My Own Revolution Read Online Free Page B

pulse against my skin. Feelings get jolted loose. Feelings I didn’t know I had.
    “Here,” I say, taking off my jacket. But instead of handing it over, I tuck the jacket around her shoulders. Suddenly I don’t feel merely brotherly. My arms linger. They don’t want to pull back. They want to
enfold
her in the jacket.
    But I’ve never touched a girl like that before. Never wanted to. I draw away and press my legs tight. Without my jacket, I’m the one shivering.

If we can’t see the Beatles, at least we can be them. With the record player turned low for Mrs. Zeman’s sake, we line up in a little group by Emil’s closet. Karel, shorter than any of us, beats a pot while Emil and Danika take turns pretending to strum an old guitar. I’m technically the singer, holding a can of green beans for a microphone, but we all sing along at the good parts.
    Emil, who never dresses up, wears his Sunday jacket, trying to look like John Lennon. He’s punched the lenses out of an old pair of glasses and wears the empty frames.
    In spite of her short hair, Danika looks nothing like a Beatle, nothing like a boy. Since Shindliar, the feeling of just being friends has vanished. Every word is loaded with meaning. Each tiny glance sets my body humming.
    The songs themselves set me humming. They get inside me and tear apart all I ever was. They break me free.
    Soft as the music is, Mrs. Zeman’s broom handle starts rapping against the floorboards.
    “Hell’s bells,” says Emil. “What a toad.”
    “It’s all the fault of the stupid party,” Karel says. “If it wasn’t for the party, we could play all the music we wanted.” Karel has only started caring about music. Up until recently, he’s spent his whole life with model trains, the tracks winding over his bedroom floor. But now he wants to listen to the Beatles all the time.
    “We could buy whatever we wanted,” I add. “We wouldn’t have to
share
photos of the record jacket. We could each have our own.” Saying this, I realize I still haven’t printed the promised copies.
    “The kids of those party members have everything,” Emil says. “Their parents drive fancy Russian Volga cars.”
    “The mothers wear diamonds like ice cubes,” says Karel.
    “They don’t care about the proletariat breaking loose from their chains,” I add.
    We’re shouting now, trying to outdo one another. We’re even louder than the music Mrs. Zeman pounded her broomstick about.
    “They don’t care about the fall of the ruling class.”
    “They want to
be
the ruling class.”
    “The party goes on and on about how Western music undermines the family,” Karel says, “but their own kids listen anyway.”
    “They’re all undermined,” I add.
    Only Danika has said nothing. Sitting on the edge of Emil’s bed, she’s grown quiet. She picks up a candy bar wrapper from the floor and folds it smaller and smaller.
    “Stupid party.” Karel punches the air.
    “Hypocrites,” Emil adds.
    “Someone is always trodding us down,” I say.
    Suddenly, Danika throws aside the candy wrapper. It lands on the floor, springing loose from the tight folds. Then, her lower lip trembling, she says, “It’s not
trodding.
It’s
treading.
Treading
us down.
Trodding
isn’t even a word.”
    “So?” asks Emil.
    “It should be right.”
    Karel laughs awkwardly.
    Emil and I exchange glances.
    I reach over and lay a hand on Danika’s shoulder. “What is it?” The words
my darling
spring to mind. I want to add those two lovely words but don’t dare.
    “It’s nothing. Nothing to do with you.” She shrugs off my hand.
    “Something to do with the Beatles?” She could be hopelessly in love, as so many girls are.
    She shakes her head, her short hair wisping out.
    “Sure you don’t have a crush on Paul McCartney?” I say lightly, trying to make a joke.
    She shakes her head again, harder.
    If only she were cold, I could offer my jacket again. This time I’d be brave. I’d put my arms around her