Flannery Read Online Free

circle on his hands and knees to where Amber was sitting. He put his hands on her shoulders and leaned in and kissed her on the lips.
    Everything stopped.
    The boys stopped chanting.
    The whistling stopped.
    The tropical rainstorm stopped all at once, except for Moira Kennedy, who slowly tapped one foot, just like we also used to do in Happy Kids, so it sounded like a single drop of rain, falling from leaf to leaf to leaf after the storm.
    They were still kissing. They kissed in utter silence. They kissed with their tongues. They forgot they were in a circle with people watching them. They forgot the laminated puzzle of Mona Lisa who was gazing down on them and it was hard to say what she thought of it. They kissed until Jordan Murphy wrecked the moment by yelling, Get a room, man.
    Since that kiss Amber has been addled and dopey. Everything you say to her, you have to say twice. She came first last week at a provincial meet, the one that determines who gets to go to the Nationals. But she lost a few seconds from her best time and didn’t seem to care. And she hasn’t mentioned the Nationals since. She’s constantly swirling the tip of her pinkie in a little pot of cotton-candy lip gloss. You can see the hard plastic circle of the lip-gloss lid pressed into the very tight back pocket of her jeans, like a charm.
    Mr. Payne says, And Gary Bowen’s partner will be . . .
    The little violet dot from the laser pen hesitates here and there. For a moment it lingers on Tiffany Murphy’s face. It rests on Tiffany’s chin.
    Not Tiffany Murphy, Amber whispers. Please not Tiffany Murphy.
    But the dot moves on to John Mercer. John gets the dot right in the eye and he has to dig at his eye socket with his knuckle. The dot zips away before it permanently blinds him.
    Finally, the little violet dot sits smack dab in the middle of Amber’s lips. There’s a direct line from Mr. Payne’s laser pen to Amber’s lips, as if she’s a fish he’s about to reel in.
    I think it’s you, I whisper. But the dot from Mr. Payne’s laser pen slides off Amber’s mouth. The dot skips over the aisle between the desks and lands right on Gus Wong’s Adam’s apple.
    Gus, says Mr. Payne. You and Gary . . .
    Amber suddenly flings herself across the aisle into the path of the violet laser dot. She throws herself on top of Gus Wong’s desk as the tiny violet dot hits her cheek.
    Ms. Mackey, please, says Mr. Payne.
    Sorry, sir, Amber says. I dropped my pencil. And, sure enough, she had somehow managed to fling her pencil onto Gus’s desk. She picks it up and wiggles it at Mr. Payne.
    Sorry about that. It flew right out of my hand, sir.
    Okay, said Mr. Payne. Now, let’s see. Gary Bowen and Amber Mackey will be partners.
    Amber turns to me, and there’s that smile again.
    The classroom door creaks open and in slinks a boy, black curly mussed-up hair, big brown eyes, lanky (okay, skinny), tall, and the beautiful, worn jean jacket stitched with a patch on the back that says ARMS ARE FOR HUGGING , and on the collar, a button with a marijuana leaf, and a tiny Santa Claus pin with a little string and if you pull it, the red plastic nose lights up, and on the back, a patch with The Clash cut out of a T-shirt and embroidered on with green silk embroidery thread and jagged little stitches.
    A jacket I have lovingly memorized every square inch of.
    The boy lopes down the aisle and pours himself into the empty desk.
    All heads turn in his direction.
    Mr. Payne says, Ah, look who has graced us with his presence!
    Tyrone O’Rourke has arrived.
    Mr. Payne, without warning, snaps off his laser pen and drops it in his shirt pocket. He picks up a clipboard and consults. It seems he has paired everyone already, and the dancing laser pen was only for show.
    He reads down the list in a flat monotone. Finally he gets to me. Flannery Malone, you will be partners with Tyrone