Treasure Island!!! Read Free Page A

“Ever worry that if you only read one book, you’ll get scurvy of the brain?”
    â€œYou can learn a lot by reading deeply into one book. In fact, in Japan, that’s how literature is studied. People read one book all year. It’s only the stupid Americans who skitter around.”
    â€œ
Who
reads one book a year?”
    â€œJapanese literature majors.”
    He looked skeptical. “I’ll ask my friend Yusuke.”
    â€œNo, don’t. We’re off the point. Weren’t we talking about my lousy job?”
    Lars paused to ingest some refried beans. “I’m reading this book about the Beslan school siege. In Russia, remember? When Shamil Basayev sent those jihadists to slaughter school children in North Ossetia?”
    â€œExcuse me?” I muttered. “I’m eating.”
    â€œOkay, maybe you wouldn’t like it. The situation is
so
fucked up. The violence alone—”
    â€œI don’t know what you think
Treasure Island
is, Lars, but people do kick it. Heads roll.”
    Lars smiled. “
The Federalist Papers
,” he went on. “That was the last thing I read. No, no—it’s good, but I think you might find it a little dry. You prefer fiction, right? I know: the new Nora Roberts! You ever read Nora Roberts?”
    I sighed. “I’m not
looking
for a book, Lars.”
    â€œDid you ever think about joining a book club, though? My office mate, Chelsea, does a reading group, and she might have room for another person. They meet at The Flying Saucer. I’ve seen the books on her desk—history, linguistics, science stuff—it’s pretty broad. Chelsea says they read
great
books.”
    â€œGreat books? Great books? Lars, would you know a great book if it hit you in the ass with its registration papers?
Treasure Island
is a great book!”
    I dropped my burrito into its soggy bed of shredded lettuce. Was Lars capable of recognizing
merit
? The lanky brown hair, the smudge on his glasses, the inability to intuit I was too sophisticated for some geeky co-worker’s book group. A stray thought wandered into my mind and swished its mangy tail: should I dump him?
    â€œHave you even
read
it yet, Lars?”
    â€œI’m going to.”
    â€œYeah, that’s what Rena said, too. But now she’s all caught up in some dutiful tome on global warming.”
    I pulled
Treasure Island
out of my backpack and nudged his plate aside, so that the volume lay before him on the Formica table. Something about the tableau reminded me of the time Aunt Boothie parked me in front of her photo album so I could get the blow-by-blow on the Senior Singles Mis­sis­sippi Riverboat Tour.
    â€œOkay,” I said, “of course, I’m not going to force this down your throat,” and refrained from pointing out the passages I deemed most important.
    â€œAre you saying you want me to read it now?” Lars said.
    â€œI’m tempted to read it
aloud
to you, but I don’t want to be a control freak.”
    â€œNo, don’t,” he said quickly, and we agreed he could wade into the book at his own pace. Which turned out to be deadly slow if not downright chicken-shit. It was a book; what was he afraid of? I ate a basket of chips while he lingered on the frontispiece: a dull brown map of the island, porcupined with lines illustrating I don’t know what: longitudes, latitudes. Turn the page, I urged him silently. Turn the page, plunge in!
    â€œI find maps interesting,” he said.
    So violently did I expel my breath, I spat on the map—one of those weird, nervous spits where you accidentally trigger a salivary gland and, as if your tongue had discovered your mouth’s G-spot, the saliva erupts in a concentrated jet. Thinking I’d meant to do it—“gleeking,” he called it; as if I’d ever “gleek” on my bible!—he took the occasion of my nervous laughter to close the book.