Where You End by Anna Pellicioli Read Free Book Online Page A

head.
    â€œAnyway, he’s great,” she says. “Not my all time favorite, but he’s up there. Do you read any poetry?”
    I shrug. “Not much.”
    â€œYou can borrow it.” She hands me the book. “Give it back to me the next time.”
    What next time? I think. What exactly does she have in mind?
    â€œThanks for coming,” Paloma says.
    â€œRight,” I say. “I wasn’t going to come. At first.”
    She nods and looks up at the flags draped over our heads, one for each state.
    â€œThat makes sense,” she says. “I know this is a little strange. I didn’t mean to scare you the other day.”
    â€œYou didn’t scare me,” I say.
    â€œGood,” she says. “I just wanted you to know right away.”
    I nod, but she doesn’t finish her sentence. “Know what?” I ask, whispering.
    â€œThat I saw what you did.”
    I take a breath and change course. “So why did you want to see me?”
    â€œYou go to Sterling, right?”
    I don’t answer. I go to Sterling. We’ve been over this.
    â€œThat’s a good school, right? Do you like it?”
    â€œIt’s a good school,” I say.
    â€œYour grades are good?”
    â€œPretty good,” I say.
    â€œYou’ve got a nice family?”
    â€œYes,” I say, wondering if she already knows something about them, wondering where she’s going with this.
    â€œSo, why would a girl with a nice family, a good school, and decent grades decide to push a Picasso and run away?”
    I don’t know what to say. I have no idea where to start, or whether I want to answer at all. I stay quiet.
    â€œDid you tell anybody else?” she asks.
    I shake my head.
    â€œYou just walked away,” she whispers, almost to herself, as if she’s dreaming of something with potential.
    Her Neruda book is still in my hand, so I open it up because I’m tired of sitting still while she thinks of what she can do with me. I read to myself: “So that you will hear me / my words / sometimes grow thin …”
    Feeling Paloma’s eyes on me, I carry on and read every word until the end. It all seems to speed up in the middle and take me along with it: “You occupy everything, you occupy everything.”
    I turn that line over and over in my head, and the words ring so true I realize maybe I’ve been hungry for them, in a way that night pictures, or music, or gray Atlantic Ocean walls cannot satisfy. Paloma smiles.
    â€œYou like it, huh? It’s called ‘So That You Will Hear Me.’ It’s a good one. It’s better in Spanish though.”
    She takes the book from my hand and points to the opposite page, where the original poem is written.
    â€œLike this part,” she says, pointing to a new line. “In English, it makes no sense. In Spanish, it’s different. It’s more, you know, strong. Every word is stronger. Now. Want. Hear. It sounds so weak in English, but in Spanish it has force. It’s like this. Let me try to translate. It’s like, Now I want these words to say what I really really mean so that you can hear me the way I want you to hear me. Shit. I guess that’s the same,” she says. “Maybe you can’t do it in English.”
    A woman in a purple robe shushes us. Paloma covers her mouth, but I can see her eyes laughing. I want to laugh too. She raises her eyebrows and gives me back the book.
    â€œSo, they’re going to start playing the organ soon and we should really shut up then,” she says.
    I nod.
    â€œYou want to know the reason I know about the organ? ”
    â€œSure,” I say, because I want all the clues I can get.
    â€œMy mom used to bring me here on Sundays sometimes, for the rehearsals. She loved all kinds of music, but she always said the organ was the most serious instrument out there, and we should listen to it so we can feel close to God. Plus