Free Real Life by Kitty Burns Florey Page B

word in school or someplace I just sort of keep remembering it.” He grinned. “Whether I want to or not.”
    It puzzled her, that he could have such an affinity for words and not want to use them for anything except to rack up points at Scrabble. “But you don’t like to read. Or write? You’ve never wanted to write poetry or—” She searched her mind. Or what? Do crossword puzzles? Enter spelling bees? And she couldn’t imagine Hugo a poet; for all his improbable gifts he seemed the most literal, the most prosaic of boys.
    â€œReading makes me nervous. It seems so phony or something, but it’s really real. Do you know what I mean?”
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t.”
    â€œWell, like Hercule Poirot. Or even Huckleberry Finn. I’ve read all that stuff for school; I did a book report on Huck Finn last year. But take somebody like Poirot—”
    â€œHugo? Where did you get your French accent?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œYour accent. Where did you learn to pronounce French like that?”
    He looked puzzled. “I’ve had French in school for the last two years.”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œWe learned how to talk French. We had a language lab and everything.”
    â€œBut—” He looked at her politely, waiting, weighing the bag of letters in one hand, and as she looked back at him his face crumpled in a yawn. “Never mind,” she said, “I’m sorry. Go ahead with what you were saying.”
    â€œWell—I mean guys like Poirot and Huck Finn.” He came out of the yawn, grinning, shaking his head. “Excuse me. I mean here we are talking about them as if they’re real. Like how Huck Finn escaped from his father by pretending he was dead or how Hercule Poirot solved the crime by asking the gardener what time he was pruning the rosebushes, just like we could talk about Mrs. Garner or my grandpa or somebody, but they’re not real, they’re just made up.”
    â€œBut your soap opera people aren’t real, either, Hugo.”
    â€œBut they are. I mean, I know they’re just actors and everything, but at least they’re real people on TV pretending to be the people on Upton’s Grove . But in books they’re just words.” He looked at her helplessly, on the verge of another yawn. “Doesn’t that seem really weird? All those little black squiggles on a page and we sit around in English class and talk about how Huck Finn escaped from his father? Doesn’t that give you the creeps? That it’s so phony and everything?” He let the yawn loose and gave himself up to it; she could see all his molars.
    â€œNot so that I can’t read,” she said, suddenly impatient with him. What a baby he was, after all, wasting his good brain on petty abstractions and excuses. She stood up. Her hair was hot on her neck, and she gathered it up in her hand. If she were alone she would take a cool shower and go to bed naked. She said, “Speaking of reading, Hugo, I’m going to read a bit more before I go to bed. I’ll go in the bedroom so the light won’t bother you.” She wanted to be rid of him—this bizarre, unwelcome nephew with his useless skills. She wanted her old life back. Empty though it might have been, it had suited her; she was used to it.
    â€œAre you mad that I won?” Hugo asked her.
    â€œGood Lord, of course not!” It was true. She wasn’t mad, she was flabbergasted, but her denial sounded unconvincing, and she made herself say, “We can play again tomorrow night if you like.” Even that: it sounded as if she was upset by her loss, wanted another chance. “If I’m not too busy,” she added.
    â€œOh, great,” Hugo said. “That would be so great.”
    She stretched out on her bed with her book, the fan blowing in cool air, and listened to Hugo run water, pee, brush his teeth, spit into the sink