The Other Way Around by Sashi Kaufman Read Free Book Online Page B

Andy? Drew?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter, whatever is fine.”
    â€œWhat do you mean it doesn’t matter?”
    â€œI really don’t care.” And it’s true. Well, up until this moment it’s always been true. Andrew, Andy, Drew, whatever. It’s all the same to me. Moving so many times, I kind of got to the point where it was enough if someone remembered the basic gist of my name.
    â€œWhoa. This is your name we’re talking about here, not the condiments you put on a sandwich. This is how people greet you in the world. How they form their first impressions of you. How they decide if they’re going to walk all over you or not.”
    I just shrug the way I always do when I want uncomfortable conversations to end. But G isn’t going to let me off the hook that easily.
    â€œOkay,” she says. “We’re going to decide this right now. I’m going to introduce myself to you again, and whatever you say this time, that’s your name. Okay? I’m G,” she repeats and sticks out her hand.
    â€œAndrew,” I say and shake it again. She seems satisfied with this.
    â€œGood. Drew’s okay, but Andy’s a little weird. It always reminds me of those dolls. Remember Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy?” I don’t really, so I just shrug my shoulders again.
    Over in the corner, the girl with the long blonde dreadlocks gets up from the floor and walks out of the bus station. She comes back carrying an enormous Hula-Hoop covered in black and white stripes.
    She sets the Hula-Hoop down and proceeds to remove several layers of clothing. Off comes a rather large, black hooded sweatshirt. Underneath is a brown cardigan sweater that Mima might wear. That sweater comes off and underneath that is a smaller sweater; that only comes halfway down her stomach. She’s wearing a short skirt, like the field hockey girls wear, a pair of red-and-white-striped tights, and black combat boots.
    Altogether she looks like a grungy version of Pippi Long-stocking. G and I watch as she picks up the Hula-Hoop and begins to swing it around her stomach. Everyone in the bus station is staring as she gets the thing going faster and faster. It’s hard not to. Even the guy behind the glass is temporarily distracted from his show. He looks like he’s trying to think of a reason to tell her to stop but can’t come up with one. This girl has the most amazing stomach muscles I’ve ever seen, not that I’m an expert. I try not to stare at her midsection but it’s next to impossible. I focus instead on her face, her brow furrowedin concentration. Her eyes are focused on the floor and the spinning hoop on her hips. Underneath her dreadlocks, which I’ve always thought were pretty tacky and gross on white people, she’s really pretty. She has sharp cheekbones and perfectly shaped pink lips. She’s like a hot girl in disguise!
    â€œThat’s Emily,” says G, sounding a little annoyed. “I guess she’s just practicing. It’s not like we’re going to make anything here.”
    â€œIs that what you do?” I ask without ever taking my eyes off Emily and her undulating midsection.
    â€œSort of. That’s Lyle over there,” she points at the boy with the anarchy vest. He has light brown hair that looks like it’s on the verge of thinning and enormous sideburns as if to compensate. “He and I do a trapeze and ropes act. Jesse made these.” She holds up the peanut butter sandwiches and offers me one again. This time I take it and bite into the squishy wheat bread. The peanut butter sticks to the roof of my mouth, and I shovel it off with my tongue. Jesse’s hands are stretched over his head, and the sole of one foot is pressed into the opposite leg in what looks like some kind of yoga pose. “Jesse’s kind of like the MC. He’s a storyteller. He’s just kind of got a way with the audience.