Please Ignore Vera Dietz by A. S. King Read Free Book Online Page B

and ate them, or stuffed them in their pockets, or burned them ceremoniously on the rocks around the pagoda.
    “Just don’t do it again,” he said, then he grabbed the saw and quickly cut three more step segments, kicking the scraps into a pile at the base of the trunk. He was like an angry machine, shaking as if he’d just eaten those caffeine pills my mother used to take to stay skinny.

HISTORY—AGE TWELVE—MID-AUGUST
    From the finished tree house, we could see both our houses and the road. Charlie kept a pair of binoculars by the west window, next to his bed. He started to sleep out there, and had screened in the windows and made shutters for when it rained.
    Only after Dad had climbed up and checked the tree house out did he consider allowing me to sleep there one night. I know he had to think about it because Charlie was a boy and I was a girl, and I tried to explain to him that it wasn’t ever like that. I didn’t understand yet that I was fighting my own destiny and Charlie was fighting his. I just wanted to sleep in the tree house.
    “Charlie doesn’t like girls,” I tried, only hearing myself after I said it, and then correcting. “I mean, Charlie and I are only friends—like, ew, you know?”
    “I know.”
    “So can I?”
    “Veer, I think it’s time we had a talk about this stuff,” he said, visibly uncomfortable. “Boys Charlie’s age can sometimes think and do things that you don’t expect. You have to be careful.”
    “Charlie is twelve, Dad. Just like me.”
    “I know, but twelve can be—uh, it can be a confusing …,” he stuttered.
    I tried to creatively visualize him shutting up. It didn’t work.
    “I know you know about sex. And I know you’re smart. But you’re about to enter a whole new part of life where things aren’t as simple as they once were.”
    We stared at each other, silent. I was frowning; he gnawed on his lower lip. A minute ran by.
    “So can I sleep in the tree house or not?”
    He sighed. I could tell he was really broken up about it, so I added, “Really, Dad, you’ve got nothing to worry about when it comes to Charlie Kahn. He’s about as interested in me as he is in combing his hair.”
    He leveled his eyes with mine. “I think you know why I don’t want you near his house, right?”
    I nodded. “We won’t be in the house. We’ll be in the tree house.”
    “I know, but what if you have to pee during the night? Or what if you need a drink of water?”
    I thought about it. “Okay. I got it,” I said. “The tree house is halfway between our house and theirs. So if I have to pee, I’ll just come here.”
    He smiled.
    “So can I? Tonight?”
    “Let’s see if we can dig out your sleeping bag,” he said, and I was jubilant.
    Charlie and I ate popcorn and drank soda and talked about stupid stuff, like kids from school and what we daydreamed we’d be when we grew up. (Me = vet, him = forest ranger.) We listened to the radio a little. Then we snuggled into our sleeping bags and said good night—and after that, all we could hear was the loud screech of cicadas and crickets. It was awesome. Until midnight, when a car barreled up the hill and stopped in the gravel of the blue trail’s parking area. Then Charlie snuck out of the tree house and didn’t come back until dawn.

HISTORY—AGE THIRTEEN—SUMMER
    The summer between seventh and eighth grade, Dad put me to work stuffing envelopes for an advertising campaign he was doing to get more customers. He had me doing most of the garden work, too. He still allowed me time with Charlie (we’d become Uno masters and had an ongoing ten-thousand-point tournament), but no more tree house sleepovers.
    He said, “I hope you know you can never date Charlie,” and claimed he was saying this to save me from a destiny like his and Mom’s. He said, “Charlie isn’t like us, you know?” and I knew what he meant, but somehow it was that not-like-us that made me love Charlie more.
    I had too much on my mind to