A Perfect Life Read Online Free Page B

my classmates had said “a bird,” another had said “a brontosaurus,” another had said “a horse,” and I had said “a mountain.” I didn’t want to miss a thing. I wanted to live long enough to know how the human race turned out.
    Willie tapped my arm. “Where does a person get some chow around here?”
    Even with all the offices going up, there were still surprisingly few restaurants—most people from MIT grabbed a sandwich from a pushcart or a packet of peanut butter crackers from a vending machine. I motioned in the direction of a nearly empty block that until recently had been the site of a florist, a delicatessen, and a shoe repair shop. Only the deli still stood, stripped now of neighbors, braced on either side by wooden struts. The restaurant seemed doomed, but the new Center for Biomedical Research would simply engulf it. The B&B Deli would survive as a symbiont, feeding its host, the way human mitochondria once lived on their own before moving in and becoming part of our cells.
    The deli was dark and smoky, with scarred booths and paneled walls. The initials in the name stood for Barney and Bob, but MIT students used to joke that “B&B” stood for “Bed and Breakfast” since so many lab rats ate their dinners there at midnight, then stretched out in the booths and slept until dawn, when the B&B served delicious waffles and eggs.
    â€œWhat’ll it be tonight, Professor?” asked the man behind the counter (both owners wore bushy beards and Red Sox caps, so I never could identify which one was Barney and which one Bob). I flushed with the pride of being called “professor,” even though I knew he called me that only because I looked so much like a kid. I ordered a pastrami sandwich and a knish, then tried to decide between rice pudding and chocolate cake.
    â€œThat’s great,” Willie said. “I love that. A pastrami sandwich. A knish!” All he took on his own tray were two cartons of chocolate milk.
    â€œI forget to eat sometimes,” I said. “But then I make up for it.”
    He nodded. “Sure. Got to build it up. Need that extra layer of fat. Although really, there’s no sense trying to stockpile it. How long do you think it would take for you to shake off an extra twenty pounds? My dad could have done it in a week.”
    It was like discovering that another person could monitor your thoughts. I didn’t know whether to be horrified or relieved. I led him to a booth, trying not to drop my tray or slosh my Coke.
    â€œYou think about it all the time, don’t you?” he asked.
    He had said aloud the most important fact about me, the fact I kept most hidden. Every moment I was alive, I thought about dying. “And you don’t?” I said.
    â€œSure.” He shook a carton of chocolate milk, then pried open the seam. “Every few weeks.”
    I told him that I didn’t believe him. How could he avoid thinking he might have Valentine’s?
    â€œZen,” he said. “I used to think about it a lot. Then I went to Japan and became a Buddhist.”
    I must have rolled my eyes.
    â€œThat’s a little arrogant, isn’t it? Dismissing a philosophy that’s been around for a couple of thousand years just because a few flakes in California took it up?”
    The last thing I needed was a stepbrother who thought meditating on the sound of one hand clapping would cure my problems. I finished my pastrami sandwich and started on the cake. Willie kept staring at my mouth. I thought he wanted a bite of cake; I held out a forkful.
    â€œWhat?” he said. “Thanks, why not.”
    He reached across the table, and his hand swallowed mine. That’s when I knew I wasn’t safe. No one can predict this, who might cause you to recall you don’t live only in your mind. You know that old cliché about how people use only a fraction of their brains? In my case, it