repeated all of them for Matt, with so many dramatic special effects and word-for-word quotations that Matt wound up feeling he’d been there too, right outside the office door.
“And then Dad went,” Courtney said, “‘I know you’re feeling disappointed now, but someday you’ll realize…’ And then Justin went, ‘Someday? Like when I’m too old to give a damn…’”
Matt winced. “Justin said damn to Dad?” he asked. Ordinarily Gerald Hamilton wasn’t the kind of father a kid would say damn to.
Courtney nodded. “And a lot of worse words. And when Dad told him he was grounded he went, ‘All right, I’ll go to my room, but I won’t stay there. And the next time Lance asks me to go with him, I’m going and you can’t stop me.’”
Matt could hardly believe it. Nobody talked to Dad that way. And as if that weren’t bad enough, Courtney went on to quote a bunch of stuff from the argument Mom and Dad had afterward because Mom thought Dad had been too easy on Justin.
“Mom went, ‘You’ve always let Justin get away with behavior that you condemn in other people’s children.’ And Dad went, ‘That’s not fair, you know that’s not fair.’ And then Mom went…And Dad went…” And on and on and on.
“It was a horrendous argument.” Courtney’s voice was getting more high-pitched and dramatic with every quote. “I’m so frightened, Matt. I’m sure Mom and Dad are going to get divorced and Justin will get sent to juvenile hall, and who knows what will happen to you and me.” She had been walking around the room as she talked, twisting her face into tragic mask expressions—expressions that she stopped to check on every time she went past a mirror. After the third or fourth trip around the room she threw herself down on her bed and buried her face in her pillow.
Matt didn’t know what to do, so for a while he didn’t do anything. He tried to remind himself that Courtney had a special talent for tragic drama, but he had to admit he’d never seen, or heard, anything quite like what she was doing at the moment. With her face buried in the pillow and her shoulders shaking violently, she was making a noise that sounded something like a howling coyote. A weird, muffled, quavering sound that rose and fell and rose again.
What could he do? Matt stood beside Courtney’s bed for quite a while feeling hopeless and pretty helpless, before he suddenly had an idea. He sat down on the edge of the bed and started reciting one of the poems they’d made up when they used to play with Courtney’s animal collection. The game they used to call the Breath of Life.
In a high-pitched singsong he chanted, “Open your eyes and breathe deep, wake from your enchanted sleep.”
The howling faded away. Courtney turned over slowly and began to say, “Stamp your hoof and…See. I’ve forgotten what comes next.” She sighed and the tragic quaver was back in her voice as she went on, “That proves it. Forgetting our poems just proves our happy childhood is all over. At least mine is.”
“Oh come on. You remember.” Matt tried to sound enthusiastic. “The next line was—‘Stamp your hooves and shake your head.’ Don’t you remember? You always were the one who did the unicorn poem.”
“Oh yes, I do remember now.” Getting up off the bed, Courtney went to the high shelf, took down the spun-glass unicorn, breathed on its head three times and began to whisper, “Open your eyes and…”
Matt thought it might be a good time to leave. Getting up, he walked quietly to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back and said, “Courtney.” He was sorry to interrupt the unicorn poem, but he had to know. “Courtney. How did you make that howling noise?”
Still holding the unicorn against her lips, Courtney said, “What howling noise? When?”
“Just now, while you were lying there with your face in the pillow.”
“I wasn’t making any noise,” she said. “How could I howl with my face
“And then Dad went,” Courtney said, “‘I know you’re feeling disappointed now, but someday you’ll realize…’ And then Justin went, ‘Someday? Like when I’m too old to give a damn…’”
Matt winced. “Justin said damn to Dad?” he asked. Ordinarily Gerald Hamilton wasn’t the kind of father a kid would say damn to.
Courtney nodded. “And a lot of worse words. And when Dad told him he was grounded he went, ‘All right, I’ll go to my room, but I won’t stay there. And the next time Lance asks me to go with him, I’m going and you can’t stop me.’”
Matt could hardly believe it. Nobody talked to Dad that way. And as if that weren’t bad enough, Courtney went on to quote a bunch of stuff from the argument Mom and Dad had afterward because Mom thought Dad had been too easy on Justin.
“Mom went, ‘You’ve always let Justin get away with behavior that you condemn in other people’s children.’ And Dad went, ‘That’s not fair, you know that’s not fair.’ And then Mom went…And Dad went…” And on and on and on.
“It was a horrendous argument.” Courtney’s voice was getting more high-pitched and dramatic with every quote. “I’m so frightened, Matt. I’m sure Mom and Dad are going to get divorced and Justin will get sent to juvenile hall, and who knows what will happen to you and me.” She had been walking around the room as she talked, twisting her face into tragic mask expressions—expressions that she stopped to check on every time she went past a mirror. After the third or fourth trip around the room she threw herself down on her bed and buried her face in her pillow.
Matt didn’t know what to do, so for a while he didn’t do anything. He tried to remind himself that Courtney had a special talent for tragic drama, but he had to admit he’d never seen, or heard, anything quite like what she was doing at the moment. With her face buried in the pillow and her shoulders shaking violently, she was making a noise that sounded something like a howling coyote. A weird, muffled, quavering sound that rose and fell and rose again.
What could he do? Matt stood beside Courtney’s bed for quite a while feeling hopeless and pretty helpless, before he suddenly had an idea. He sat down on the edge of the bed and started reciting one of the poems they’d made up when they used to play with Courtney’s animal collection. The game they used to call the Breath of Life.
In a high-pitched singsong he chanted, “Open your eyes and breathe deep, wake from your enchanted sleep.”
The howling faded away. Courtney turned over slowly and began to say, “Stamp your hoof and…See. I’ve forgotten what comes next.” She sighed and the tragic quaver was back in her voice as she went on, “That proves it. Forgetting our poems just proves our happy childhood is all over. At least mine is.”
“Oh come on. You remember.” Matt tried to sound enthusiastic. “The next line was—‘Stamp your hooves and shake your head.’ Don’t you remember? You always were the one who did the unicorn poem.”
“Oh yes, I do remember now.” Getting up off the bed, Courtney went to the high shelf, took down the spun-glass unicorn, breathed on its head three times and began to whisper, “Open your eyes and…”
Matt thought it might be a good time to leave. Getting up, he walked quietly to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back and said, “Courtney.” He was sorry to interrupt the unicorn poem, but he had to know. “Courtney. How did you make that howling noise?”
Still holding the unicorn against her lips, Courtney said, “What howling noise? When?”
“Just now, while you were lying there with your face in the pillow.”
“I wasn’t making any noise,” she said. “How could I howl with my face
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