Child of My Right Hand by Eric Goodman

Author:Eric Goodman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc
Published: 2014-09-01T16:00:00+00:00

chapter 13

In January, Simon tried out for the spring musical. He danced, he acted, he sang. His voice quaked during his monologue; his tree trunk legs trembled. But when he sang “Some Enchanted Evening,” handing the sheet music to Donut, then coming in on key, on time, full-voiced, he blew the listeners away, he just knew it. He turned towards Ms. Cherry with the final note glowing in the practice room air as if high beams were reflecting off droplets of rain. She had a cute, round face, Ms. Cherry, ringed with curls. On her dark lashes, tears hung. Or maybe he only imagined the tears, but he was certain of what she said next, because he embraced those words for the next three days, through call-backs and all the rest, held on as if he were six and her words were his beloved blue blankie.

“That was so beautiful, Simon.”

She clearly meant it, Ms. Cherry, who was only twenty-two, not much older, really, than he was; when the cast list appeared, he’d been picked for Sir Harry, who sang more than any other guy, including the most famous song, “I Love You Less.”

That was two weeks ago; they’d rehearsed every day since. What timing! Simon had his license and except when Dad was being a dick, he took the Camry to school so he could drive himself home after rehearsal. Next year, when she started high school, Lizzie would ride with him; for now she was stuck with the moonfaced assholes. Not me, Simon thought, I’ll never ride that freaking bus again.

He turned onto Cottage, two blocks from school, and cruised for a spot. Next year, he’d rent one in the school lot. Twenty-five dollars and seniors had dibs. This semester, he was stuck on the street. Although he already drove better than Dad—who talked too much, drifting from lane to lane in terrifying fashion until Simon exchanged looks with Mom, My God, did you see that?—the one thing he hadn’t mastered was parallel parking. Instead, he arrived early to find a spot either just before or after a driveway.

He spotted one big enough for a dump truck. He slid towards it, shark-like, set the brake, and snapped off the engine. Dad was always yammering at him to turn off the heater and the radio, so they wouldn’t drain the battery when he restarted the engine, and blah, blah, blah, but that, he thought, climbing out of the Camry, throwing his hip-bag strap over his shoulder, and bending to check his look in the side-view, was totally crap. He’d been leaving the heater and radio on since he started driving, and nothing bad had happened.

Simon began the three-block hike to school; the red velvet cuffs he’d added to his pants swished like skirts. It was seven-twenty, cold January, and his breath puffed like the cotton balls Dad’s mother, Grandma Babs, removed her eye shadow with last month in Florida. When he was little, he watched her apply make-up whenever he visited.

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