Emerald City by Jennifer Egan Read Free Book Online

tears rush tomy eyes, and my nose began to run. I heard an odd humming noise but continued cutting, determined not to be a baby, set on being as fierce with myself as I’d seen Amanda be. The razor went deeper than the pin had. For a moment the cut sat bloodless on my arm—for an instant—and then, like held breath, blood rose from it suddenly and soaked the white pillowcase. This happened so fast that at first I was merely astonished, as though I were watching a dazzling science film. Then I grew dizzy and frightened by the mess, this abundance of sticky warmth I could not contain.
    I’d done something wrong, that was obvious. From the kitchen I heard the kettle boil, then the creak of Julius’s chair as he rose to take it off the stove. I wished my mother were home. I tried to go to Julius and ask for help, but my arm felt so damaged, sending blood wherever I looked, and I couldn’t seem to lift it.
    “Julius?” I called. The name sounded unfamiliar, and it struck me that I hadn’t said it aloud in nearly a year. The kettle was still whistling, and he didn’t hear me.
    “Dad!” I hollered, and it sounded even stranger than “Julius” had.
    From the next room I heard the stillness of a pause. “Dad!” I called again. The wet warmth was soaking through to my legs, and I felt lightheaded. As I leaned back and shut my eyes, I remembered the Devil’s Paint Pots with their wisps of steam, the man beside me on a donkey. Then I heard the door to my room burst open.
    I was shivering. My teeth knocked together so hard that I bit my tongue. Julius wrapped me in the fox-fur coat and carried me to the car. I fell asleep before we reached it.
    At the hospital they stitched my arm and wrapped it in white gauze. They hung it in a sling of heavy fabric, and despite my shock over what I’d done to myself, I couldn’t help anticipating the stir mysling would cause in homeroom. Julius spoke to my mother on the phone. I could tell she was frantic, but Julius stayed calm throughout.
    When we were ready to go, he held up the coat. It was squashed and matted, covered with blood. I thought with satisfaction that I had ruined it for good.
    “I think we can clean it,” said Julius, glancing at me. He was a big man with olive skin and hair that shone like plastic. Each mark of the comb was visible on his head. I knew why my mother loved him, then—he was the sort of man who stayed warm when it was cold out, who kept important tickets and slips of paper inside his wallet until you needed them. The coat looked small in his hands. Julius held it a moment, looking at the matted fur. Stubbornly I shook my head. I hated that coat, and it wasn’t going to change in a minute.
    To my surprise, Julius began to laugh. His wide, wet lips parted in a grin, and a loud chuckle shook him. I smiled tentatively back. Then Julius stuffed the coat into the white cylinder of the hospital garbage can. “What the hell,” he said, still laughing as the silver flap moved back into place. “What the hell.” Then he took my hand and walked me back to the parking lot.
    Months later, in early summer, Sacred Heart and St. Peter’s joined forces to give their annual formal dance. I was invited by Michael McCarty, a handsome, sullen boy with bright blue eyes, who had the habit of flicking the hair from his face more often than necessary. He seemed as frightened as I was, so I said yes.
    I needed white shoes. After school one afternoon in our last week of classes, I went to a large discount shoestore downtown. I walked through the door and shut my eyes in disbelief.
    Amanda was seated on a small stool, guiding a woman’s foot into a green high-heel. There were crumpled tissue papers around her. I noticed her hair was longer now, and she was not so thin as before.
    I had an urge to duck back out the door before she saw me. Although I hardly thought about Amanda anymore, I still clung to the vague belief that she had risen above the earth and now lived among