being
cave people. I’m busy strangling a pudgy three-year-old underneath the monkey bars
and Lydia-Rose is waiting for me to tell her what to do.
“Bad antelope! Bad antelope!” I keep yelling at the kid. “Gonna feed my wife and kids
with you.” I drag the kid by the ankles and set him in front of Lydia-Rose. “Eat!
Eat! Eat!”
Lydia-Rose gets busy fake-eating the kid’s foot, and I look up.
“Hey, Shannon.” He says it like he’s been saying it for years. “You probably don’t
remember me. Brought you some gummy bears.” He is in a suit; maybe he just got off
work.
I take the gummy bears from his hand, give half to Lydia-Rose, and watch him wave
good-bye.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
“My old dad.” The words sound funny in my mouth.
He comes again a week later. Always gummy bears, sometimes wine gums, too, but I think
they have wine in them, so I decline.
“I don’t drink,” I tell him. We are sitting in his black Mercedes-Benz. He has asked
me to sit with him and
Inside is a piece of paper folded in two, a makeshift card. When I open it, there’s
a picture of me, asleep on the couch, Winkie curled up beside me. For your treasure chest, the back of the picture says, and I hold it close to my body so no one else can see.
When it rains, which is all the time, Krystal helps us into our Muddie Buddies, navy
blue–and-red waterproof jumpsuits, so that we can still go outside. But despite Krystal’s
good intentions, kindergarten is a rough place. We are always getting punched. The
older kids tell Lydia-Rose and me that we smell bad, that our clothes are secondhand
and covered in cat hair. Two girls tell me they want to push me on the swings, and
when I climb onto the swing and begin to lift off, they start to laugh and tell me
they’re going to punch me on the downswing—so I never come down, I swing higher and
higher, kick at them with my legs, dodge their fists as I swoop toward the sand.
“You have deformed knees,” the popular girl, Peggy, says to me when I show up one
day in shorts. She has perfect legs: small knees with calves that round out on both
sides, tapering to thin, delicate ankles. Like an hourglass stretched. My knee bones
jut, collide with each other, and I have to stand with my feet apart. Peggy can lift
her legs behind her head and touch her toes in a V. She has a brown oval the size
of a penny on the back of her white thigh. We all gather to see her acrobatics—but
mostly to see her underpants. Lydia-Rose steps into the circle, and Peggy points at
her forearm. “You’re the color of a baked potato,” she says. “Maybe more like dirt.”
I begin to sneak off by myself during recess, and finally I find a place at the back
of the house where I can hide behind a pile of firewood. It smells so good that I
break off a thin splinter of bark and put it in my mouth. Beyond the firewood is a
gutted Volkswagen Beetle in the middle of the lawn, the long grass pushing its way
into the interior. We are forbidden to go near it, but I can’t help myself. I crawl
in and grip the steering wheel, which is small and black and won’t turn in my hands.
The seats smell like mold, and the grass tickles my thighs. But in that car, away
from the fists of other children and Lydia-Rose’s loud cursing and Krystal’s beautiful
face, I am at my happiest. I grip the wheel, pretend my legs are long enough to reach
the pedals, and shift into first, second, third. I am five and a half and can’t imagine
having lived anywhere else but Miranda’s, having had anyone else’s life but this one.
But even though my life is moving forward, Julian starts watching me. He sits in his
car outside the day care while Lydia-Rose and I wait for Miranda to pick us up. The
first time I see him we are playing Hunter-Gatherer, a game we’ve made up about being
cave people. I’m busy strangling a pudgy three-year-old underneath the monkey bars
and Lydia-Rose is waiting for me to tell her what to do.
“Bad antelope! Bad antelope!” I keep yelling at the kid. “Gonna feed my wife and kids
with you.” I drag the kid by the ankles and set him in front of Lydia-Rose. “Eat!
Eat! Eat!”
Lydia-Rose gets busy fake-eating the kid’s foot, and I look up.
“Hey, Shannon.” He says it like he’s been saying it for years. “You probably don’t
remember me. Brought you some gummy bears.” He is in a suit; maybe he just got off
work.
I take the gummy bears from his hand, give half to Lydia-Rose, and watch him wave
good-bye.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
“My old dad.” The words sound funny in my mouth.
He comes again a week later. Always gummy bears, sometimes wine gums, too, but I think
they have wine in them, so I decline.
“I don’t drink,” I tell him. We are sitting in his black Mercedes-Benz. He has asked
me to sit with him and
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