Underdogs by Markus Zusak Read Free Book Online

“and tell me it doesn’t smell like Steve’s pajamas.” “Steve’s pajamas?” “Yeah.”
    “My pajamas don’t stink.” Steve glared.
    “Mine do,” I said. It was a joke. No one laughed. So I turned back to Rube.
    “How do
you
know what Steve’s pajamas smell like? You go round sniffin’ people’s pajamas? Are you a bloody pajama-sniffer or something’?”
    Rube eyed me, unimpressed. “Y’ can smell ‘em when he walks past. Now
sniff!”
    I did it and conceded that the pillow didn’t smell like roses.
    “I told ya.”
    “Great.”
    I returned it to him and he threw it back where it was. That was Rube. The pillow stank and he knew it stank and was concerned about it. He wanted to talk about it, but one thing was certain — there was no way he would wash it. Back in the corner of the couch, the pillow sat, stinking. I could still smell it now, but only because Rube had brought it up. It was probably my imagination. Thanks, Rube.
    What made things even more uncomfortable was the fact that normally, if Bruce and Sarah weren’t all over each other, they would at least throw something into the conversation, no matter how stupid we were talking. On that day, however, Bruce said nothing, and Sarah said nothing. They only sat there and watched the movie they’d rented. Not one word.
    While all this was going on, I’d better point out that I was praying for Rebecca Conlon and her family. It led me to even start praying for my own family. I prayed that I wouldn’t let Mum down anymore and that Dad wouldn’t work so hard that he’d kill himself before he hit forty-five. I prayed for Steve’s ankle to get better. I prayed that Rube would make something of himself sometime. I prayed that Sarah was okay right there and then and that she and Bruce would be okay. Just be okay.
Be okay.
I said that a lot. I said it as I started praying for the whole stupid human race and for anyone who was hurting or hungry or dying or being raped at that exact moment in time.
    Just let ‘em be okay,
I asked God.
All those people with AIDS and all that stuff as well. Just let ‘em be okayright n, and those homeless blokes with beards and rags and cut-up shoes and rotten teeth. Let ‘em be okay…. But mainly, let Rebecca Conlon be okay.
    It was starting to drive me crazy.
    Really.
    When Sarah and Bruce weren’t aware I was watching them, I stared at them hard and wondered how just days and weeks ago they were all over each other.
    I wondered how this could happen.
    It scared me.
    God, please bless Rebecca Conlon. Let her be okay….
    How could things be so different all of a sudden?
    Later on, when I was back in Rube’s and my room, I could hear the drone of Sarah and Bruce talking behind the wall, in her room. The city was dark except for the building lights that seemed to appear like sores — like Band-Aids had been ripped off to expose the city’s skin.
    The only thing that seemed never to change was the city at this transition time between afternoon and evening. It always became murky and aloof and ignorant of what was going on. There were thousands of households throughout that city and there was something happening in all of them. There was some kind of story in each, but self-contained. No one else knew. No one else cared. No one else knew about Sarah Wolfe and Bruce Patterson, or cared about Steven Wolfe’s ankle. No one else out there prayed for them or prayed repeatedly for Rebecca Conlon. No one.
    So I saw that there was only me. There was only me who could worry about what was happening here, inside these walls of my life. Other people had their own worlds to worry about, and in the end, they had to fend for themselves, just like us.
    By the time I went to bed, I was going in circles.
    Praying.
    Worrying about Sarah.
    Praying like an incoherent fool.
    I could feel the city at the window, but mostly, I remained in my head, hearing every thought — quiet but loud, and true.
    The future:
    Time to relax.
    We’re