The Language of Silence Read Online Free Page A

watched it together. I was flipping through the guide earlier, and I saw that it was coming on, and I couldn’t help but remember that week you two were over here and watched it every night.”
    I nod. Numb. I remember too.
    “Maybe we can watch it, and we can talk about him. I miss him too, Ed,” Mom says softly.
    I nod. Still numb. Still unable to move.
    My mom busies herself around our small, cramped kitchen, no doubt giving me a bit of space. The oven buzzer goes off and suddenly, I’m free from the claws of Mr. Freeze. I bolt to the pantry to pull out paper plates and napkins, but mostly I move so my mother can’t see my face.
    “Maybe next time it’s on,” Mom says from behind me, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder.
    All I can do is nod.
    ****
    Later that night, I l ie awake in my bed. I won’t be able to sleep until I find it. With a groan, I throw the covers off of me and stare at my mess of a room. It has to be in here somewhere. It has to be.
    I start with the massive piles of dirty clothes that lay like poorly place d mines all over my room. An hour later, I still haven’t found the damn thing. But my room is starting to look mighty inhabitable.
    If I got allowance , this would be worth an extra ten bucks for sure.
    I scratch the back of my head, surveying my humble abode , begging and pleading with my subconscious to remember where I put it.
    It’s stupid really. It shouldn’t mean so much to me, but I still need to know where it is if I ever plan on sleeping again.
    And then it hits me.
    The box where I keep all my comics.
    Of course.
    I fall to me knees and jut my arm under my bed, feeling around frantic ally for the box. I can’t help but sigh with relief when I pull it out from the dark abyss of underneath my bed. There are no monsters under there. Only hope. A small moment of comfort.
    I yank the lid off the box, and there it is. Sitting right on top. Relief floods through me.
    The copy of The Outsiders Tristan gave to me.
    I open the cover to find the inscription he left for me on the title page:
    Ed,
    Thanks for listening.
    Tristan
    My stomach drops. I was wrong. There are monsters under my bed. This monster is called guilt.
    I had listened , Tristan. But not enough.

Chapter Six
     
    Ed :
     
    My distaste for the glorified zombies belonging to Wendall High School’s Let’s-Be-on-Every-Page-of-the-Yearbook-Club is no secret. But even I have to admit that one of the club’s most prominent members, Georgina Fritz, is pretty damn hot.
    Ridiculously hot.
    She fulfills every requirement ever written to qualify for drool-worthy status—legs that seem to go on for eternity, hair that, no matter which way she flips it, seems to fall into place, clothes that are a little too tight or short, but teachers tend to forget the dress code around her because she’s just nice to look at in them.
    Cliché? Sure. But even I must admit that years and years of evolution have somehow warped some part of me into wanting her. Some man millions of years ago decided this was what he wanted, and we were all damned as a result.
    And of course, I can’t stand her.
    Sure, somewhere deep inside, there might be something of worth. But, overall, I loathe her.
              I can’t stand her for her ability to make men feel small just because she can. I can’t stand her for all the boys who can’t complain about how she hurt their feelings with a cold glance or nasty refusal because society would label them soft. I despise her because despite my claims that I can’t be pigeonholed into some small, suffocating definition of the teenage boy, I’d sleep with her if given the chance.
     
    She’ll think I’m weak because of Tristan’s death. I already know what cards she’ll play in this game. She’ll attempt to comfort me, always wanting to appear sympathetic to those beneath her. Like all good queens would do. And when a proper amount of time has passed, when nobody remembers how a boy died