Excerpt from The Agony of Bun O'Keefe by Heather Smith, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Most girls your age dress way too old, that's all."

"Smurf hats are called Phrygian caps. They symbolize freedom."

He looked at me like I was making things up. But I don't tell lies.

"That coffee stinks."

A gentle laugh. "Who are you?"

"I told you. Bun O'Keefe."

"I like you, Bun O'Keefe."

Once, I stuck a knife in a toaster 'cause my bread was stuck and I felt a jolt. When he said, "I like you," I felt the same way—it wasn't just a surprise, it was a shock that zinged.

"They called me weird the year I went to school. 'Cause I say things that pop in my head."

"You only went to school for one year?"

"Kindergarten. No one said, 'I like you, Bun O'Keefe.'"

He said, "That's sad."

I said, "Is it?"

He stared into his coffee.

I said, "Did you know that if you smile, even when you're not happy, your mood will improve? It's a scientific fact."

The corners of his lips curled upward.

I said, "You look like the Joker from Batman."

I liked his laugh. It fluttered like a leaf on the breeze.

I took a sip of my hot chocolate.

He took a sip of his coffee.

I wondered if he was trying to create a bond.

I said, "Want to know the difference between a real smile and a fake smile?"

"Sure."

"With a real smile the orbicularis oculi muscle contracts and makes wrinkles around your eyes. Has that ever happened to you? I don't think that's ever happened to me."

Lines covered his forehead. I was about to tell him he was contracting his frontalis muscle when he said, "Are you hungry? I can get you a cookie."

"Two please. No ants."

His forehead crinkled even more.

"Raisins," I said. "No raisins."

Alone at the table, I wrapped the flannel shirt tighter

around me and leaned forward, letting the steam from my drink fog my glasses.

~

I sat with him under a sign that said Fred's. He gave me a pair of gloves and a hat from his backpack. They were too big but I didn't say so. He played lots of stuff I recognized from the records that filled our bathtub. Bob Dylan, Queen, The Beatles. Lots of stuff I didn't know, too, and after each one, I'd say, "What was that?" and he'd say, "Violent Femmes" or "The Clash" or "The Cure." I found a paper cup on the ground and held it out to people passing by. I shook it in time with the music until Busker Boy asked me to stop. So I did.

After a song about a guy who plays guitar with spiders from Mars I asked, "So are you homeless?" and he said, "Temporary accommodations. I can't wait to get out."

So I told the passersby. "He lives in temporary accommodations. He can't wait to get out."

Sounded like a good song title. I'd suggest it later.

Three times I emptied the cup into his guitar case.

When he packed up I said, "What now?"

"Home. It's late."

"Yeah, I'm tired too."

He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt and buttoned up his jean jacket. We walked for ages.

"What's this road called?"

"Water Street."

"It's long."

"We'll be there soon."

I couldn't stop yawning. "Yawning is called oscitation."

He said hmmm to let me know that he heard me. I liked that.

"The average yawn lasts six seconds. I read it in a book."

A man staggered toward us in the opposite direction. Busker Boy grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me across to his other side, near the road.

"Why'd you do that?" I asked.

When the man passed, Busker Boy pulled me back on the inside. "He was drunk."

"Homeless too?"

Excerpted from The Agony of Bun O'Keefe by Heather Smith. Copyright © 2017 by Heather Smith. Excerpted by permission of Penguin Random House Canada. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.