Chasing Boys by Karen Tayleur Read Free Book Online Page A

branch. “Hang in there” it says underneath.
    Hmmm.
    On another poster there is a chimpanzee that looks remarkably like Leonard. I wonder if it is one of his children.
    The door to Leonard’s office opens and a woman and child look my way then scuttle downstairs. Leonard ushers me inside and I take a seat and notice an umbrella leaning up against it.
    “Damn,” says Leonard. “I’ll just be a minute.”
    He grabs the umbrella and hurries downstairs.
    Leonard’s office is neat. He has a desk with a family photo, a phone, a jar of pens, and an unused writing pad. Over near the window is where we sit—on old leather armchairs that look like he picked them up in a secondhand shop. There’s another armchair, unmatching, against the wall. We sit opposite each other like we’re friends about to have a chat. To the side of our chairs is a coffee table with a box of tissues on it, and a clock that faces Leonard. There is a garbage can next to me for the tissues—for all the crying I’m not doing when I don’t talk to Leonard.
    In the corner of the room is a large box of toys and a two-story doll’s house. The house even has a garage with a cute pink car inside. There’s paper and crayons and even a toy gun. Now I knew what Leonard did in his spare time.
    “The toys are for my younger clients,” he says, appearing out of nowhere, a little out of breath.
    I raise my eyebrows—as if I cared.
    Leonard looks a little hassled today. Usually he makes me feel like I should clean my shoes. But today his hair—what’s left of it—is standing up like he’s run his fingers through it. His shirt is looking twisted and untidy.
    He tidies the toys. By the time he sits opposite me he has used up ten minutes of my time, which is great. He is still holding on to the pink car from the doll’s house and absentmindedly rolling the car wheels over his palm.
    “How are you, Ariel?” he asks.
    I ignore him and look out the window. A drizzle of rain makes things smudgy, like a watercolor painting that hasn’t yet dried. The last of the trees’ brown leaves are turning mushy. I try not to think of anything, just in case he can read my mind. We sit like this for some time, until Leonard feels the need to talk. He always has to spoil things. I try to ignore him but something he says ricochets off the back of my skull.
    “I know it’s hard for you . . . ,” he says. His lips are turned down in an expression of grief.
    “I beg your pardon?” I say in my best Margot voice.
    Leonard looks pleased. I have broken my silence again. Something to report back to my mother.
    “. . . hard for you—,” he repeats.
    I cut him off midsentence.
    “Leonard, you don’t know me. Just ’cause my mom tells you stuff, you think you know me? Well, you don’t. You don’t know what it feels like to be me.”
    Leonard loses his undertaker’s down-turned lips. He replaces it with a blank face.
    I bet your kids play violin and speak five languages and never have to tidy their bedrooms because you have a cleaning lady.
    Am I right, Leonard?
    I bet your wife plays tennis and drives a sports car and has her own personal hairdresser.
    I bet she feels bad about the poor people and always makes a donation when the Salvation Army volunteers ring their bells at the traffic lights, because it makes her feel better.
    I bet you’re thinking about getting a personal trainer now that you’re not getting younger or—let’s face it, Leonard—skinnier.
    I bet you have a new Mercedes and you pay someone else to wash it.
    I bet you’ve wondered if those hair replacement centers could do something about your balding head.
    I bet the closest you get to feeling sad is when your football team loses.
    Of course, I don’t say any of these things.
    My volcano of anger suddenly stops erupting. In its place is nothing and it’s pure and clean and right. I push myself out of the chair and lean closer.
    Leonard’s eyes widen slightly, like he thinks maybe I’m going