Excerpt of Tenth of December by George Saunders
(Page 2 of 4)
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Go, she said. Only, for your task of penance, do not eat her. Lay her out in a field of clover, with roses strewn about her. And bestow a choir, to softly sing of her foul end.
Lay who out? the baby deer said.
No one, she said. Never mind. Stop asking so many questions.
Pas de chat, pas de chat.
Changement, changement.
She felt hopeful that {special one} would hail from far away. The local boys possessed a certain je ne sais quoi, which, tell the truth, she was not très crazy about, such as: actually named their own nuts. She had overheard that! And aspired to work for CountyPower because the work shirts were awesome and you got them free.
So ixnay on the local boys. A special ixnay on Matt Drey, owner of the largest mouth in the land. Kissing him last night at the pep rally had been like kissing an underpass. Scary! Kissing Matt was like suddenly this cow in a sweater is bearing down on you, who will not take no for an answer, and his huge cow head is being flooded by chemicals that are drowning out what little powers of reason Matt actually did have.
What she liked was being in charge of her. Her body, her mind. Her thoughts, her career, her future.
That was what she liked.
So be it.
We might have a slight snack.
Un petit repas.
Was she special? Did she consider herself special? Oh, gosh, she didn't know. In the history of the world, many had been more special than her. Helen Keller had been awesome; Mother Teresa was amazing; Mrs. Roosevelt was quite chipper in spite of her husband, who was handicapped, which, in addition, she had been gay, with those big old teeth, long before such time as being gay and First Lady was even conceptual. She, Alison, could not hope to compete in that category of those ladies. Not yet, anyway!
There was so much she didn't know! Like how to change the oil. Or even check the oil. How to open the hood. How to bake brownies. That was embarrassing, actually, being a girl and all. And what was a mortgage? Did it come with the house? When you breast-fed, did you have to like push the milk out?
Egads. Who was this wan figure, visible through the living-room window, trotting up Gladsong Drive? Kyle Boot, palest kid in all the land? Still dressed in his weird cross-country toggles?
Poor thing. He looked like a skeleton with a mullet. Were those cross-country shorts from the like Charlie's Angels days or quoi? How could he run so well when he seemed to have literally no muscles? Every day he ran home like this, shirtless with his backpack on, then hit the remote from down by the Fungs' and scooted into his garage without breaking stride.
You almost had to admire the poor goof.
They'd grown up together, been little beaners in that mutual sandbox down by the creek. Hadn't they bathed together when wee or some such crud? She hoped that never got out. Because in terms of friends, Kyle was basically down to Feddy Slavko, who walked leaning way backward and was always retrieving things from between his teeth, announcing the name of the retrieved thing in Greek, then re-eating it. Kyle's mom and dad didn't let him do squat. He had to call home if the movie in World Culture might show bare boobs. Each of the items in his lunch box was clearly labeled.
Pas de bourrée.
And curtsy.
Pour quantity of Cheez Doodles into compartmentalized old-school Tupperware dealie.
Thanks, Mom, thanks, Dad. Your kitchen rocks.
Shake Tupperware dealie back and forth like panning for gold, then offer to some imaginary poor gathered round.
Please enjoy. Is there anything else I can do for you folks?
You have already done enough, Alison, by even deigning to speak to us.
That is so not true! Don't you understand, all people deserve respect? Each of us is a rainbow.
Uh, really? Look at this big open sore on my poor shriveled flank.
Excerpted from Tenth of December: Stories by George Saunders. Copyright © 2013 by George Saunders. Excerpted by permission of Random House, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
