The TV Kid by Betsy Byars Read Free Book Online Page B

about. He would miss shows that hadn’t even been thought up yet. He would miss his mother.
    Lennie sighed again. And his mother would miss him. That was the worst thought. To get his mind off it, he tried to think of something he had seen on TV. All the programs were a blur. He couldn’t even remember what dangers Mannix had faced last week, or Columbo. And Kojak had been in real trouble. What was it?
    He groaned, feeling again the pain of separation from his mother.
    All Lennie’s life his own feelings had been as hard to get to as the meat in a walnut. His feelings were there—Lennie was sure of that—somewhere inside the hull, probably just as perfectly formed as the rest of the things nature put in a shell.
    Lennie remembered that one March morning he and his mom had been burning trash behind the motel. His mom had said, “Why, Lennie, look at this.”
    Lennie had come over to where his mom was standing by some bushes. “What is it?”
    “It’s an old cocoon. We’ll take it in and cut it open, and you can see where a butterfly grew.”
    His mom had broken off the twig and, forgetting the trash fire, had gone into the motel. She had taken her onion knife and sawed through the cocoon. “There,” she had said.
    For a moment Lennie and his mom had stared at the cut-open cocoon in silence. Then his mom had said in a sad voice, “Oh, dear. It wasn’t empty. I cut through a butterfly.”
    Lennie had stared silently at the two halves, the pale wet center.
    “It was the first cocoon I ever saw. I’m sorry, Lennie.”
    He could see that it really bothered her, and he’d said, “That’s all right.”
    “I just didn’t know.”
    Lennie felt that his own feelings had suddenly been laid bare in the same way. Now that it was too late, he found that—He broke off. He had just remembered the last part of the poem.
    And November’s morn
White with frost
And December’s snows
Are melted and lost.
    Anyway, it was something like that.

Chapter Thirteen
    T rying to remember the lines of the poem had helped Lennie forget his pain for a moment. It seemed to him then that if you knew enough poems to say to yourself, you could get through anything. He tried to think of something else to divert him. He went back to TV. TV jingles maybe.
    I’d like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
I’d like to hold it in my hands
And keep it company.
    It’s the reeeeeeal thing, Coke is—
    Lennie moaned. They weren’t as good as poetry.
    Quaker State your caaaaaaaar,
To keep it running young,
    Maybe they were too easy to remember.
    Oh, Log Cabin makes good syrups,
’Bout the best as anyone can.
Whether regular or buttered—
    Abruptly his leg jerked and he couldn’t think of anything but the pain. He raised up and looked at his leg. Grimacing with the pain, he looked down the slope to the willow trees. He could see the edge of his boat through the trees. He took a deep breath.
    Double your pleasure, double your fun,
With double—
    It wouldn’t work. He looked again at his boat. He thought, maybe if I can reach the boat I can float across the lake. Then maybe I can crawl real slowly through the field. Then maybe I can ... He saw it as if it were happening on television. It seemed possible.
    He leaned up on one elbow. He hesitated, struggling with himself. Lassie would make it, he told himself. A rattlesnake bite wouldn’t stop Lassie. A shark bite wouldn’t stop Flipper. Gentle Ben would drag a bear trap a hundred miles to save himself.
    Lennie took a deep breath and tried to push himself into a sitting position. He fell back on his elbow. He tried again. He couldn’t make it.
    He was very weak now, but he wanted desperately to be in his boat floating toward home. He could almost feel himself moving over the gentle waves. He tried to push himself up again. He failed. He lay back on the porch.
    The silence around him was awful now. It wasn’t only the silence that bothered Lennie. It was the terrible feeling that