Demon's Door Read Online Free Page B

told him.
    Teddy shrugged. ‘It’s an English class, right? I wouldn’t show up to a swimming class without my swim shorts.’
    Jim said, ‘You’re good at English, aren’t you?’
    â€˜I’m OK.’
    â€˜You’re more than OK. Admit it. You knew how to pronounce “euphemism”, didn’t you? You knew what it meant, too. In fact you have a pretty extensive vocabulary. I never heard a student of mine use the word “contrite” before.’
    Teddy opened his study book and wrote My Last Meal at the top of the first page. Then he looked up at Jim and said, ‘You’re going to ask me what I’m doing here, aren’t you? In remedial English?’
    â€˜You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’
    â€˜Well, so what. It’s all in my college records I guess. I have kind of a problem when it comes to writing. Once I’ve started, it’s like I can’t stop. I write pages and pages and pages until I run out of paper.’
    â€˜You have logorrhea?’
    Teddy nodded. ‘Logorrhea, that’s right. That’s what my shrink calls it.’
    â€˜Logorrhea is actually a euphemism for the uncontrollable urge to write endless reams of bullshit,’ said Jim. ‘Believe me, you’re not the only one who suffers from it. There’s plenty of famous writers who do the same, but they get prizes.’
    Jim returned to his desk and opened up his book again. Most of his class were frowning into the middle distance as if he had asked them to explain Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity in ten words or less. Only two students had their heads down: Teddy, who was scribbling as if his life depended on it, and Arthur, who was writing much more laboriously, but licking his lips as if he could almost taste the food that he was writing about.
    At the back of the class, sitting at the next desk to Grant, was a pretty, dark-haired girl in a tight gray T-shirt. Georgia Bisocky. She was staring at Grant and batting her eyelashes flirtatiously, even though Grant remained oblivious.
    Jim said, ‘Georgia . . . I know Grant looks good enough to eat, but I doubt if the cooks at San Quentin have any recipes for football players.’
    Georgia blushed, but Grant only looked around in bewilderment, and blinked. Jim realized then that – although Grant wasn’t stupid – he was only capable of thinking one thought at a time.
    Jim was reading The Memory of Goldfish . It was a novel about a man who wakes up every morning having totally forgotten what happened to him the day before. Jim found the idea quite appealing. To wake up, every single day, and rediscover life afresh. The trouble was, he might be nice to people he hated, without remembering that he hated them. He might eat broccoli, and he detested it.
    He glanced up at the clock. Only another ten minutes to go before recess. But then there was a polite knock at the classroom door, and Jim could see somebody standing outside, looking in through the window.
    â€˜Come on in,’ he called, and beckoned.
    The door was cautiously opened. An Asian-looking boy came in, with straight black hair that stuck up vertically from the top of his head, and a round face that put Jim in mind of a very young Jackie Chan. He was wearing a snowy-white T-shirt and blue jeans with rolled-up cuffs.
    In one hand he was carrying three textbooks, fastened together with a strap. In the other he was carrying a large brown wicker basket with a lid.
    â€˜Special Class Two?’ he asked.
    â€˜That’s right,’ said Jim. ‘And unless I’m very much mistaken, you must be the late Kim Dong Wook.’
    The boy approached Jim’s desk and bowed his head. ‘I apologize, sir, for missing first half-hour. I was delay at pet store.’
    â€˜OK . . .’ said Jim, suspiciously. He looked down at the wicker basket. He could hear something