for me.
Be is for beryllium, a weight of four . . .
--From the Elemental Prayers ("Prayer and Study," The Book of Shhh)
During the summers I have to help my uncle at the Stop-N-Save on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, mostly stocking shelves and working behind the deli counter and occasionally helping with filing and accounting in the little office behind the cereal and dry goods aisle. Thankfully, in late June, Andrew Marcus gets cured and reassigned to a permanent position at another grocery store.
On the Fourth of July I head to Hana's house in the morning. Every year we go to see the fireworks at the Eastern Promenade. A band is always playing and vendors set up their carts, selling fried meat on skewers and corn on the cob and apple pie floating in a puddle of ice cream, served in little paper boats. The Fourth of July--the day of our independence, the day we commemorate the closing of our nation's border forever--is one of my favorite holidays. I love the music that pipes through the streets, love the way the steam rising thick from the grills makes the streets look cloudy, the people shadowy and unclear. I especially love the temporary extension of curfew: Instead of being home at nine o'clock, all uncureds are allowed to stay out until eleven. In recent years Hana and I have made it a kind of game to stay out until the last possible second, cutting it closer and closer every year. Last year I stepped into the house at 10:58 exactly, heart hammering in my chest, shaking with exhaustion--I'd had to sprint home. But as I lay in bed I couldn't stop grinning. I felt like I'd gotten away with something.
I type in Hana's four-digit gate code--she gave it to me in eighth grade, saying it was "a sign of trust" and also that she'd slit me "from the top of the head to the heels" if I shared it with anyone else --and slip in through the front door. I never bother knocking. Her parents are hardly ever home, and Hana never answers the door. I'm pretty much the only person who comes over to see her. It's weird. Hana was always really popular in school--people looked up to her and wanted to be like her--but even though she was really friendly with everybody, she never really got close close with anyone besides me.
Sometimes I wonder whether she wishes she'd been assigned a different desk partner in Mrs. Jablonski's second-grade class, which is how we first became friends. Hana's last name is Tate, and we were linked up by alphabetical order (by then I was already going by my aunt's last name, Tiddle). I wonder whether she wishes she'd been placed with Rebecca Tralawny, or Katie Scarp, or even Melissa Portofino. Sometimes I feel like she deserves a best friend who is just a little more special . Once Hana told me that she likes me because I'm for real--because I really feel things. But that's the whole problem: how much I feel things.
"Hello?" I call out, as soon as I'm inside Hana's house. The front hall is dark and cool as always. Goose bumps prick up over my arms. No matter how many times I come to Hana's house I'm always shocked by the power of the air-conditioning, which hums somewhere deep inside the walls. For a moment I just stand there, inhaling the clean smells of furniture polish and Windex and fresh-cut flowers. Music is pulsing from Hana's room upstairs. I try to identify the song but can't make out any words, just bass throbbing through the floorboards.
At the top of the stairs I pause. Hana's bedroom door is closed. I definitely don't recognize the song she's playing--or blasting, really, so loud I have to remind myself that Hana's house is shielded on four sides by trees and lawn, and no one will sic the regulators on her. It's not like any music I've ever heard. It's a shrieky, shrill, fierce kind of music: I can't even tell whether the singer is male or female. Little fingers of electricity creep up my spine, a feeling I used to have when I was a tiny child, when I would creep into the kitchen and
Be is for beryllium, a weight of four . . .
--From the Elemental Prayers ("Prayer and Study," The Book of Shhh)
During the summers I have to help my uncle at the Stop-N-Save on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, mostly stocking shelves and working behind the deli counter and occasionally helping with filing and accounting in the little office behind the cereal and dry goods aisle. Thankfully, in late June, Andrew Marcus gets cured and reassigned to a permanent position at another grocery store.
On the Fourth of July I head to Hana's house in the morning. Every year we go to see the fireworks at the Eastern Promenade. A band is always playing and vendors set up their carts, selling fried meat on skewers and corn on the cob and apple pie floating in a puddle of ice cream, served in little paper boats. The Fourth of July--the day of our independence, the day we commemorate the closing of our nation's border forever--is one of my favorite holidays. I love the music that pipes through the streets, love the way the steam rising thick from the grills makes the streets look cloudy, the people shadowy and unclear. I especially love the temporary extension of curfew: Instead of being home at nine o'clock, all uncureds are allowed to stay out until eleven. In recent years Hana and I have made it a kind of game to stay out until the last possible second, cutting it closer and closer every year. Last year I stepped into the house at 10:58 exactly, heart hammering in my chest, shaking with exhaustion--I'd had to sprint home. But as I lay in bed I couldn't stop grinning. I felt like I'd gotten away with something.
I type in Hana's four-digit gate code--she gave it to me in eighth grade, saying it was "a sign of trust" and also that she'd slit me "from the top of the head to the heels" if I shared it with anyone else --and slip in through the front door. I never bother knocking. Her parents are hardly ever home, and Hana never answers the door. I'm pretty much the only person who comes over to see her. It's weird. Hana was always really popular in school--people looked up to her and wanted to be like her--but even though she was really friendly with everybody, she never really got close close with anyone besides me.
Sometimes I wonder whether she wishes she'd been assigned a different desk partner in Mrs. Jablonski's second-grade class, which is how we first became friends. Hana's last name is Tate, and we were linked up by alphabetical order (by then I was already going by my aunt's last name, Tiddle). I wonder whether she wishes she'd been placed with Rebecca Tralawny, or Katie Scarp, or even Melissa Portofino. Sometimes I feel like she deserves a best friend who is just a little more special . Once Hana told me that she likes me because I'm for real--because I really feel things. But that's the whole problem: how much I feel things.
"Hello?" I call out, as soon as I'm inside Hana's house. The front hall is dark and cool as always. Goose bumps prick up over my arms. No matter how many times I come to Hana's house I'm always shocked by the power of the air-conditioning, which hums somewhere deep inside the walls. For a moment I just stand there, inhaling the clean smells of furniture polish and Windex and fresh-cut flowers. Music is pulsing from Hana's room upstairs. I try to identify the song but can't make out any words, just bass throbbing through the floorboards.
At the top of the stairs I pause. Hana's bedroom door is closed. I definitely don't recognize the song she's playing--or blasting, really, so loud I have to remind myself that Hana's house is shielded on four sides by trees and lawn, and no one will sic the regulators on her. It's not like any music I've ever heard. It's a shrieky, shrill, fierce kind of music: I can't even tell whether the singer is male or female. Little fingers of electricity creep up my spine, a feeling I used to have when I was a tiny child, when I would creep into the kitchen and
Similar Books
