Free Evil Eye by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

in a chivalrous gesture. He was smiling so hard now, his glittery-gold glasses seemed to have become dislodged and he had to push them against the bridge of his nose with the flat of his hand.
    â€œI wondered how long you’d stay in there. I was hoping you wouldn’t stay until the library closed.”
    Awkwardly I murmured that I was doing research for a paper in my earth science class. . . .
    â€œEarth science! Quick tell me: what’s the age of the Earth?”
    â€œI—I don’t remember. . . .”
    â€œMultiple-choice question: The age of Earth is (a) fifty million years (b) three hundred sixty thousand years (c) ten thousand years (d) forty billion years (e) four point five billion years. No hurry!”
    Trying to remember, and to reason: but he was laughing at me.
    Teasing-laughing. In a way to make my face burn with pleasure.
    â€œWell, I know it can’t be ten thousand years. So we can eliminate that.”
    â€œYou’re certain? Ten thousand years would be appropriate if Noah and his ark are factored in. You don’t believe in Noah and his ark?”
    â€œN-No . . .”
    â€œHow’d the animals survive the flood, then? Birds, human beings? Fish, you can see how fish would survive, no problem factoring in fish, but—mammals? Non-arboreal primates? How’d they manage?”
    It was like trying to juggle a half-dozen balls at once, trying to talk to this very funny boy. Seeing that I was becoming flustered he relented, saying: “If you consider that life of some kind has been around about three point five billion years, then it figures, right?—the answer is (e) four point five billion years. That’s a loooong time, before October ninth, 1977, in Strykersville, New York. A looong time before Lizabeth and Desmond .”
    Like a TV stand-up comic Desmond Parrish spoke rapidly and precisely and made wild-funny gestures with his hands.
    No one had ever made me laugh so hard, so quickly. So breathlessly.
    As if it was the most natural thing in the world Desmond walked with me to the street. He was a head taller than me—at least five feet eleven. He’d swung his heavy backpack onto his shoulders and walked with a slight stoop. Covertly I glanced about to see if anyone was watching us—anyone who knew me: Is that Lizbeth Marsh? Who on earth is that tall boy she’s with?
    It seemed natural, too, that Desmond would walk me to my bicycle, leaning against the wrought iron fence. Theft was so rare in Strykersville in those years, no one bothered with locks.
    Desmond stroked the chrome handlebars of my bicycle, that were lightly flecked with rust—the bicycle was an English racer, but inexpensive, with only three gears—and said he’d seen me bicycling on the very afternoon he and his family had moved to Strykersville, twelve days before: “At least, I think she was you.”
    This was a strange thing to say, I thought. As if Desmond really did know me, and we weren’t strangers.
    Somehow it happened, Desmond and I were walking together on Main Street. I wasn’t riding my bicycle, Desmond was pushing it, while I walked beside him. His eyes were almond-shaped and fixed on me in a way both tender and intense, that made me feel weak.
    Already the feeling between us was so vivid and clear— As if we’d known each other a long time ago.
    People scorn such an idea. People laugh, who know no better.
    â€œLizbeth, you can call me ‘Des.’ That’s what my friends call me.”
    Desmond paused, staring down at me with his strange wistful smile.
    â€œOf course, I don’t have any friends in Strykersville yet. Just you.”
    This was so flattering! I laughed, to suggest that, if he was joking, I knew he’d meant to be funny.
    â€œBut I don’t think that I will call you ‘Liz’—‘Lizbeth’ is preferable. ‘Liz’ is plebian, ‘Lizbeth’ patrician. You are my