Child of My Right Hand by Eric Goodman Read Free Book Online Page A

football team practices this afternoon. If you like, I’ll talk to them.”
    â€œThat would be wonderful,” Genna said. “Thank you.”
    Marla, who’d been seated, legs crossed, at the corner of Burroughs’s desk, said, “I have a note from Simon. He’s hoping Dr. Burroughs will read it to the team.”
    Marla passed Jack a sheet torn from a spiral notebook. He recognized the ornate, upright script. The swirls and decoration, Simon’s usual misspellings. Your for you’re. Fealings for feelings. Genna read it aloud.
    Hi,
    My name is Simon Barish. I’m new this year. Some of you may have herd things about me. Or seen my clothes and decided your different from me and you hate me. So you’ve been calling me names.
    Well, I have fealings like everyone else. If you see me in the hall, don’t think you know what I’m like, because as the saying goes, You can’t tell a book by its cover. Come up to say hello, and who knows, maybe we’ll be friends.
    Thank you very much for listening.
    Your friend,
    Simon Barish
    Genna put the letter down and looked at Jack, eyes glistening.
    â€œThat’s really something,” Marla said. “Isn’t it?”
    There was a knock, and Simon entered with his gelled and spiked blond hair, his extra-wide jeans with green velvet patches, his too-big belly pressing against a black T-shirt Jack especially disliked: If I throw a stick will you fetch it?
    Simon smiled, expectant, simultaneously embarrassed and pleased because he must have known they were talking about him. How remarkable he is, Jack thought. How brave. What a royal pain in the ass. My son, he thought, glancing at Genna, and I love him.

chapter 4
    On Friday afternoon, when Simon and Lizzie bopped in from the bus stop, their laughing, querulous voices raised Genna from her study. Although they were deep in the so-called difficult years, they were all her pride and much of her joy, and she hurried out to greet them. In the slate entranceway, Simon and Lizzie had just abandoned their backpacks precisely where every afternoon she asked them not to; Sam pogoed on his hind legs celebrating the arrival of a New Person! thrusting his large, moist nose into the startled face of a slender boy Genna hadn’t met before.
    â€œDown, Sam, down!” Simon shouted. “Damnit, Lizzie! Why’d you let him in?”
    â€œI didn’t,” Lizzie shouted, but grabbed Sam’s collar and dragged the offended, hundred-pound oaf out the door.
    â€œMom,” Simon said, “this is Rich.” Rich was cute and curly-haired. Fine-featured, almost delicate, he energetically wiped Sam schmutz off his cheek. “Rich,” Simon grinned, “this is Mom.”
    â€œNice to meet you,” Genna said. “I see you’ve met Sam.”
    Rich smiled, said nothing.
    In the kitchen, Simon hung with simian grace from the fridge door, allowing cold air to escape. How different, she thought, than in my parents’ house, where I wouldn’t have dared. Then, looking exceptionally well-fed, Simon declared, bitterly, as he did most afternoons, that there was nothing to eat.
    â€œMom,” he continued, with a glance at Rich. “Can we order pizza?”
    Simon was obviously smitten. So she didn’t respond, as she normally would have, Do you have any money? Nor did she suggest carrots, an apple, or any of the healthy snacks she stocked the fridge with, not because she minded being mocked (as the mother of teenagers she was inured to all forms of verbal abuse), but because she didn’t want Simon to appear loutish in front of Rich.
    â€œThere’s DiGiorno’s in the downstairs freezer.”
    â€œAll right,” Simon said.
    Lizzie’s head snapped up; she was at the kitchen table reading the morning’s funnies as she did most days after school. A long-established house rule (posted on the fridge as part of the Barish House