Hard Love Read Online Free Page B

because I hid for a long time. But now I won’t do it anymore. The truth is bioluminescent. I don’t lie, and I don’t waste time on people who do.” She pulled her backpack off the floor and started rummaging around in it for money to pay the bill.
    “Wait a minute. Who says I tell lies?”
    She looked me straight in the eye. “Tell me you don’t.”
    Jesus. “Well, I can’t say I never lie. I mean I don’t always tell my parents the whole truth, but nobody does that. I don’t lie to my friends .” As I said it I was actually picturing this large group of people to whom I am forever honest and loyal, instead of lonely old Brian, to whom I’ll say almost anything. Even my imagination lies.
    She was counting out dollar bills now, so I reached in my pocket for a few of my own. “Do you know what ‘coming out’ really means?” she asked, looking me square in the face again. “It means you stop lying. You tell the truth even if it’s painful, especially if it’s painful. To everybody, your parents included.”
    “I’m not gay,” I told her, though I really had no strong evidence for saying so. “At least I don’t think I am.”
    “There are other closets.”
    “Actually, I suppose I could be gay.” I was getting into the spirit of this truth-telling.
    “Let me know when you decide.”
    “Anyway, I’m not lying in my zine, and I’m not lying to you.” Much.
    “You better not lie to me, Gio.”
    Gio. Well, that wasn’t really fair. I mean, it was an innocent lie, and I’d told it before I knew she was such a truth zealot. It didn’t seem like a good time to fess up, though.
    “I’m not. I wouldn’t,” I said. I scanned the nearby shelves quickly and lucked out. The perfect thing. I grabbed a copy of Nine Stories , by J.D. Salinger, and slapped it down on the table, put my left hand on top of it and raised my right palm in the air. “I swear on my bible,” I said as seriously as possible.
    I guess Marisol appreciated luck too. She laughed. Not a big belly laugh, of course. Just a small explosion of air, but a definite yielding to mirth.
    “You think you’re pretty smart, Mr. Bananafish,” she said.
    “You know the book?” I asked.
    “Of course I know the book. The best story is “Just Before …”
    “Just Before the War with the Eskimos!” I yelled. “I knew you were going to say that!”
    “You did not,” she said, and slapped her money on the table. “You’re funny, though. I appreciate that.”
    She stood up and tried to disappear into thin air again, but I followed her out the door. “I’m here every week. Atmy dad’s place on Marlborough Street. I never have anything to do, so maybe we could—”
    “As long as you’re alive, there’s always plenty to do. You know John Berryman, the poet? He says people who are bored have no inner resources. Check it out: “Dream Song #14.” Meet me here at eleven next Saturday morning. With a copy of Factsheet 5. ”
    I watched her walk away down Newbury Street for just a minute (wondering what the hell a dream song was), but I had the feeling she wouldn’t want me watching her, so I turned around and headed back to Tower Records. I was alive; there was plenty to do.

Chapter Three
    It just wasn’t funny. The idea was good: Memoirs from Hell. Things like where you slept (in dormitories where everybody else snored), who you had to sit next to at meals (people with runny noses and hacking coughs), what you had for breakfast every morning (liverwurst with aerosol cheese sprayed on top), where you shopped (only in warehouse superstores), the only recreationalitem you were allowed to own (a Barbie doll), the only book you were allowed to read ( Paradise Lost ). Stuff like that. Only it wasn’t really working. They were giggles, but they weren’t hitting home. They weren’t deeply, evilly funny. I was just about to give up and peruse the book of John Berryman poems I got from the school library when Mom called