Reaction by Lesley Choyce Page B

up my pack and run upstairs to my room. I slam the door. I fall on my bed, face into my pillow, which sort of smells like corn chips. I’m not crying. I mean, I’m fifteen years old now. I’m not crying, but I feel like it.
    After a while, I turn over. My face is still hot, but I feel better. I look around and—this may sound dumb—but I pretend I’m all alone on a desert island. Like I’m washed up on the beach, waking up with the tropical sun beating on my back. Then I look up. The walls of my room are mostly covered with posters of bands. I’m crazy about music. There’s one of Death Cab for Cutie. An old Beastie Boys poster.
    There’s also a painting on the wall that my mom made. It’s of a cabin by Shawnigan Lake. We once rented it for two weeks one summer. I was ten. That was my best summer. We swam in the lake almost every day. When I dived down, I could see green shafts of sunlight underwater. After swimming, me and my friend Jason would go to the corner store to buy candy. We walked in the dirt beside the road. Brown powdery dust squished up between my toes. Sounds dumb now, but back then I thought that was the greatest.
    I’ve got Mom’s beat-up old record player on my desk. I’ve got all her records too. She liked the Beatles a lot. I put on her favorite song. It’s called “Here, There and Everywhere.” It’s a sappy ballad, but I like it. I think about Dad and this Terry lady, then about Mom. And then—I’m embarrassed to admit it—I start crying. For real. Blubbering all over the place. What a loser.
    My cell phone buzzes. It’s Jason’s number. I don’t answer. I don’t feel like talking. Instead, I go back to pretending I’m on that desert island. I’m facedown on the bed, pretending my ship has gone down. It’s late morning, and the sun’s killing my back. Pretty soon I’ve gotta get up and build my shelter. Maybe find some food. Like turtle eggs. I read once how some guy on a desert island had to eat turtle eggs. Would that be like chicken eggs? Probably not.
    I roll over, kind of slip-sliding off my bed onto the floor. Then I get my bass guitar out of the closet. Put the record-player needle back to the beginning of “Here, There and Everywhere” and start to play along. It sounds all right. I got my bass about a year ago. Actually, Dad bought it for me. But for a long time I didn’t feel like learning to play it. I was pretty depressed. I even had to go to a psychiatrist for a while. Dad was worried about me because I got real sad after Mom died. For a while, I didn’t want to get out of bed. Maybe for, like, two weeks. After that, Dad made me go to that stupid shrink.
    After “Here, There and Everywhere,” I try to play along with some other songs on the Beatles record. But it doesn’t sound as good. Then I hear Dad yelling from downstairs for me to set the table. That’s one of my jobs. Also, I clean one of the bathrooms every weekend, take out the garbage and sometimes help Dad make dinner.
    Terry has gone home, so it’s just me and Dad at dinner.
    â€œDuncan,” he says, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Did you know Terry is a bank teller?”
    â€œNope,” I say.
    â€œYes. She’s quite an interesting lady. We were, you know, talking about films. Movies. And her favorites are…let me remember. Oh yes. When Harry Met Sally . And that other one, you know, about that large ship that hits an iceberg.”
    â€œ Titanic ,” I say. I cram some peas into my mouth. How can Dad not know that?
    He goes on to tell me that Terry lives in Esquimalt, which is part of Victoria, where we live. I don’t ask Dad one thing about Terry. I’m kind of mad or confused or something, which is actually how I feel a lot of the time. It’s like my emotions boil up and it’s hard to control them. Weird, I know.
    I help do the