Fragile Beasts Read Free Page A

But, most important of all, he planned on living.
    What’s the point of even making plans if they can be erased in an instant? What’s the point of even getting up in the morning?
    I pull my knees up against my chest and try to make myself into a little ball. My jeans smell like dirt and a smoky wood fire, and my hands smell like the hot dog I roasted for Shelby Jack just a couple hours ago.
    I pull my T-shirt up to my nose to see if any of Shelby’s scent rubbed off on me. She always smells good. I don’t know if it’s from a soap she uses or a shampoo or perfume or maybe it’s just the way she smells naturally. I can’t describe it because there’s nothing to compare it to. It’s purely her.
    Talk about having plans. I had plans for tonight, too. Sitting next to her on a log, our shoulders touching, the fire so hot in front of us and the night air so cold on our backs. Her laughing and smiling and smelling Shelbylicious.
    It took everything in my power not to reach out and touch her hair. Notbecause I’m a sex fiend or disrespectful to women or anything like that. My fingers are drawn to it the same way they’re drawn to the velvety noses on the Hamilton dairy cows.
    It’s long, shiny, and dark and in the firelight, parts of it have a reddish glow like there might be a coal smoldering underneath it.
    I was planning on kissing her and finally touching her hair. I’d fantasized about it for a while. Then I decided to make it a goal, something I could work toward, something I was definitely going to do or else feel like a loser.
    I didn’t even care that she had a thing for Klint. All the girls around here are nuts over Klint. They’re always parading around in front of him in tight jeans and short skirts, pretending to stumble in the hall at school so they can bump up against him at his locker, calling their friends to find out if they’ve heard whether he’s going to show up at so-and-so’s party or whether he’ll be at the football game on Friday or which night he’s going to the Laurel County Fair. (And it’s always been the same night his entire life: Monster Truck Night.) They can try all they want. They don’t know what I know or if they did know, they’d think I was exaggerating.
    People say the reason priests don’t have sex is because they’re married to the church. Klint’s married to baseball.
    That doesn’t mean he loves baseball. I think the love has already gone out of it for him the same way love seems to go out of most marriages. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him. He’s committed for better or worse, in sickness and in health, ’til death do him and second base part.
    I had been ready to make my move on Shelby. I had roasted a perfect hot dog for her: golden, charred just a little, the skin starting to split, and the juices leaking out. I asked her if she wanted me to get her a bun and she said no, she wanted to eat it off the stick. I told her that’s my favorite way to eat it, too, and she gave me a funny look and said, “I know, Kyle. I’ve known you forever.”
    I liked the way she said it. I liked that it was true.
    I was about to tell her I thought the fire was getting too hot and ask her if she’d like to take a walk, but then Bill came driving up to the barn and got out of his truck, crying.
    I get up off my bed and head to my window to look for Mr. B. I know there’s no chance he’ll come around with all this commotion going on, but I’d like to see him.
    Something in the carpet catches my eye, and I stop to pick it up. This used to be my little sister’s room, and every once in a while I find some tiny sparkly reminder of her. It’s usually a bead from a jewelry-making kit, or a sequin from her dress-up clothes, or a dried dab of glitter glue.
    This time it’s a little silver high-heeled Barbie doll shoe.
    I stick it in my pocket and continue on to the window. I push open the screen and lean out and try to make my mind a blank.
    I know I’m not doing the