This World We Live In (The Last Survivors, Book 3) by Susan Beth Pfeffer Page B
Book: This World We Live In (The Last Survivors, Book 3) by Susan Beth Pfeffer
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Beth Pfeffer
Ads: Link
the war against ash. "I take pride in lots of things," I said. "Like how my family has come together. How we've fought to keep alive. To keep our hopes alive. I take a lot of pride in that. Do you think that's a sin?"
"No, of course not," Alex said. "But that's not the kind of pride I'm talking about."
"Oh," I said. "You mean like vanity. Being proud because you're good-looking or rich."
"That's not it exactly, either," Alex said.
"Then what is it?" I asked.
He gazed out my window, at the perpetual y gray landscape. "Al right," he said. "Maybe you'l understand better if I tel you about the coin jar. We had to pay for our school uniforms, so my mother kept a coin jar. Every day we emptied our pockets and whatever change we had went into the jar. One day she caught my father taking out a handful of quarters. He was short on beer money. She went crazy. It was the worst fight I ever saw them have. My mother had ambitions for us. Every penny we saved was important to her." He paused for a moment.
"My father picked up the coin jar and threw it across the room. The coins flew al over. My mother got down on her hands and knees to pick
down on her hands and knees to pick
116
up the change, but my brother, Carlos, shoved me onto the floor. It was my fault, he said. I was the one they were fighting over."
"That must have been awful," I said. Mom and Dad at their worst always let us know we weren't to blame for their problems.
"I vowed I would never feel shame again," Alex said. "But the shame wasn't because my parents fought over me. It was the shame of crawling on the floor, sweeping pennies and nickels into a pile to pay for clothes other kids took for granted. The next day I got a job, started working wherever I could, final y got regular work at a pizza parlor. I paid for my own uniforms after that and my books, too. No more coin jar. My mother found some other way to pay for my sister's uniforms. And I felt proud. Proud I was smart. Proud that people noticed me, respected me. Proud that I was ambitious. Proud that I was too good to end up like my parents. And now I beg for clean clothes for my sister. I beg for every bite of food we eat."
"You don't have to beg here," I said. "We're happy to share."
"No one is happy to share," he said.
Alex looked down then or I looked up. I don't know how it happened, but we made eye contact, and for a moment I was drawn into his soul. I could see everything, the depth of his sorrow, his anger, his despair.
I feel sorrow and anger and despair. I don't think there's a person alive who doesn't. I sometimes feel like my sorrow and anger and despair burn inside me the way the sun used to burn on a hot July day.
But that was nothing compared to what I sensed in Alex. His sorrow, his anger, his despair was like a thousand
117
suns, like a galaxy of suns. It physical y hurt me to look into his eyes, but I couldn't break away. He turned his head first, and then he apologized, or maybe he thanked me. For Alex I think they're the same thing.
He bolted out of the room, leaving me to stare at my bookcase and think about the sin of pride and the sin of prejudice and al the other sins I'd left behind.
June 5
Dad and I biked into town today to talk to Mr.
Danworth. I don't think I've ever seen Dad on a bike before, although I remember showing off to him when I rode a two-wheeler for the first time.
I'd thought it would be great having some time alone with Dad. We haven't had any since he got back, and there was so much I wanted to tel him and so much I wanted him to tel me. But the weather was awful. Not raining, but cold with a harsh wind blowing in our faces. March weather in June.
Maybe it was better we couldn't have a
father/daughter talk, because by the time we got to City Hal to pick up our food and talk to Mr.
Danworth, Dad was in ful Bob Nesbitt mode.
"My wife and I didn't know what to expect," Dad said after he introduced himself. "Of course we hadn't heard from Mom, but you
"No, of course not," Alex said. "But that's not the kind of pride I'm talking about."
"Oh," I said. "You mean like vanity. Being proud because you're good-looking or rich."
"That's not it exactly, either," Alex said.
"Then what is it?" I asked.
He gazed out my window, at the perpetual y gray landscape. "Al right," he said. "Maybe you'l understand better if I tel you about the coin jar. We had to pay for our school uniforms, so my mother kept a coin jar. Every day we emptied our pockets and whatever change we had went into the jar. One day she caught my father taking out a handful of quarters. He was short on beer money. She went crazy. It was the worst fight I ever saw them have. My mother had ambitions for us. Every penny we saved was important to her." He paused for a moment.
"My father picked up the coin jar and threw it across the room. The coins flew al over. My mother got down on her hands and knees to pick
down on her hands and knees to pick
116
up the change, but my brother, Carlos, shoved me onto the floor. It was my fault, he said. I was the one they were fighting over."
"That must have been awful," I said. Mom and Dad at their worst always let us know we weren't to blame for their problems.
"I vowed I would never feel shame again," Alex said. "But the shame wasn't because my parents fought over me. It was the shame of crawling on the floor, sweeping pennies and nickels into a pile to pay for clothes other kids took for granted. The next day I got a job, started working wherever I could, final y got regular work at a pizza parlor. I paid for my own uniforms after that and my books, too. No more coin jar. My mother found some other way to pay for my sister's uniforms. And I felt proud. Proud I was smart. Proud that people noticed me, respected me. Proud that I was ambitious. Proud that I was too good to end up like my parents. And now I beg for clean clothes for my sister. I beg for every bite of food we eat."
"You don't have to beg here," I said. "We're happy to share."
"No one is happy to share," he said.
Alex looked down then or I looked up. I don't know how it happened, but we made eye contact, and for a moment I was drawn into his soul. I could see everything, the depth of his sorrow, his anger, his despair.
I feel sorrow and anger and despair. I don't think there's a person alive who doesn't. I sometimes feel like my sorrow and anger and despair burn inside me the way the sun used to burn on a hot July day.
But that was nothing compared to what I sensed in Alex. His sorrow, his anger, his despair was like a thousand
117
suns, like a galaxy of suns. It physical y hurt me to look into his eyes, but I couldn't break away. He turned his head first, and then he apologized, or maybe he thanked me. For Alex I think they're the same thing.
He bolted out of the room, leaving me to stare at my bookcase and think about the sin of pride and the sin of prejudice and al the other sins I'd left behind.
June 5
Dad and I biked into town today to talk to Mr.
Danworth. I don't think I've ever seen Dad on a bike before, although I remember showing off to him when I rode a two-wheeler for the first time.
I'd thought it would be great having some time alone with Dad. We haven't had any since he got back, and there was so much I wanted to tel him and so much I wanted him to tel me. But the weather was awful. Not raining, but cold with a harsh wind blowing in our faces. March weather in June.
Maybe it was better we couldn't have a
father/daughter talk, because by the time we got to City Hal to pick up our food and talk to Mr.
Danworth, Dad was in ful Bob Nesbitt mode.
"My wife and I didn't know what to expect," Dad said after he introduced himself. "Of course we hadn't heard from Mom, but you
Similar Books
