Into the Great Wide Open by Kevin Canty Read Free Book Online Page B

for certain that she wasn’t wearing a bra that day, you couldn’t really tell, or Kenny couldn’t anyway. He was trying to be polite, trying not to stare openly, make her any more nervous than she already was. Plus she was so small and small-breasted (her lithe little body, monkeylike) that it didn’t matter what she wore beneath; it was just the thought of her bare breasts against the cloth of the shirt—some kind of cotton or linen, a slightly rough weave—the thought of the soft skin of her nipples rubbing on the coarse weave of the blouse, gently hardening, a little irritated (nothing Kenny couldn’t kiss away), this was the thought he kept circling back to, until he looked up, to see if it was safe to stare at her, and found her looking straight at him.
    “Kenny?” she asked.
    He froze; he didn’t want to make things worse.
Please don’t:
he sent the thought her way but she kept bearing down. Maybe she had caught him staring, stealing her body, maybe she thought he had the answer. A quick flush of shame crossed his face, a hot, angry knowledge.
    “Kenny?” she asked again.
    “I didn’t read it,” Kenny said, in a soft surfer’s monotone. He wasn’t stoned but he sounded stoned. A quick burst of laughter followed what he said, and eyes meeting eyes around the room: did you hear that? Did you hear that?
    “Why not?” asked Mrs. Connolly.
    Because I’ve got better things to do
, he thought, embarrassment flowering into anger, at her, himself, anyone handy—and then out of his anger, he said it: “Because I’ve got better things to do.”
    A wave of nervous giggles, poopoo-caca laughter. Kenny’s anger spent itself, as soon as it was released. Mrs. Connolly looked puzzled, lost. She had not expected Kenny to let her down. She was what?—ten years older than Kenny maybe, twenty-seven or so, and in her confusion she was the same age. I’m sorry, he thought, and almost said it; but it was too late. He could feel the waves of anxiety and anger rippling around the classroom,
get him, get the slacker
from the butt-kissers up front,
you can’t make me
from the jocks by the window,
I didn’t read it either
rising out of the sleepy untroubled middle, wondering what this fight was about. A sudden eruption of real feeling, against the rules.
    “I don’t know,” Mrs. Connolly said. “Maybe you should be doing those better things.”
    Kenny shrugged, caught, sheepish.
    “Meanwhile,” she said, “why don’t you wait out in the hallway? You’re not going to do anyone any good sitting here, not if you haven’t read the book. OK?”
    She was angry with
him
, Kenny realized—him in particular, forno reason he knew about. And this baby punishment, sit-out-in-the-hall, this was meant for him alone; and Mrs. Connolly was momentarily visible, human and mysterious, before the eyes of the class got through to him and he realized they were watching.
    “Sure,” Kenny said, and gathered his things, and went out into the hallway; and both of them knew, as they passed each other, that this wasn’t what they were talking about, this wasn’t what either of them meant. Events, they couldn’t be unmade. Put the toothpaste back in the tube. Mrs. Connolly looked at him finally as the door closed: I’m sorry.
    And then he was spread out with his ratty raincoat and his gasmask bag on the floor of the hallway, legal unless he moved, and Kenny wished for a cigarette.
    And then, out of the two thousand one hundred boys and girls in this high school, it was Junie.
    “Shit,” Kenny said to himself, and sat there stymied, trying to wish himself invisible.
    “What are you doing here?” she asked. Black dress, a giant red imitation ruby (or stolen from Mom?) dripping at her throat, black Chuck Taylor All Stars, high-tops. Oh, you, he thought. What are we doing here? I don’t go to high school, I don’t have parents, I came from the sea to be your husband.
    “I’m being punished,” he said, “for failing to