Harry Sue by Sue Stauffacher Read Free Book Online Page A

my duties slide.
    He always knew I was coming before my headpopped through the hatch because the rope creaked on its metal hinge like the bellpull in a vampire movie.
    And I knew as soon as I pushed open the hatch that it was without a doubt a bad day. I knew because I could smell Homer's tears. At least to me, they smell like hot pavement after rain. And I knew because his bed was flat and not raised.
    “Harry Sue,” he said in a whisper as I came up to the bed. “I think it's gonna rain tomorrow.”
    As a rule, I don't touch anyone. My heart, as you know, is in boot camp. But since Homer can't feel me, I figure touching him is the same as touching a statue or maybe better yet a tree since that, too, is a living thing that can't feel, and I don't have any special rules against touching trees. I stood up and took his hand. It was so cold that I started rubbing it. And then I brushed his hair out of his eyes. Yes, he could feel my fingers there, but would you have left a damp red-and-brown curl tickling at his eye and him with no defense but an eyelid against it?
    “Let me get ‘Metamorphosis,’” I said quietly, reaching for the book we were reading.
    It was about a guy named Gregor Samsa and how one morning he woke up to find he'd been turned into a cockroach. Just like that. One day he was a man working some boring job trying to sell pieces of fabric and the next day … cockroach.
    Homer thought that was funny. But he felt for the guy, too, you know?
    “I wish I could get him a bed like this right next to mine,” he said, “so we could be cockroaches together.”
    I never answered statements like that, just kept quiet, looking down at Homer.
    I wish teachers would test you on the things that were most important. I want Ms. Lanier to test me on Homer's face. He had the lightest sprinkle of sand-colored freckles across the top of his nose and the same golden sand flecks in his green eyes. His mother called them hazel, but she didn't know what she was on about. They were green. Not bright green, like Magic Markers or the first leaves of spring, but an old green, like tall grass in August or dry moss on the edge of the woods. His hair was always shining with loose red-brown curls. When the sun came through the skylight, those little bits of burnt red danced all over his face, in his eyelashes and his eyebrows.
    I could make a profession out of studying Homer's face. I just could. But today, it was too hard to look, as his eyes were full to spilling over and he was biting his lip to keep the sound inside.
    “No,” he said, letting his breath out. “It's a bad day, Harry Sue.”
    Of course it was, I thought as I saw the salt trails leading from his eyes to his ears.
    Take the cotton out of your ears, Fish. I feel a teachable moment coming on. Remember it: Cons don't hear crying.
    Of course they cry; wouldn't you? Everybody cries, Beau says, especially at night, when you're thinking about your mama and how bad you hurt her. But no con will admit to hearing it. Not if he's your road dog.
    “Want me to … ?”
    Homer nodded and turned his head while I found the Kleenex box tucked into the metal rail and pulled out a tissue. I wrapped it around my finger and stuck it in Homer's ear where his tears always ran and plugged up his ear canal so he could barely hear.
    On days like these, it seemed like Homer was on the edge of something, like he was starting to fall. He was just at that moment where he was about to lose his balance. I felt so nervous, not knowing whether I would be able to catch him, to save him.
    Of course, I'm not talking about falling for real. It was more like a hole of sadness he was balancing on the edge of, a sadness that could swallow him up for days.
    Beau says the real name for it is special handling unit, or SHU. Don't say the letters; say, “Shoe.” It's isolation, you little minnows. No people. No noise. No light. Crazy maker. But cons and conettes have their own name for it. They call it the