Free The Keep by Jennifer Egan

up the notebook where I’m keeping the journal Holly told us all to keep and I write them down one by one. And for some reason that puts me in a good mood, like money in the bank.

    In the next class I read again and Mel speaks up first, which is surprising because Mel hardly ever talks. Hamsam isn’t there.
    I’ve got a reaction, Mel says. Actually, it’s a problem, Miss Holly.
    Shoot, Holly says.
    Mel clears out his throat and says, kind of formally, I would like to know what’s going to happen next.
    Holly waits, she’s expecting more, and when nothing else comes out of Mel and she realizes this is the problem he’s talking about, she smiles. Mel, she says, that’s a good thing; it means the story has engaged you.
    No, Mel says, it’s not a good thing. He has a soft panting voice, a high-blood-pressure voice that goes along with his body, which looks fatter every week. How he does it on the shit they serve in here I don’t know. He says, It’s not a good thing because it makes me uncomfortable.
    You don’t want to make Mel uncomfortable. He’s big and dumb and dangerous. The word is he tried to kill his wife by grinding up three hundred vitamin C tablets and sprinkling the powder on her clothes and her pillow because someone told him vitamin C was toxic if you inhaled it.
    Define uncomfortable, Mel, Holly says.
    I mean like I get an uncomfortable feeling inside me that’s like an empty feeling, it’s a disappointed feeling like I want to know what’s going to happen and I feel bad not knowing, like Ray’s holding out on me. And then I start to have a pissed-off feeling, pardon my French, Miss Holly.
    It sounds like you’re describing anticipation, Holly says. And that’s not a problem, Mel. That’s what a writer lives and hopes for.
    It’s a problem because being uncomfortable is not what I like, Mel says. The quieter he gets, the more he means it. Tell me what happens, Ray.
    Mel, Holly says, and she laughs like she doesn’t believe it. You can’t make that demand. It’s not fair.
    I say it’s not fair of Ray to make me wait.
    Tom-Tom’s sitting next to me. He picks that desk every week, who the hell knows why. Now he’s twisting and flicking around and finally he turns to me and says, C’mon, Ray. Tell us what happens. You were there, right?
    I look at him and smile. I don’t know why I like pissing Tom-Tom off. Maybe because it’s so easy.
    See, Ray won’t tell, Tom-Tom says. He’d rather sit there with a shit-eating grin all over his face.
    Pardon his French, Cherry says, and he and Allan Beard start to laugh.
    I write in my notebook shit-eating grin.
    Mel waves away the laughs. You’ve got no reason not to tell me what happens, Ray, he says, and his voice is butter melting in a pan. The way I feel right now, he says, I’ll be personally offended if you don’t.
    I have no interest in personally offending Mel. He was in the hole for three months after he stabbed a guy named Julian Sanchez with a toothbrush he’d made into a shank by scraping it over the pavement. Luckily for Sanchez, in the heat of the moment Mel accidentally used the brush end.
    But when I start talking, it’s not to make Mel happy. I do it for Holly, to get her to look at me. Being inside turns us back into infants: guys kill each other over a volleyball call, they throw their food and piss and shit because what else is there? What else have we got? And I need Holly’s attention, that’s all. I need it.
    Well, I say, the next thing is that Danny’s going to set up that satellite dish he’s brought and call his ex, Martha Mueller.
    Okay, Mel says. And say what?
    You don’t have to do this, Ray, Holly says, eyes to my left.
    The main thing is, I tell Mel, Danny wants to get back together with Martha. But she won’t.
    I need the words, Mel says. Right now you’re just making noise in my ear.
    Holly’s waiting, but she’s not happy.
    Okay, I say to Mel. Here are some words: “Hey, Martha, it’s Danny…. Yeah,