How Best to Avoid Dying by Owen Egerton Read Free Book Online

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    â€œSweet Jesus,” Rich says.
    I’m staring at the wall in Rich’s office. He has a picture of every summer staff since 1970 and above them a wooden plaque that says, “The harvest is rich but the workers are few.”
    Rich isn’t saying anything yet. He’s just rubbing his eyes. He already talked to Pricilla. I waited outside. I heard her crying. Rich looks real tired.
    â€œYou know the rules, I know you do.”
    I nod. My throat feels full, like it’s packed with wet sand.
    â€œYou left your kids unattended. They were worried, you know. They came and found me. I was worried. Then I find you and Pricilla. On a day like this, too.”
    I try and say something but I can’t talk.
    â€œI’m sending you home, okay. I’m sending you home tomorrow and I don’t think you should come back next summer.”
    I think I’m going to bawl, I mean just wail. But I don’t. I get cold.
    I walk back to the cabin. A couple of kids are sitting on the porch. They don’t look me in the face when I tell them to hit the sack. They just mumble and stay where they are. I walk inside and lie down on my bunk.
    I can still hear them talking on the porch, but I can’t tell what they’re saying. I lay awake for an hour or two till everyone is sleeping and breathing heavy. The cabin smells like cedar and sweaty laundry. I’ve always loved the smell. It smells safe. But now the smell makes me feel ashamed. Everything does. Shame like a real hard blush, like a blush that’s going to stain my skin. Then I think about Pricilla and her hands and I immediately pop a woody, then a lot more shame. So tostop the woody I think about my mother. Then I think about Kent’s mother. She sent that care package with the Rice Krispies treats. When I close my eyes I see Kent. He’s at the bottom of the cliff all bent up and in his Speedos and there’s no blood, but his skin looks funny and you can tell he’s dead. Bastard. So I imagine myself down there instead. I imagine the falling and the landing and the cracking. Then the woody starts to come back, which is weird, so I get up and go out on the porch.
    I look out on the dining hall, the volleyball/basketball court, the crafts store, saying little goodbyes to everything. I see a few kids sitting in the cigarette pit. It’s way past curfew, almost morning, so I head over there to tell them to go back to their cabins, and they all look a little green, a little fuzzy, even their cigarette smoke is green and fuzzy. I recognize Will first. Then David and Crick, and Becky and last of all, Kent, still in his Speedos, still smelling like chlorine and baby oil. All just standing around, smoking. Sitting behind them, lighting one cigarette from the end of another is Jesus. He looks totally different than in the movies, shorter, kind of dirty, but you can tell it’s him. You just know.
    â€œHey, guys,” I say, and I’m breathing fast. They don’t look at me. Just sit and smoke.
    Kent says, without looking up, “Turns out we’re wrong about the whole Jesus thing.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œJesus doesn’t save,” Becky says, still sounding like she’s got a doughnut in her throat.
    â€œHe doesn’t?” I look over at Jesus, who just shrugs.
    â€œMaybe Buddha does,” Crick says. “Or Shiva.”
    â€œMy money’s on Zoroaster,” Becky says.
    â€œI’ve never even heard of Zoroaster.”
    â€œNarrow is the way,” Jesus says with a shake of his head and a chuckle. “Want a smoke?”
    Oh God, Jesus is talking to me. Looking at me. Jesus is asking if I want a cigarette. This is everything. Jesus is hanging out with all these guys, awarding their devotion, like he hung out with Peter and John and James, making them fish for breakfast.
    â€œCan I stay here?” I ask. “Can I stay with you guys?”
    â€œYou got to be