Blue Bottle Tree by Beaird Glover

Author:Beaird Glover [Glover, Beaird]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-386-96571-8
Publisher: The Parliament House

15 A Man In The Sea of Boys

After Victor told me that Seven had been in the tree, I did not go to the window, even when it happened again. I did not want to encourage Seven. I did not turn on a light or make a sound. I just pretended it wasn’t happening, put up with it, and tried to sleep. Pings nonstop and then little acorn showers, down from the roof, and sprinkling on the ground. I hid my head under the blanket, and kept my ears covered all through the night.

I tolerated one night, but the next night was worse. I think the pings were sharper, and I was afraid he would break the glass. I opened it and looked, and looked, brought a flashlight and shined it into the tree. “Seven, I know that’s you. Why don’t you just leave me alone. Okay? Please. Just leave me alone and I won’t tell anyone else about this. Okay?” I dropped the window with a thud. Nothing more that night, but on the next, it started again. Now with pine cones. Really, Seven? I yelled and my mother came in the room. She went outside, also railing at Seven, threatening to call the police. They would bring the fire department and a ladder high enough to pull him out of that tree. Then they would arrest him for harassment, peeping tom, trespassing, and everything else. Dad was blaring too—as if the boy in a tree throwing rocks at my window was my fault, when nothing could be further from the truth.

Then they calmed down and we all went back inside. I was pretty sure this would be enough. But when I saw Victor jogging the next morning, I ran after him. I wanted Seven punished. “He’s still doing it,” I said.

Victor slowed to a walk, not even breathing hard. “Seven?”

“Yes. He’s still throwing rocks and stuff at my window. He does it every night and it’s driving me crazy.”

“Short drive,” Victor said, chuckling. Great, he thinks I’m crazy too. I had not even brushed my hair and I was still wearing sweats. I must have looked horrible. “Your lips are getting worse.”

“I know.” I hid the fissures stretching out from the corners of my mouth. It was embarrassing.

“It’s because of the clarinet. Don’t play it anymore.”

I did not feel the need to tell him, but I could not play the clarinet even if I wanted to. It made me bleed. It was awful. Graduation had been the day before, and I was in the graduating class. I marched in with makeup covering the irritations well enough, and did not have to play in the band. I don’t have to play the clarinet—well, ever again if I don’t want to. Seven should have been at graduation. I don’t know how he got out of it. He’ll be in trouble for that, as if he cares. No one in band gets to skip graduation, or anything else. He must have overslept.

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