Why We Broke Up by Daniel Handler Read Free Book Online Page B

the secrets of smoking and headphones and rum in a soda bottle with mints to cover the breath, that one sickly boy with thick glasses and an electronic wheelchair, thank God I’m not him, or the neck brace, or the rash or the orthodontics or that drunk dad who showed up at a dance to hit her across the face, or that poor creature who somebody needs to tell
You smell, fix it, or it will never, never, never will it get better for you
. The days were all day every day, get a grade, take a note, put something on, put somebody down, cut open a frog and see if it’s like this picture of a frog cut open. But at night, the nights were you, finally on the phone with you, Ed, my happy thing, the best part.
    The first time I called your number it was like the first time anyone had called anyone, Alexander Graham Whatsit, married to Jessica Curtain in the very dull movie, frowning over his staticky attempts for months of montage before finally managing to utter his magic sentence across the wire. Do you know what it was, Ed?
    “Hello?” Damn it, it was your sister. How could this be the best number?
    “Um, hi.”
    “Hi.”
    “Could I speak to Ed?”
    “May I ask who’s calling?”
    Oh, why did she have to do that, is what I thought, picking at my bedspread. “A friend,” I said, stupid shy.
    “A friend?”
    I closed my eyes. “Yes.”
    There was an empty, buzzy moment and I heard Joan, though I didn’t know Joan yet, exhale and debate whether to question me further, while I thought, I could hang up now, like a thief in the night in
Like a Thief in the Night
.
    “Hold on,” she said, and then a few secs, hum and clatter, your voice distant saying “What?” and Joan’s mocking, “Ed, do you have any friends? Because this girl said—”
    “Shut up,” you said, very close, and then “Hello?”
    “Hey.”
    “Hey. Um, who—”
    “Sorry, it’s Min.”
    “Min, hey, I didn’t recognize your voice.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Hold on, I’m moving to another room because
Joanie’s just standing here!
”
    “OK.”
    Your sister saying something something, running water. “They’re
my
dishes,” you said to her. Something something. “She’s a
friend
of mine.” Something something. “I don’t know.” Something. “Nothing.”
    I kept waiting.
Mr. Watson
, is the first thing the inventor said, miraculously from another room.
Come here—I want to see you
. “Hey, sorry.”
    “It’s OK.”
    “My sister.”
    “Yeah.”
    “She’s—well, you’ll meet her.”
    “OK.”
    “So—”
    “Um, how was practice?”
    “Fine. Glenn was kind of a dick, but that’s usual.”
    “Oh.”
    “How was—what is it that you do, after school?”
    “Coffee.”
    “Oh.”
    “With Al. You know, hanging out. Lauren was there too.”
    “OK, how was it?”
    Ed, it was wonderful. To stutter through it with you or even stop stuttering and say nothing, was so lucky and soft, better talk than mile-a-minute with anyone. After a few minutes we’d stop rattling, we’d adjust, we’d settle in, and the conversation would speed into the night. Sometimes it was just laughing at the comparing of favorites, I love that flavor, that color’s cool, that album sucks, I’ve never seen that show, she’s awesome, he’s an idiot, you must be kidding, no way mine’s better, safe and hilarious like tickling. Sometimes it was stories we told, taking turns and encouraging, it’s not boring, it’s OK, I heard you, I hear you, you don’t have to say it, you can say it again, I’ve never told this to anyone, I won’t tell anyone else. You told me that time with your grand-father in the lobby. I told you that time with my mother and the red light. You told me that time with your sister and the locked door, and I told you that time with my old friend and the wrong ride. That time after the party, that time before the dance. That time at camp, on vacation, in the yard, down the street, inside that room I’ll never see again, that time with Dad,