You’re setting the Brimley clock back. You’re doing it a little bit at a time.”
Silence.
“Right?”
“Bingo. Good night.”
“Don’t ever try to keep a secret from me again,” I said, but he had already hung up.
I try to imagine how he does it. I can’t.
PD80
M ail was waiting for me when I got home from school. From Mr. B. Postal mail. He doesn’t have a computer. I opened it. There were just three words:
Beware of solipsism
Funny word. Sounds like it means “love of melons” or something. I looked it up. It means believing that “the self is the only reality.”
Am I a solipsist?
PD84
I ’m going to kiss her.
It came to me during biology lab today. She was at another table, leaning over her fetal pig, and I couldn’t stop staring at her. And somehow it was all the better because she didn’t know I was staring. I don’t know why, but I zeroed in on the back of her neck. Her black hair is short, so her neck shows, and it has this thin gold chain around it that holds her littleamber sea horse, which at the moment was dangling over the fetal pig, and after years and years of knowing her, suddenly I couldn’t take my eyes off the back of her neck.
I thought about her through the next class and I haven’t stopped since. I think it will be OK. I mean, if she kissed BT, why not me? And I’m pretty sure (sometimes) there’s nothing going on between them. No new jewelry has suddenly appeared on her. No sign of her in BT’s room. No sneaky glances between them at Saturday-night Monopoly.
I keep thinking of what she said on the phone that day. I wrote things down:
“…wasn’t about me and BT…”
“…the place…the night…the stars…”
“…I would have kissed anybody …”
I try not to think too deep into that one.
What I need to do now is come up with the time, the place. The moment. Too bad there are no star parties till spring. But there are still the stars. And light pollution. And clouds. Can’t do anything about light pollution. Clouds, I can pray against. At least I can count on night to show up.
I’m thinking…
PD88
T hinking…
PD89
L etter from Mr. B:
Why does a back scratch feel better coming from somebody else than if you do it yourself?
PD90
T hinking…
PD91
B ingo! Christmas vacation. It’s almost here. That’s when I’ll do it. I’m working on the details.
PD92
M y mother is on the warpath.
Tabby found her Christmas presents, three days before Christmas. She tore the wrapping off every one. She knows everything she’s getting.
They were hidden on the top shelf of the winter/summer clothes closet that my father had built in the basement. They were completely covered with summer shirts, bathing suits, etc. She had first tried standing on a chair, but she still couldn’t reach. So she dragged the half stepladder down from the garage. Still not high enough. So she dragged down the full stepladder. Nobody knows how she did this without being seen or heard. (Or, I’m thinking, without help. I wonder if she lured Korbet. Or BT.)
My mother made the discovery around noon. It’s like a crime scene. You can feel the frenzy. The chair and small stepladder flung across the basement. Summer shirts and bathing suits everywhere. The floor covered with ripped paper, bows, ribbons. Gift boxesripped open, covers gone. One lid is twenty feet away, under the dartboard. So far there’s no evidence that she actually took anything. It seems like she looked, then left everything there, in their boxes, on the floor, for all the world to see.
And my mother is calling: “TABBY! TABBEEEEE!”
PD96
I got it! The Exacta. My very own atomic watch. It doesn’t look special. Just a gray plain-looking face with digital numbers, stainless-steel band. But its coolness lies beneath its looks. Its tiny receiver picks up the radio signal from the Atomic Clock, keeping me accurate to one second every million years. I wore it to bed Christmas night.
My parents punished
Silence.
“Right?”
“Bingo. Good night.”
“Don’t ever try to keep a secret from me again,” I said, but he had already hung up.
I try to imagine how he does it. I can’t.
PD80
M ail was waiting for me when I got home from school. From Mr. B. Postal mail. He doesn’t have a computer. I opened it. There were just three words:
Beware of solipsism
Funny word. Sounds like it means “love of melons” or something. I looked it up. It means believing that “the self is the only reality.”
Am I a solipsist?
PD84
I ’m going to kiss her.
It came to me during biology lab today. She was at another table, leaning over her fetal pig, and I couldn’t stop staring at her. And somehow it was all the better because she didn’t know I was staring. I don’t know why, but I zeroed in on the back of her neck. Her black hair is short, so her neck shows, and it has this thin gold chain around it that holds her littleamber sea horse, which at the moment was dangling over the fetal pig, and after years and years of knowing her, suddenly I couldn’t take my eyes off the back of her neck.
I thought about her through the next class and I haven’t stopped since. I think it will be OK. I mean, if she kissed BT, why not me? And I’m pretty sure (sometimes) there’s nothing going on between them. No new jewelry has suddenly appeared on her. No sign of her in BT’s room. No sneaky glances between them at Saturday-night Monopoly.
I keep thinking of what she said on the phone that day. I wrote things down:
“…wasn’t about me and BT…”
“…the place…the night…the stars…”
“…I would have kissed anybody …”
I try not to think too deep into that one.
What I need to do now is come up with the time, the place. The moment. Too bad there are no star parties till spring. But there are still the stars. And light pollution. And clouds. Can’t do anything about light pollution. Clouds, I can pray against. At least I can count on night to show up.
I’m thinking…
PD88
T hinking…
PD89
L etter from Mr. B:
Why does a back scratch feel better coming from somebody else than if you do it yourself?
PD90
T hinking…
PD91
B ingo! Christmas vacation. It’s almost here. That’s when I’ll do it. I’m working on the details.
PD92
M y mother is on the warpath.
Tabby found her Christmas presents, three days before Christmas. She tore the wrapping off every one. She knows everything she’s getting.
They were hidden on the top shelf of the winter/summer clothes closet that my father had built in the basement. They were completely covered with summer shirts, bathing suits, etc. She had first tried standing on a chair, but she still couldn’t reach. So she dragged the half stepladder down from the garage. Still not high enough. So she dragged down the full stepladder. Nobody knows how she did this without being seen or heard. (Or, I’m thinking, without help. I wonder if she lured Korbet. Or BT.)
My mother made the discovery around noon. It’s like a crime scene. You can feel the frenzy. The chair and small stepladder flung across the basement. Summer shirts and bathing suits everywhere. The floor covered with ripped paper, bows, ribbons. Gift boxesripped open, covers gone. One lid is twenty feet away, under the dartboard. So far there’s no evidence that she actually took anything. It seems like she looked, then left everything there, in their boxes, on the floor, for all the world to see.
And my mother is calling: “TABBY! TABBEEEEE!”
PD96
I got it! The Exacta. My very own atomic watch. It doesn’t look special. Just a gray plain-looking face with digital numbers, stainless-steel band. But its coolness lies beneath its looks. Its tiny receiver picks up the radio signal from the Atomic Clock, keeping me accurate to one second every million years. I wore it to bed Christmas night.
My parents punished
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