The Reluctant Journal of Henry K. Larsen by Susin Nielsen Read Free Book Online Page A

nasty things. “Mother-bot. You. Are. Totally Pathetic. I Hate. Your Freaking Guts.” “Go to Hell. Pop-Pop-bot. Do Not. Get Involved.”
    That’s right. Robot-Henry even swore at his own grandpa.

    The day Dad and I caught our plane, Mom didn’t even come to the airport. She went to her appointment with her psychiatrist instead. Dr. Dumas called us the next day in Vancouver to tell us that Mom was exhibiting signs of a nervous breakdown, so he’d admitted her to the psych ward, where she’s been ever since.
    I refuse to blame myself.
    Jesse made this mess, not me.
    After we got off the phone with Mom, Dad and I put on the TV. A few minutes later, someone knocked on our door. I looked through the peephole. It was Mr. Atapattu. I think he was holding a plate of food, but I couldn’t be sure.
    I didn’t answer. I just tiptoed back to the couch and tore open a fresh bag of Doritos. Mr. Atapattu must’ve known we were home though, ’cause the TV was playing quite loud and my dad even called out, “Who is it, Henry?”
    But you know what? Tough.

W EDNESDAY , F EBRUARY 6
    So I caved. I went to a Reach For The Top practice at lunch today. Farley was so excited, he did a little dance. Totally embarrassing.
    When we walked into the room, Alberta was already in her seat. Today she was wearing a purple bowling shirt. The name
Loreen
was stitched above a pocket. She matched it with a pair of pink stretch pants. Even though I barely glanced at her, Farley whispered in my ear, “You like her.”
    “Do not.”
    “Do.”
    “Do not.”
    “Do.”
    “Do not.”
    “Do.” Et cetera, et cetera.
    I sat beside Ambrose, who was wearing his ugly pom-pom hat.
    “What’s your name again?” he asked.
    “Henry.”
    “Henry what?”
    I hesitated. “Henry Larsen.”
    “
O
or
E
?”
    My neck muscles tensed. All it would take is a Google search – “Larsen Port Salish” – and they’d find out everything.
    “
O
,” I lied.
    “Shore, early, nearly, sly, real, hole, heal, shone, share, shale, shy, rye, hen, hay, hare, has.”
    I looked at him blankly.
    “Duh. They’re anagrams,” he said, like it was obvious. “Using some of the letters in your name.”
    “Oh.”
    “Ambrose is a Scrabble champion,” Parvana piped up, stroking his arm.
    “Oh.”
    “I’m ranked twelfth in BC.”
    “Oh.”
    Mr. Jankovich entered. “Henry, nice to have you back. Let’s get started.”
    These are the questions I remember:
    1)
What volcano is on the island of Sicily?
(Mount Etna – we all knew that one, but Shen buzzed in first.)
    2)
What is the capital of Sicily?
(Palermo. Koula.)
    3)
Sicily is surrounded by what body of water?
(The Mediterranean Sea. Answered by yours truly.)
    4)
This actor has played Jack Sparrow, Ichabod Crane, and Gilbert Grape
. (Johnny Depp. You can guess who answered that one.)
    There was also a series of “Who Am I?” questions. We kept getting a new clue until we could figure it out.
    Clue A: I grew up in Monroeville, Alabama
.
    Clue B: I was a tomboy
.
    Clue C: I was good friends with another literary icon, Truman Capote
.
    Clue D: I won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1961
.
    Jerome buzzed in after the fourth clue and gave the right answer: Harper Lee, the author of
To Kill a Mockingbird
. Before I knew it, the bell rang and it was time to leave.
    It wasn’t the absolute worst way to pass an hour.
    After school, Farley followed me out the front doors and fell into step beside me. “I thought you lived up the hill,” I said.
    “I do.”
    “Then why are you walking this way?”
    “I’m hoping you’ll invite me over.”
    “I can’t,” I said. We hadn’t invited
anyone
over since we’d moved in.
    “Why not?”
    There were a million white lies I could have told, like, “I have way too much homework,” or, “My dad’s home sick.”
    Instead I said, “The place is a mess.”
    Lame.
    Farley just grinned. “Not a problem. I love messes!”
    So Farley walked with me to our apartment. We