Child of My Right Hand Read Online Free Page B

finally said it and Jack didn’t know whether to cheer or cry or what. It wasn’t much of a surprise, no surprise at all, except that Simon had found the courage to tell them. But what to say? Hooray? Oh, shit? We already knew?
    â€œGay is good,” Genna said. “We love you the same as ever.”
    â€œOf course,” Jack chimed in to be able to say something.
    Liz kissed her bridegroom. The soundtrack swelled. Jack’s eyes fluttered wet, and he wanted to say something more. “Maybe someday there could be a ceremony where you”—he searched for the right word—“and your partner could each step on a glass.”
    He tried to imagine Simon under a chupa kissing a guy, but couldn’t bring it to mind.
    Simon might have said, You guys are great. Or, What if the guy’s not Jewish? Instead he responded, “I’m really tired, I’m going to bed.” Then he stood and all two hundred and thirty ordinarily surly pounds of him advanced towards the bedroom corridor he shared with Lizzie. Near the door, he turned and smiled his little-boy smile.
    Late that night, after Lizzie was home and asleep in her bed, Jack and Genna made love for only the second time in their new house. They’d been tiptoeing around that, too. The moon shone through the picture window onto their bed, lighting Genna’s face and the hollow between her breasts. The strange bird they’d been hearing since they moved in gave its odd whooping cry. Who-whoo, Who-weee, Who-whoo, who-weee.
    â€œIt’s great he could tell us,” Genna whispered. “Don’t you think?”
    Jack nodded.
    â€œIt means we’ve done something right, don’t you think?”
    She snuggled backwards against him. Jack crossed his arm over her breasts, and they spooned as they had when their path through the world seemed simpler. And in the woods outside their room the bird repeated its eerie cry: Who-whoo, Who-weee. Who-who, who-weee.

chapter 3
    Simon was in love or maybe in lust. Hit me from the top, hit me from the bottom, Don’t mean nothing, less it’s right between the eyes. Rich was a sophomore, fifteen years old. He had curly black hair and lived with his father in the trailer park outside town. Simon had met Rich through his new best friend Rachel. He totally loved Rachel, who lived with her mother and a little wiener dog. She was fine with the gay thing because her mother was gay, which was a secret Simon had promised not to tell anyone.
    Rachel had light brown hair, with blonde highlights, that flipped up at the ends, which was what Simon had looked like when he was two and three. Medium height, the tiniest bit plump, smart and popular. She could sit at anyone’s table, but she sat with him. Just last Friday he sat down, and Rachel said, “Simon, meet my friend, Rich.”
    Now, less than a week later, they were walking away from the auditeria, Simon and Rich, Rachel, her friend Ellyn and Ellyn’s boyfriend, Rob. Whenever he felt bored during French (the whole freaking time), Simon worked on the note. He’d planned to pass it at lunch, but someone was always watching.
    Rich,
    I think your cool. I think your hot. Isn’t that weird, your cool and hot?
    I’d really like us to get together. I think you know what I mean. In case you don’t, I bet you have a really nice cock.
    Call me. 773-2920.
    Simon
    He’d outlined Rich in three shades of red and folded the note in a tight, hot square. Now Rachel was saying something to Ellyn, who was thin and pretty but laughed like a donkey. Just as Rich glanced over his shoulder at Hee-Haw Ellyn, Simon pressed the note in his hand and held on. Rich’s head swiveled and his eyes locked on Simon. For that magic moment—can’t you just hear it?—they walked down the hall holding hands gazing into each other’s eyes. Simon didn’t care if anyone noticed; he only cared that Rich took the note. Then