The Slightly Bruised Glory of Cedar B. Hartley Read Free

to kiss him. Mum has a crush on Hugh Grant, and she’d admit it out loud to anyone. I call these ‘public crushes’. They’re kind of sturdy but perishable, whereas a private crush is much more interesting and vivid and tender. For instance, there may be a boy on your tram who you only see every now and then, but every time you do your heart starts to make you feel funny. You might have to tell your best friend about this kind of a crush. It’s as if you’ve found a very fragile butterfly and you have let it live in your heart.
    I have the most unusual crush of all, of course, because I’m leading an unusual life and so mostly I do things a little bit differently. My crush is on someone who has never ever breathed or wept or bled or farted. His name is Holden Caulfield and he doesn’t exist, except as a character in a book that was written years ago, way before I was even born. It’s Barnaby’s favourite book, so I had to read it too, even though Barnaby thinks I don’t really appreciate it ’cause I’m not old enough. I think I do appreciate it, because if ever I could meet Holden Caulfield I’d fall in love in one blow, as long as he didn’t sneer or smell bad. (I’d probably forgive him if he smelt bad, but not if he sneered.)
    So, it’s about the most natural thing in the world to get a crush. A crush happens upon you the way a pimple does, just like that – pop! – without you even thinking about it. Only they’re much more fun to focus on. Sometimes I suspect pimples could even be a result of all that heat a crush can make, cooking up things inside your head and making little red lumps out of it, on your skin.
    But love…I don’t think it gives you pimples. It gives you other kinds of troubles, even worse than pimples, like heartbreak, for one. You can read about it in novels. Here’s how I think it works:
    For one thing, love doesn’t just happen. It takes a while. And it’s real. It’s not just a thing you imagine, it’s a thing you do. Things you do for real can get muddy and deep and scary, and also thrilling. Like playing footy. Or surfing. But what would I know? I’m too young to really be in love. I’m only just thirteen. I haven’t even been surfing yet, but don’t worry, I intend to.
    So, my crush is Kite.
    Kite Freeman.

Chapter 3
    The kiss wasn’t the terrible, terrible thing that happened, but it’s relevant because it makes the terrible, terrible thing even more terrible. It happened at the rehearsal.
    Caramella and I were late, on account of our sleuthing activities. Kite and Oscar were already there. Oscar was lying flat on his back on Kite’s garage floor, and he was singing.
    I am the walrus koo koo kchoo, koo koo koo kchoo.
    But he’s not a walrus; he’s just a very tall guy with an acquired brain injury. Before he acquired the injury to his brain, you would have been likely to see him lying on his back singing koo koo kchoo because he’s naturally berserk in an artistic way. His brain injury just makes him slope when he is standing and walking, and when he talks the words come out slower. But apart from that he’s still got the same Oscar soul – it’s just harder for him to crank it out. It’s as if all the hard drive is still there but the keyboard doesn’t work as well, so if you press Control you might not get control. Oscar gave his brain an almighty whack by falling off the Hills Hoist in his backyard while practising acrobatics, so, if nothing else, take this piece of handy advice from a reckless daredevil like me:
    Don’t hang upside-down on the Hills Hoist. Also, don’t try anything tricky or dangerous like a back flip without someone helping you. There are things you can do with a Hills Hoist (like hang your old teddy bear on it and then spin it around and take a photo of the bear in motion) that are still fun and