Teach Me by R. A. Nelson Read Free Book Online Page B

bubble universes.
    I set my jaw. My voice is a little trembly; I can’t help it.
    “But what if some of those Almost things were beyond Emily’s control? Forced on her by life?”
    Mr. Mann blows air between his lips. “You mean, did she have a choice? Do we get to choose? On the really important things? I don’t know.”
    I do. I’m rolling now. “Maybe she wanted to take things all the way but couldn’t. That doesn’t mean she didn’t want to. Maybe she needed somebody else to help her. That’s the answer.”
    Mr. Mann considers this. “Maybe we’re not supposed to know the answer. It’s a mystery. Life. Maybe it’s supposed to be. With Emily, I believe the answers are in her poetry. I can relate.”
    “How?”
    “Because I’m the king.”
    “Prince.”
    “Nope. The King of Almosts . Almost had friends. Almost a poet. Almost married.”
    I silently beg him to keep going, but he stops.
    A blue Wal-Mart bag tumbles by, snags on one of the trees we’ve just planted. I pull it off and crumple it in my pocket. The moment feels inexpressibly sad.
    Good. There will never be a better time. Ask him.
    “But why didn’t—?”
    “Look at you.” He suddenly touches my cheek with his warm hand, brushing at something there. I feel the blood moving to my face. “You really throw yourself into it, don’t you?”
    I will his hand to stay there—please, please, just keep touching me—but it goes away. “I’m focused,” I manage to say. “I’ve always been focused.”
    “I like that. Teach me, huh?”
    I start to say something, but he’s already moving on to mark the next spot.
    The rest of the day the conversation somehow expands in every direction away from him, like a gamma-ray burst from a star. No matter how I try to steer it. What is he thinking? Why does he come so close, then pull away? Is he holding something back? Why? What is he afraid of?
    By the end of the day we have planted sixty trees.
    I have dug every hole.

physical observations
    I’m cunning.
    He’s not going to get away that easily.
    I’m too focused. I’m gathering too much data.
    I know the speed of his walk, the corners he likes to round at certain positions of the clock. His lunch table. The way he shakes his salt, crosses his legs. Like a good engineer studying heat tiles on the Shuttle, I even know the pronation of his feet by the wear on the bottom of his shoes.
    It’s not enough.
    I’m thinking about the work-a-thon. What it felt like when he touched my cheek.
    His scent, the way his sweat collected in the middle of his shirt, a dark, liquid heart shape stretching down his stomach. The distance between our skin, the way the world tasted—dirt, sun, sky, leaf—
    I flop back in bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore the bubbly tickle in my throat. The phone starts to buzz because I haven’t dialed the last digit of his number. I let it slip through my fingers to thonk on the carpet. This is unbearable. I have to know, does all of this stay right here? I can’t live with that. I can’t. But I have to know:
    Does it go on?
    I’m ready to make something happen.
    Please.

closer
    Lunch.
    He’s missing from his table today.
    I put my tray away, hurry up the hall, rap on the door to his office.
    It opens a crack and Mr. Mann pokes his lovely head out. The spiral staircase of paperwork on his desk behind him tells me he’s busy. He remains standing, doesn’t invite me in. But he smiles.
    “Carolina!”
    In the split second before I speak, I study his face.
    Worry? Joy? Fear?
    How can I be getting all these signals at once?
    My visit is so soon after planting all those trees—he has to see I’m climbing up to the next plateau. Will he take my hand, haul me higher, up to where he is?
    Or let me fall.
    “Hi! Mr. Mann, I was wondering—could I talk to you for a second?”
    “Sure, what do you need?”
    What do I need.
    The question interrupts important chemical reactions in my brain. Fires up others. What do I