Songs Without Words Read Online Free
was going to start getting it soon. Every time Mr. Greenway talked about the periodic table, she thought, OK, listen, but something happened to his voice, like he just
loved
the periodic table, and she couldn’t listen. She spaced out. Sometimes she thought of the quilt on her parents’ bed, how when she was little she’d lie there and play a game of mentally connecting like fabric with like fabric, a game to explain why the quilt was exactly as it was, as if it had to be. Or she’d think about lunch: where she and Amanda might sit, and whether or not she’d see what’s-his-butt.
Who, speaking of: class was almost over. Her heart pounded as she watched the classroom clock click from six of to five of. Just five minutes until the after-chemistry pass. She ran her fingers through her hair, then lowered her head and examined her teeth with her tongue. She cupped her hand under her mouth and exhaled, but her breath just smelled like the classroom, not that she ever got close enough for her breath to matter. Some idiotic magazine article had said you should pinch your cheeks to bring color to them, but color wasn’t a problem—her face was always on fire when she looked at him. At the moment she was also sweating between her boobs, which she absolutely hated.
“Lab tomorrow,” Mr. Greenway was saying. “Don’t forget your flameproof suits.” He smiled his pathetic aren’t-I-funny smile just as the bell rang, and Amanda turned and rolled her eyes at Lauren.
“Don’t forget your dick brain,” she said, meaning Mr. Greenway’s, but Lauren was in no mood. She’d missed the before-school locker pass, so she didn’t even know what he was wearing today. She preferred this pass to take place out beyond the science complex, under the open sky rather than on the busy covered walkways, where she always felt invisible. Plus she could see him for longer out there, see him leaving his English class if she got out there early enough. Walking that swinging walk. His arms, his legs. She imagined him naked walking like that, and her face got even hotter, if that was possible. Herself naked near him—she wanted to barf.
“Laur-en,” Amanda said, and, nearly at the door, Lauren looked back. Amanda for some reason was still at her desk, still putting her stuff in her backpack. Fuck—now the pass would take place on the science walkways, no question. She might even be too late altogether.
“Do you mind waiting?” Amanda whined, and Lauren waited, and by the time she got outside it
was
too late: he was past her, heading for his physics class, wearing his blue T-shirt with the faded red ladder on the back, from his painting job two summers ago. On the front, she knew, just over his heart, it said: JEFF .
2
S arabeth had a staging job to start in El Cerrito, and she was parked in front of the house, early as usual, waiting for the appointed time. She sometimes thought that the need to be punctual was like a chronic but mostly manageable disease—an asthma, a diabetes, the kind of thing you accepted about yourself, accommodated, all the while knowing it could turn you inside out at any moment. For example: a week or so ago, on her way to a paint consultation, she realized halfway there that she’d forgotten her Benjamin Moore color wheel, and the next fifteen minutes—turning around, speeding home, racing into her house, racing back out, starting her car again—were an ever-escalating torment. The mental equivalent of a quiet summer afternoon into which a platoon of helicopters suddenly flew.
At ten-thirty on the nose she knocked at the door, and husband and wife answered together. Henry and Melissa, according to her notes. They said hello, and she said hello, and then they all stood there awkwardly.
“Please come in,” Melissa said, and Sarabeth stepped over the threshold. The first moments were always so hard: as if she’d arrived early for a dinner party—early or uninvited.
Melissa tapped her lips nervously,
loved
the periodic table, and she couldn’t listen. She spaced out. Sometimes she thought of the quilt on her parents’ bed, how when she was little she’d lie there and play a game of mentally connecting like fabric with like fabric, a game to explain why the quilt was exactly as it was, as if it had to be. Or she’d think about lunch: where she and Amanda might sit, and whether or not she’d see what’s-his-butt.
Who, speaking of: class was almost over. Her heart pounded as she watched the classroom clock click from six of to five of. Just five minutes until the after-chemistry pass. She ran her fingers through her hair, then lowered her head and examined her teeth with her tongue. She cupped her hand under her mouth and exhaled, but her breath just smelled like the classroom, not that she ever got close enough for her breath to matter. Some idiotic magazine article had said you should pinch your cheeks to bring color to them, but color wasn’t a problem—her face was always on fire when she looked at him. At the moment she was also sweating between her boobs, which she absolutely hated.
“Lab tomorrow,” Mr. Greenway was saying. “Don’t forget your flameproof suits.” He smiled his pathetic aren’t-I-funny smile just as the bell rang, and Amanda turned and rolled her eyes at Lauren.
“Don’t forget your dick brain,” she said, meaning Mr. Greenway’s, but Lauren was in no mood. She’d missed the before-school locker pass, so she didn’t even know what he was wearing today. She preferred this pass to take place out beyond the science complex, under the open sky rather than on the busy covered walkways, where she always felt invisible. Plus she could see him for longer out there, see him leaving his English class if she got out there early enough. Walking that swinging walk. His arms, his legs. She imagined him naked walking like that, and her face got even hotter, if that was possible. Herself naked near him—she wanted to barf.
“Laur-en,” Amanda said, and, nearly at the door, Lauren looked back. Amanda for some reason was still at her desk, still putting her stuff in her backpack. Fuck—now the pass would take place on the science walkways, no question. She might even be too late altogether.
“Do you mind waiting?” Amanda whined, and Lauren waited, and by the time she got outside it
was
too late: he was past her, heading for his physics class, wearing his blue T-shirt with the faded red ladder on the back, from his painting job two summers ago. On the front, she knew, just over his heart, it said: JEFF .
2
S arabeth had a staging job to start in El Cerrito, and she was parked in front of the house, early as usual, waiting for the appointed time. She sometimes thought that the need to be punctual was like a chronic but mostly manageable disease—an asthma, a diabetes, the kind of thing you accepted about yourself, accommodated, all the while knowing it could turn you inside out at any moment. For example: a week or so ago, on her way to a paint consultation, she realized halfway there that she’d forgotten her Benjamin Moore color wheel, and the next fifteen minutes—turning around, speeding home, racing into her house, racing back out, starting her car again—were an ever-escalating torment. The mental equivalent of a quiet summer afternoon into which a platoon of helicopters suddenly flew.
At ten-thirty on the nose she knocked at the door, and husband and wife answered together. Henry and Melissa, according to her notes. They said hello, and she said hello, and then they all stood there awkwardly.
“Please come in,” Melissa said, and Sarabeth stepped over the threshold. The first moments were always so hard: as if she’d arrived early for a dinner party—early or uninvited.
Melissa tapped her lips nervously,
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