The Half-Life of Planets by Emily Franklin Read Free Book Online

covering his eyes. His brother’s hair is surfer blond, tousled, but in a very planned way. Hank’s is less studied. Unstudied, in fact, and darker blond. The kind of hair that threatens to turn blond if you live on the beach, but not if you work at Planet Guitar. “I just play what I want. If I feel like hearing Big Audio Dynamite, then I’ll play it. And if right after that I segue into an English Beat song, that’s just because I can. Not because I’m, like, wanting to make the audience swoon.” He cracks up with the last part, affecting an Elvis stance as he says it.
    â€œBut if you play, say, ‘The End of the Party,’ which is one of my favorite Beat songs, by the way, then it fills the room with a certain energy. Electrodes or currents or just…” I think of that song. Of hearing it in my own room and hearing it, too, in my head at a certain party this spring when I found out, finally, what it was like to kiss Pren Stevens, the lead singer.
    â€œâ€˜ Say it now, you know there’s never a next time ,’” Hank says, his voice monotone. We’re paused directly in front of 202.
    â€œGreat line. Of course, then they contradict themselves later in the song by saying there’s always a next time. But…” I falter, standing in my uncomfortable jeans, not because I want to get rid of Hank, but because I don’t want to. Not for any reason I can pinpoint, but hanging with him beats having to deal with my parents before I get on with the rest of my summer.
    My mother chooses this exact moment to stick her head out, ostrich-style, of the room. Her whole face yells perky even though her voice stays totally calm. “Daddy’s fine,” she tells me, and casts a glance over at Hank.
    â€œMy dad’s fine,” I tell Hank just so I’m not standing there saying nothing and feeling weird.
    Hank nods and looks over his left shoulder toward the room where his brother is getting stitched or snapped into place.
    Chase is fine, I think, though not in the health-related way. I recall his rather buff physique, his sly smile. Total player. I stick my hands in my pockets so I don’t seem too jittery from the caffeine buzz. My fingers toy with the note. The entire note is only one word. When I think about it, this whole moment, the hospital corridor and Hank and my mother recede. It’s like even though I’m not the sick one, I somehow have the diagnosis in my pocket.
    One word. When I first looked at it near my locker, I actually flipped it over thinking that there’d be more to it. Like whoever’d sent it had more to say. Or wanted to elaborate.
    Slut .
    First I thought this was proof the sender lacked brain power. Was less than stellar in the creativity department. Now I think they might win the Most Succinct award. Slut. Slut. The word is any part of speech—noun, adjective, and hey, if you believe the rumors, a verb. She sluts around. Doing what, exactly? Use your imagination, folks.
    â€œHoney?” My mother beckons me back into the room.
    I rejoin the waking world here in the corridor, and erase thoughts of Hank’s brother’s hotness.
    â€œSo…” I turn to Hank, who pushes the sleeve of his T-shirt up and bobs in place, probably desperate to leave. I think about saying ‘See you later,’ but I probably won’t, so I don’t. “I guess…”
    Hank takes no cue from me because right before he darts off, he says, “There is a next time, though, right? Like the song. So you don’t have to say whatever it is you were going to say. ‘Say Say Say’—terrible song. Definitely Paul McCartney sinking to new lows, even by Wings standards.”
    â€œHank?” I rub my eyes, wired from the coffee, tired from the day. It’s been fun having this random interaction, but now it’s starting to feel like work. Or maybe he’s easy and the rest of life is hard.