Free The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall Page B
Authors: Brady Udall
him cry. When he had to breathe again he tried not to snork, which was what came out anyway.
“This is funny?” she said. “You think any of this is amusing?”
No, Rusty didn’t think any of it was funny, especially not the snork. He mumbled that he had been looking for his tube socks in the Big Girls’ drawer because they sometimes took his socks just to make him mad.
“Honestly. You want to blame this little abomination of yours on the girls now? You sneaking through their drawers and putting on their intimate items is their fault, is that what you’re saying?”
He looked down at his shirt, which was too small with a tear-hole and grease spots on it, not that anybody cared. And come to think of it, weren’t his own underwear gross and ratty too? Gray and full of holes and so stretched out the Jolly Green Giant could wear them under his little skirt thing no problem? Of course the girls’ underwear was clean and fresh and extremely elastic. If he had good underwear, the nice tight kind that looked sharp and made you feel good about yourself, then maybe he wouldn’t have to go trying on other people’s intimate items, would he?
Aunt Beverly told him he was to go to his room, where he would stay for the rest of the day, until she and the other mothers decided on an appropriate punishment.
Appropriate . This was Aunt Beverly’s favorite word, her power word, the word that granted her her awful destructive might, which she would surely lose forever if she didn’t say it at least fifteen times a day.
That sort of talk isn’t appropriate. Let’s find a more appropriate activity, children. We’ll discuss this at an appropriate time. Your shoes, Rusty, do not smell very appropriate. How about , Rusty thought, you kiss my appropriate behind?
“What?” said Aunt Beverly. “What did you say?”
What? He hadn’t said anything! Had he? He turned his head away so she could not look into his eyes. The possibility that Aunt Beverly might be able to see deep into his inner brain with her witchy-woman stare did not surprise him at all.
“Not only will you stay in your room for the rest of the day,” Aunt Beverly said, “but you will go without dinner tonight. And no dessert for the rest of the week. One more word from you and you will be grounded for the rest of the month. I will not allow this kind of perversion in my house.”
At this, Rusty just stood there like a big buttfudge bawling his fat brains out. He thought about his own sorry stretched-out underwear, which made him cry harder, and how everybody would know that he was trying on girl’s panties in the middle of the day, and the worst, no dessert for a week. What a big dang gyp! He cried so hard he began to cough, and slobber came out of his mouth, which often happened because he had some kind of condition that made him have too much spit in his mouth. But Aunt Beverly did not hug him, or say, now-now , or make him a glass of chocolate milk on ice like his own mother would’ve, she just gave him one last stare and went out the door.
Well, crying like that made him feel a little better, and staying in his room wouldn’t be so bad—at least he wouldn’t have to do chores. Out in the hall, Parley was waiting for him. Parley was two years older and could run faster and throw farther and make musical armpit farts everyone thought were hilarious. Rusty tried to walk by, but Parley stood in his way with his arm against Rusty’s chest, and whispered, Fag . Rusty pushed past him, but Parley stayed right with him, doing the musical armpits and singing, A-Faggety-Fag-Fag-Fee, A-Faggety-Fag-Fag-Foo.
One of the sorriest things about Old House was that it was really old , with squeaking floors and clanking radiators, but the worst part of it was you had to march up about six hundred stairs to get to the Tower, which was where they made Rusty stay, most likely because they wanted him to reduce in size his sizable love handles. So he climbed, huffing and
“This is funny?” she said. “You think any of this is amusing?”
No, Rusty didn’t think any of it was funny, especially not the snork. He mumbled that he had been looking for his tube socks in the Big Girls’ drawer because they sometimes took his socks just to make him mad.
“Honestly. You want to blame this little abomination of yours on the girls now? You sneaking through their drawers and putting on their intimate items is their fault, is that what you’re saying?”
He looked down at his shirt, which was too small with a tear-hole and grease spots on it, not that anybody cared. And come to think of it, weren’t his own underwear gross and ratty too? Gray and full of holes and so stretched out the Jolly Green Giant could wear them under his little skirt thing no problem? Of course the girls’ underwear was clean and fresh and extremely elastic. If he had good underwear, the nice tight kind that looked sharp and made you feel good about yourself, then maybe he wouldn’t have to go trying on other people’s intimate items, would he?
Aunt Beverly told him he was to go to his room, where he would stay for the rest of the day, until she and the other mothers decided on an appropriate punishment.
Appropriate . This was Aunt Beverly’s favorite word, her power word, the word that granted her her awful destructive might, which she would surely lose forever if she didn’t say it at least fifteen times a day.
That sort of talk isn’t appropriate. Let’s find a more appropriate activity, children. We’ll discuss this at an appropriate time. Your shoes, Rusty, do not smell very appropriate. How about , Rusty thought, you kiss my appropriate behind?
“What?” said Aunt Beverly. “What did you say?”
What? He hadn’t said anything! Had he? He turned his head away so she could not look into his eyes. The possibility that Aunt Beverly might be able to see deep into his inner brain with her witchy-woman stare did not surprise him at all.
“Not only will you stay in your room for the rest of the day,” Aunt Beverly said, “but you will go without dinner tonight. And no dessert for the rest of the week. One more word from you and you will be grounded for the rest of the month. I will not allow this kind of perversion in my house.”
At this, Rusty just stood there like a big buttfudge bawling his fat brains out. He thought about his own sorry stretched-out underwear, which made him cry harder, and how everybody would know that he was trying on girl’s panties in the middle of the day, and the worst, no dessert for a week. What a big dang gyp! He cried so hard he began to cough, and slobber came out of his mouth, which often happened because he had some kind of condition that made him have too much spit in his mouth. But Aunt Beverly did not hug him, or say, now-now , or make him a glass of chocolate milk on ice like his own mother would’ve, she just gave him one last stare and went out the door.
Well, crying like that made him feel a little better, and staying in his room wouldn’t be so bad—at least he wouldn’t have to do chores. Out in the hall, Parley was waiting for him. Parley was two years older and could run faster and throw farther and make musical armpit farts everyone thought were hilarious. Rusty tried to walk by, but Parley stood in his way with his arm against Rusty’s chest, and whispered, Fag . Rusty pushed past him, but Parley stayed right with him, doing the musical armpits and singing, A-Faggety-Fag-Fag-Fee, A-Faggety-Fag-Fag-Foo.
One of the sorriest things about Old House was that it was really old , with squeaking floors and clanking radiators, but the worst part of it was you had to march up about six hundred stairs to get to the Tower, which was where they made Rusty stay, most likely because they wanted him to reduce in size his sizable love handles. So he climbed, huffing and