Two-Part Inventions by Lynne Sharon Schwartz

they’re barely getting by. I called her this afternoon. She’ll come down to see you tomorrow, and for the . . . for the funerals, of course. You can visit them sometimes, but you’ll stay with us.”
    â€œI can stay with my friend Danny. He’s my best friend. I sleep over there all the time. I bet his parents would let me. They like me. I can call and ask. Then I can go to the same school.” His voice was rising in despair.
    â€œYou can call your friend tomorrow, certainly. Maybe he’ll
visit you. But you’ll live here. We have no one. You can be our boy.”
    â€œI’m not your boy. I don’t want to be your boy.” He began to cry.
    Aunt Marsha didn’t know how to soothe him. She cried along with him. “Look, Philly,” Uncle Mel said. He never liked to be called Philly. It sounded too much like Billy; it made them sound like twins, and they weren’t. He was the bigger one. “Look, this is really hard, we know. But this is how it’s going to be, so the best thing is to start to get used to it.”
    After that he protested no further. He had no recourse. He was a child, and children were helpless. But he would grow up, and then he would be free of them. He would grow up fast and show them he could manage without them.
    They didn’t like him, he could tell. When he sat silently at meals, eating the unfamiliar heavy foods, the soups and roasts that lay in his stomach like wads of damp cardboard, his aunt would urge him to speak. How do you like school? How is your teacher? Are you making friends? He was unable to muster any replies. But if now and then his misery lifted and he jabbered at length about some enthusiasm, as he used to do with his real family, the science experiment that had produced a terrible smell and made the whole class roar and hold their noses, or the movie about camels, or his spectacular feat on the climbing bars in the gym, they stared glumly as if waiting for him to come to an end. It was no fun telling them anything. They’d just nod and say, That’s good, that’s fine, and do you want some more potatoes? After dinner he sulked and helped clear up, then went off to his room and closed the door.

    When his aunt visited the school on Open School Night, she got a good report about him. She told him so. “Your teacher says you’re a good student, Philip. And a friendly, lively boy. Those were her exact words. So why aren’t you a friendly, lively boy around the house? Can you explain that?”
    As he got older he trained himself to stop reconstructing his former life. His aunt was right. It did no good. It was over, beyond anyone’s power to bring back. Instead he looked to the future and began planning his escape. As soon as he reached sixteen he could quit school, hitch rides across the country, camp out in the woods and forage for food, like a boy he’d read about in a book. He could get odd jobs, maybe work on a construction gang. A new apartment building was going up across the street from his school. From the classroom windows he could watch the men, and at lunch hour he snuck out for a closer look. The men maneuvered cranes and derricks, piled dirt and hauled beams, and some sat on seats high above the ground, manipulating the machinery; others sprawled on the sidewalk, wearing their hard hats, eating hero sandwiches, and making jokes, calling out to the girls passing by. Or he could start his own rock band, like Buddy Holly. He was just a kid when he started out. Phil’s parents had one of his records and sometimes danced to it in the living room while Phil and Billy watched and laughed.
    Phil loved all kinds of music, and his aunt found him a teacher so he could continue the piano lessons he’d started two years ago. He didn’t like this new teacher as much as the one back at his real house, but still he practiced diligently. For a rock band, though, he’d have to learn