Carry Me Down Read Online Free

blue vein around the edge of her nostril. I don’t remember seeing this vein before or the dark mole near her knuckle with three black hairs growing from it.
    ‘When did they last measure you at school?’ she asks. ‘I thought maybe we should talk to the doctor again?’
    ‘I’m an inch and a half shorter than you,’ I say. ‘I’m exactly five foot eight and a half.’
    ‘We want to keep an eye on things. That’s all. Wouldn’t you be happier talking to the doctor about these things?’
    ‘There’s nothing to talk about. I’m just tall. That’s all.’
    ‘What about other things?’
    ‘There are no other things! I’m just tall.’
    She clears her throat and slows the car. ‘What about puberty? It might begin early for you.’
    ‘Well, it hasn’t. So what’s there to talk about?’
    ‘But look at your legs,’ she says. ‘There’s barely room for them in the car. And your hands! As big as rubber boots.’
    ‘I’ve been this size for weeks. They’ve been like this for at least three weeks.’
    ‘Well, then. You’ve had another growth spurt. Maybe we should talk to the doctor? What do you say?’
    Soon after my tenth birthday my voice began to break like the voices of the boys in the sixth class. But the sixth class is only one class above me now and my voice and height don’t bother me as much as they used to. Besides, I always feel the odd one outat school. I feel more nervous and, although I don’t like it, I am used to it.
    I have only one friend at school. His name is Brendan and I made friends with him on my first day at Gorey school. He asked me if I knew how to make a paper helicopter and at break-time we sat down on the floor in the classroom and tried. Most of the other boys don’t like me because I don’t say much, and don’t play sports or games with them.
    My class teacher, Miss Collins, doesn’t much like me because I’m doing poorly at Irish when she knows that, if I wanted to, I could do well enough. I’m not a brilliant student; third, fourth and sometimes as low as fifth place in tests, but I’m not stupid.
    I’ll admit that I’d like to be smarter than I am and that it would be good to excel in tests with less effort. But I know I’ll discover how to stand out and make an impression in the world, in ways that will matter much more than being clever.
    My mother doesn’t want to let the subject rest. ‘John, please listen when I ask you a question. Are you teased about your height? Do other children tease you?’
    ‘No,’ I say. ‘They don’t even really notice.’
    They do notice. They sometimes call me Troll, after the fairytale monster who lives under the bridge in ‘Three Billy Goats Gruff’. And, before Christmas, when my Uncle Jack and Uncle Tony came to stay for a few nights, and played cards with my father, Uncle Jack came into the bathroom when I was washing before going to bed.
    Uncle Jack has bits of beard on his cheeks and he’s shy and often has a frog in his throat; the words get stuck and he is sometimes unable to speak at all. But he must have had a few drinks that night because he seemed happy. He gave me a quid, and asked me about school.
    I talked to him for a while and he said, ‘Talking to you is like watching a ventriloquist’s dummy with the ventriloquist nowhere to be found.’
    Later, when I put the quid he gave me in my piggy bank, I wished I hadn’t talked to him at all. Talking to somebody who’s drunk is like talking to an animal.
    My mother wipes the windscreen while we wait at the corner for some children to cross the road. When she’s finished wiping, she turns to me. ‘If you ever want to talk to Dr Ryan or Miss Collins, let me know. Your father and I love you very much.’
    ‘OK,’ I say, wondering if there’s anybody crossing the road who can read lips.
    ‘Darling boy. Will you talk to Miss Collins if you need to? If there’s any trouble?’
    ‘I already have,’ I say. ‘Everything is fine.’
    I haven’t talked