The Beginner's Guide to Living Read Online Free Page A

skateboards, and we nod, but I don’t want to talk. Instead I look out the window of the train and lose myself in the rattling past of things—people’s backyards, their washing, some woman’s red undies flailing in the wind. I half imagine how that woman might look as I close my eyes, think of Taryn, and that knife, a red Honda crashing into Mom. I open my eyes to a sign nailed up on somebody’s tree: Jesus is coming soon. Prepare for His return.
    At the next station, a woman in a bright orange sweater gets on carrying a silver bag in the shape of an egg. She shuffles over to the window across from me, so I have to fold my knees in. On her foot, a tattoo. It says serendipity , which I remember from that film where they fall for each other but leave meeting again to chance.
    When I stare at her foot, the woman smiles at me. “Do you believe in fate?” she asks, and for a minute I think she’s coming on to me, but what are the chances of that?
    â€œFate?”
    â€œYeah, you know, if things are meant to happen, they will.”
    â€œDon’t know,” I say, looking out the window.
    â€œIt’s all about watching out for the signs.” She pulls her bag in closer to her stomach. I can see her reflection in the glass; her nose is pierced and the stud keeps catching the light.
    â€œSigns?”
    â€œHaven’t seen any today,” she says, turning to look at a tall woman who’s shouting down at the other end of the car, shouting at herself. “What about you?”
    They keep slapping me in the face, I think, staring at fences, though I’m not sure what you’re meant to do with random pages, a poster about Jesus, and a foot about fate. Where’s the equation? Maybe you need to throw something in sideways, see what comes out. “My mother died. Nine days ago.”
    Her hand goes to her mouth, “Oh, really.”
    â€œYeah, really. Where’s the serendipity in that?” I’m being an asshole, I know, but maybe I can jolt her into some truth.
    â€œI … I’m not sure.” She’s getting up, pulling that bag in closer, its silver strap dangling over her wrist. “Um, this is my stop. Wow, I’m sorry.”
    She stoops toward me for a second, and then she goes, steps out onto the platform and keeps walking without looking back, till that tattoo of hers blurs into a smudge. A black cat sitting on a wall watches the train pull out.
    *   *   *
    Flinders Street Station is manic, even considering it’s the center of Melbourne. People dodge each other as they go where they need to be, but I can’t get into the flow. I bang into three people, all wearing suits, all women. “Sorry,” I say, “Sorry,” and one more time. “Sorry! For Christ’s sake!”
    My ticket gets stuck in the machine on the way through and some Indian guy in an orange vest has to help me out. I push past the guy selling flowers, buckets of nature lined up against the gray, and then out into the light. People pour down the steps but I let them flood around me—I don’t even know where the State Library is, so there’s no rush. Saturday afternoon and I’m on my second library. Loss does strange things.
    It’s hot, hot on my face, on my chest, and the warmth feels good; it’s evaporating something that doesn’t belong. I find a spot on the steps out of the traffic but still in the sun. Below me, there are some emos huddled in as much shade as they can manage, a flock of them all in black like suicidal crows. One of them’s standing up and he’s thin and pale and so vampirish I almost laugh out loud; he’s even wearing a black cape. Wonder if he sleeps in a coffin, bites chicks on the neck. He certainly has them enthralled, with their fishnet stockings and black lipstick smiles. He’s their god, no doubt about it as they watch his every move, the flop of his hair