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Just in time for Valentine's Day,
the Guardian in London has
reviewed and raved about
The Secret Language of Sleep.
And, for the rest of the week,
you can buy it for $5!
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I started hitting things when I turned nine. Now I am ten, and in between, I've hit about as much as someone my age can hit without getting sent to boot camp—though I've been threatened many times. I hit the cat when it sat in my lap and I didn't want it to sit in my lap. I hit my sister on her way up the stairs. I hit my sister when she was on the floor, watching TV. (I also gave her a kick to the ribs.) Then I said I was sorry and offered her some candy, but when she reached for it, I punched her in the arm—right on the bony part of her elbow so I could hear the impact. Outside my house, I punched the tree until my knuckles turned red. I whacked my neighbor's tetherball to prove that I am a normal kid, that I hit things that other kids hit. But the tetherball deflated so I hit the metal pole because it was shiny and also because it was there. In class, I hit all the kids who brought their tie-wearing dads to Career Day. I hit the new kid from across the room with a box of crayons and that pissed off the teacher. During recess she made me sit in the principal's office, where I scowled at the bug-eyed secretary. One day I hit everything yellow that I saw. The next day I hit everything that was blue, including my mom's mini-van. I hit every wooden fence I passed when she made me walk home. In my head, I was hitting the bastards on the bus that laughed and passed me by. For weeks, I hit my mom every time she tried to give me the pills that make me stop hitting. Inside, she told me, I am all folded up like a piece of origami—and that's when I hit her. On a day off from school, I smacked my old grandma because she never moves from her corner spot by the window. She sits in the same position, just like the figurines I broke when I hit the legs of the table and they fell off. I got real close and she smelled like tangerines and then I hit her. She squawked. She shifted in her seat and that surprised me enough to make me want to hug her. Mom says everyone needs a hug sometimes, even Grandma, even me. I didn't give her a hug. Instead, I hit the couch cushion where my father used to sit. I punched his old dresser drawers, and then ripped up the few T-shirts that were left. I hit a pillow on my bed until the feathers were everywhere and my sister asked me if I killed a bird. I pummeled her until she squealed and then I flipped her the bird. That will teach you a lesson, I said. At dinner once, I hit my spoon against my glass of milk, tink tink tink, because it got too quiet at the kitchen table between my half-deaf old grandma and my bruised sister. I hit my fork against the ketchupy edges of the meatloaf. I massacred the green beans. After I got sent to my room, I lay on the floor and pounded my fists onto the blue carpet. I jumped up and boxed with an imaginary man, swinging my fists at the air. I hit the cat again. And my sister, too. I'm running out of things to hit. Soon, I will be eleven.
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
Mysteries and Conundrums To Be Solved With One Hour Left Until My Retirement From the Force By Mike Sacks I Grew Up Near the Cottages of the Famous, Part Two: Emily Brontë By Ned Morgan Ask a Former Professional Literary Agent, Part XII, Beginning With Another Fascinating Selection From My Memoirs-in-Progress By John Hodgman The Nine Partners Boarding School Class of 1989 Loss of Sexual Innocence Walking Tour By Keith Bunin What's Funnier? By David Kolbusz |
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