All About Lulu Read Free Page A

alone at the table for most of my ninth birthday party—he with his empty coffee cup and me with my watermelon rinds—while Big Bill and the twins made continuous trips to the meat bar, the salad bar, and the potato bar, in addition to trips to the bathroom between feedings.
    Cliff wasn’t much of a talker either, which was fi ne by me. We were kindred spirits that way. He nodded knowingly now and again throughout the evening, as if to say: Pfff. Birthday parties. Tell me about it . I hate buffets . The cluster of colored balloons tied to the post nearest his seat kept hectoring him. He’d push them away, but as soon as somebody passed down the aisle, they’d drift back over and bonk him on the head, and cling to the side of his face.
    “Balls,” he said, at one point. And I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing, and maybe the only thing, I ever heard him say.
    Among the gifts I received upon the occasion of my ninth birthday were a set of dumbbells, a Joe Weider powdered vitamin supplement, an obscenely large vacuum-packed summer sausage from Vienna, and, from Uncle Cliff, a World Gym shirt with a cartoon gorilla holding the world above his head like he wanted to throw it.
     

 

     
     

    Mostly About Lulu
     
     
    My life began again the moment I met Louisa Trudeau. Without Lulu, I might never have existed again, might never have known the smell of a gauze bandage or felt the delicate winking of an eyelash against my cheek.
    Arriving home slump-shouldered beneath the weight of my book bag one afternoon in February, I discovered her roosting in the breakfast nook in a swath of golden sunlight, as though she’d been delivered to me.
    “Your dad’s in the garage with my mom,” she observed. There were a half dozen books spread out in front of her. “I’m Lulu. But don’t call me Louisa. My grammy in Vermont calls me that, and I absolutely despise it. When’s your birthday, anyway?”
    I was afraid to unleash the voice. All I wanted to do was look at her. She was Mr. Potato Head beautiful. Nothing fi t right. But somehow this girl in the yellow socks, with the small nose and the big ears and the gap-toothed smile, achieved a certain harmony, a beauty greater than the sum of its parts.
    “It’s all right,” she said. “Your dad already told me. That you’re shy, I mean. He said that you say about twelve words a day. Is that true?”
    I nodded.
    “That must be hard,” she said. “I say at least twelve words every thirty seconds, I’ll bet. Maybe even more. Sometimes my mom tells me, honey, you don’t have to say every single thing that comes into your head . But I don’t, really. I mean, say everything that comes into my head. Not even close.”
    She fell silent and turned her attention back to the book directly in front of her. “Don’t you think unicorns are stupid?” she said.
    I shrugged.
    “Well, I sure do. They don’t even make sense. And besides, there are so many incredibly diverse kinds of animals, why would you want to make one up?”
    I could understand quite easily wanting to make things up, but I didn’t say as much.
    “Sandhill cranes are my favorite animal,” she pursued. “Do you know about sandhill cranes?”
    I shook my head.
    “That’s okay, not everybody does. In fact, most people don’t, actually.
    They’re very large birds with very long necks. They do beautiful dances and sing beautiful songs to each other. I might be an ornithologist when I grow up. That’s a bird studier. I’m not going to get married until I’m at least thirty-two. And fi rst I’m going to travel around the world at least three times.” She went back to her book for a fl eeting moment. “If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”
    All I could think to say was “back.” So I didn’t say anything.
    She looked at me kindly. “It’s okay if you don’t talk. I don’t mind.
    Actually, I kind of like it. That’s what my mom does for a job, doesn’t talk. She’s a grief