Changing Michael Read Online Free Page A

yard looked like someone had either dropped cinderblocks on it or driven a car into it a couple of times. Michael’s house was a little brick box with small windows, brown grass, and pathetic little bushes near the front door.
    A couple of broken-down cars had passed out across the weed-infested driveway. Their hoods were gone, and most of their engines were scattered beside them as if someone had torn through looking for an Easter egg.
    Definitely not what I had expected.
    It was the perfect house for Leonard, or someone who reeked of cigarettes and pot, but Michael was just a geek—the kind that reads science-fiction, plays Magic , and gets all flushed and out of breath describing a computer game. (I’d never actually seen Michael play Magic but figured it was a given.)
    Michael had disappeared into the house when I got there. I stood near the fence, wondering if there was a mutant dog hiding around the corner, waiting for me to step into the yard. I opened the gate and swung it back and forth. The noise was loud enough to send any dog into hysterics. No barking.
    Eventually, I stepped through and was halfway to the front door when someone popped out of a side door around the corner of the house. It was Michael, slouching down the driveway with a bag of trash. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he said.
    â€œSelling knives.”
    It took him a moment to process the remark. I don’t know whether he got it or not because he didn’t bother to smile. Instead, he dropped the trash bag into a beat-up trashcan and took off down the sidewalk. I had a fence to deal with, so it took me a minute to catch up with him.
    â€œNo wonder no one comes to visit you,” I said.
    He turned on me like I’d slapped him.
    â€œI came all this way just to see you. You’re supposed to invite me in and feed me.”
    He relaxed a little, which meant he fell into his old slouch and walked off with his eyes glued to the street. We were on the sidewalk, moving away from his house and toward Route 30.
    â€œWhere we going?” I asked.
    He glanced at me before answering. “Bookstore.”
    â€œAdult bookstore?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    He didn’t answer. I waited a moment, then said, “So this world is transitory, huh?”
    Michael glanced at me. We were both on the sidewalk, although it was a pretty tight fit. We couldn’t quite walk next to each other, so I was about half a pace behind.
    Having a conversation with Michael was more than a little frustrating. Every time I made a comment, it was like offering food to a stray dog—Michael didn’t seem to know whether I was going to hand him the food or give him a smack.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œ Fleeting ?”
    â€œYes.”
    We came to the end of his street. Route 30 was clogged with traffic. Along this artery, strip malls and small office buildings elbowed each other for the best view. I was somewhat familiar with the area, but not enough to feel comfortable finding my way back to school if the bookstore was another half hour of side streets and shortcuts away.
    Michael took a left, walking against the rushing traffic.
    â€œWhy’s that?” I said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWhy is this world fleeting? It doesn’t seem so fleeting to me,” I said.
    â€œSo you’re going to live forever?”
    â€œYes, Michael, I am.”
    We walked in silence for a while.
    â€œYou’re not going to kill yourself, are you, Michael?” I asked.
    Nothing.
    â€œYou’re a troubled youth, aren’t you?” I said.
    â€œWhy are you following me?”
    â€œYou’re not a very good listener. I told you: ‘I’m here to help.’”
    Actually, I was there to see if I could convince Michael to let me in his house, but somehow we were getting farther and farther from it.
    â€œI don’t need help,” said