Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 Read Free

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    My hair smelled of beans, and the next day my hand was so swollen I couldn’t move the fingers and I kept it in my pocket when I told Mrs. Annison I’d lost the book. She was eating Corn Nuts at her desk and grading papers and didn’t bother to look up, just said, “Well, Billy, I guess you’ll have to buy another one.”
    I couldn’t ask Mom for money, so I never got another book, couldn’t do homework anymore, and my math grades started going down. I kept thinking Mrs. Annison or someone would get curious, but no one did.
    Another time Moron ripped up this magazine collection I’d put together from other people’s trash and most of my personal books, including the presidents book. One of the first things I looked for when I finally located the library on Hillhurst Avenue was another presidents book. I found one, but it was different. Not as heavy paper, only black-and-white photographs. Still interesting, though. I learned that William Henry Harrison caught a cold right after his election and died.
    Bad luck for the first William president.
    This is working; my head’s clear. But my heart and stomach feel like they’re burning up. More: Taylor, Fillmore, Pierce . . . James Buchanan, the only president who never got married—must have been lonely for him in the White House, though I guess he was busy enough. Maybe he liked being alone. I can understand that.
    Lincoln, Johnson, Grant, McKinley.
    Another
William
president. Did anyone ever call him Billy? From his picture, bald and squinty and angry-looking, I don’t think so.
    No one ever called me William except teachers on the first day of school, and soon then they switched to Billy, too, because all the kids laughed at
William.
    Billy Goat, Billy the Goat.
    William Bradley Straight.
    It’s a plain name, nothing special about it, but better than some of the other things I’ve been called.
    Chuck chuck . . .
    Oops—I stumble but don’t fall. Place Five is still far. It’s a warm night. I wish I could take off my piss-stink clothes and run through the trees naked, a wild, strong animal who knows where he’s going . . . I’ll breathe ten times to cool down my heart.
    . . . better. More lists: tropical fish: platys, swordtails, neon tetras, guppies, angelfish, oscars, catfish, tinfoil barbs, arowanas. Never had an aquarium, but in my magazine collection were old copies of
Tropical Fish Hobbyist
and the pictures filled my head with color.
    One point the fish articles kept making was you have to be careful setting up an aquarium, know who you’re dealing with. Oscars and arowanas will eat all the others if they’re big enough, and if the arowanas get really big, they’ll try to eat the oscars. Goldfish are the most peaceful, but they’re also the slowest and get eaten all the time.
    My stomach still burns, like someone’s in there, chewing at me . . . breathe . . . animals you see in the park: birds, lizards, squirrels, snakes once in a while. I ignore them.
    Same for people.
    At night you sometimes see homeless crazy guys with carts full of garbage, but they never stay long. Also, Mexicans in low cars, playing loud music. When they stop, it’s over by the trains. Junkies, of course, because it’s Hollywood. I’ve seen them drive up, sit at one of the picnic tables like they’re ready to have a meal, tie up their arms, jab in needles, and stare out at nothing.
    After the dope really gets into their blood, they sigh and nod and fall asleep and they just look like anyone napping.
    Sometimes couples park at the edge of the lot, including gay guys. Talking, making out, smoking—you can see cigarettes in the distance like little orange stars.
    Everyone having a good time.
    That’s what I thought
they
were going to do, tonight.
    Someone’s always cutting the chain, and the rangers take weeks to fix it. The cops don’t patrol much, because it’s park ranger territory. The park’s huge. In the library I found a book that said it had 4,100 acres. It