Free A Girl Is a Half-Formed Thing by Eimear McBride Page B

the arse when I get off the bus. A new thing. Where’s it from? Seed. Is this. Is in my head. We are going towards a new and I’ll tell when I get there. It’s not straightforward yet. But when it comes she’ll know.
    You are behind. You are way behind in this. I see you lagging. I can see you limping off at the back but I’m getting very tired of looking around and in a bit I’ll leave you to the fates. She knows you but she doesn’t care and we are speaking less and less because. In all that you make me want to get away. It’s too much and you’re much too. Young. For me now. Is the simple truth. Where I’m going you cannot come.
    That I am turned fifteen is true. You three years more than me. At eighteen Leaving Cert. Is due. You’re almost there. I do not toil nor do I spin but you do. That upstairs every night. The light on scribbling, dream away you must so your results always say. But you’re polite and getting by. They wish the best said teachers all to our mother who can bang her head on every wall. What will you do? Where will you go? She says almost every night. I think you’d like to stay at home. Bring coal in. Clean the fire. Stoke the range. Find something living here. She cannot see you doing out in the world. I see. I agree.
    I see you still at school. The sometimes butt but always desperate eager to be one of those ones. Of the boys who lurk smoking. Who wish they knew the insides of the girls and say so often. Say out loud hey Miss I think I’m so good, come here and give me. Oh fuck off. You’re not like those boys. Don’t go looking up to them. You do. Too obviously for me. They don’t want you. Can’t begin to know what you’re like inside this you who’s still good at falling over. Walking into visible things. And I do not either. Consumed with all my dreams and shames.
    What’s wrong with your brother? He’s a bit. You know. You know. What? Well he’s a bit you know. Know? Ahem, a little bit strange? He looks a bit. Is he a bit slow? No. That’s a really stupid thing to say. Jesus who are you, saying things like that to me? You’re a fucking bitch sometimes you know that. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. I heard someone say is all. Heard who you better tell me now. Heard who say what about him now? I mean it, fucking say.
    She did tell me after that. Once I’d made her feel ashamed. A rumour going round the school that your brother should be in some mental school for retards they said that in class he doesn’t know to properly read when called out loud and never answered questions right. That when he failed a geography test he told the teacher she was ruining his life. Doing him down before the class. He shouted and pushed her and they had to pull him off. That he’s a psycho. Blaming everyone for being thick. Oh is that what they say? Someone said your family is all fucked-up. Blow-ins weirdo’s born-agains or something bad as that. And about me? Go on. You might as well I’d rather know. I was proud of being brave. I thought that’s what I had to be and asking it was showing how. You she said well they think you’re weird and really up yourself. You’re always wearing that long coat and never talk to all the lads. That you’d be something if you tried. I know not I do not understand but think and think on after this of ways back in and to revenge. Not take any notice they can see but bend myself in secret til. What? Til I can lift this. Fury. Out. And get them. Really well and get her for. For. All kinds of things. For the good word in my ear and thanks for that she was too kind and liked the telling just too well.
     
    On a spring day’s when I hop the world in this new way I’d never done. We take off early she and me to down the lake on the chance school gaelic match keeps all monitors at their bay. It’s usual too and she and me are not the ra-ra going kind. We snicker over them at that and buy some biscuits on the way. Sophisticated we think kind with blueberries