Free Fireball by Tyler Keevil Page B

jiggled around beneath his shirt like overfilled water balloons.
    He also turned out to be a pervert – just like Chris had told me.
    â€˜Have you tried masturbation?’
    He said ‘masturbation’ like it was some kind of new drug. As in, all I needed was a small dose of masturbation and I’d be fine.
    â€˜Uh, no,’ I told him.
    â€˜That’s unusual for a young man like yourself.’
    â€˜Is it?’
    It’s not like I have anything against masturbation. I pull my goalie once in a while, like everybody else. But I didn’t see what my masturbating had to do with some old lady’s death. I doubt he knew, either. That’s the thing about counsellors. They’re not even real shrinks. Most of them are students or volunteers or wash-ups. I didn’t find that out until I went to a real shrink and she told me.
    It didn’t surprise me, though.
    â€˜Masturbation is very healthy, you know. It relieves tension.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜Our society has a strange view of self-love. We don’t often talk about it, but everybody masturbates.’ He leaned forward, deadly serious. ‘I masturbate.’
    I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I couldn’t help imagining this fat guy with his hands down his pants, grunting and gasping like an overgrown ape. My face started going totally red, as if I was having an allergic reaction.
    â€˜Your friend, Chris, told me that he masturbates.’
    He was totally lying. I asked Chris later and he didn’t say that. Not a chance.
    â€˜Maybe you ought to try it,’ he suggested.
    â€˜Uh, maybe.’
    He leaned back, with this pleased expression on his face – as if we’d really established something. In a way, we had. We’d established that he was a pervert.
    â€˜Do you want to talk about what happened with Mrs Reever?’
    I shrugged. Anything was better than masturbation.
    â€˜How do you feel about it?’
    â€˜Well, it was pretty shitty I guess.’
    â€˜Do you think about her often?’
    In truth, I thought about her all the time. I dreamt about her, too. I dreamt about her wet, withered face and the cold feeling of her flesh beneath my hands, like putty. But I didn’t want to tell all that to the counsellor, and he didn’t really want to hear it. He was more interested in talking. He rambled on about life and death, and how Mrs Reever had lived longer than a lot of people. I zoned out for most of his little speech. I just sat there and did what I always do when I want to convince adults I agree with them: I smiled and nodded.
    At one point, he asked me if I went to church.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Never?’
    â€˜Not that I can remember.’
    My dad’s about the biggest atheist you’ve ever met. He’s not quiet about it, either. When those guys come to the door – those religious guys wearing suits and carrying Bibles – he invites them in and tries to convince them they’re wrong about everything. He’s got this dinosaur vertebra he used as an ashtray back when he was a hippy. No joke. He stole it from some dinosaur park. Drumheller, I think. He loves to bust out that backbone and show it to the religious fanatics. You know – just to prove there was evolution and shit.
    The counsellor asked, ‘So you don’t believe in God?’
    â€˜I guess not.’
    â€˜You don’t sound very sure.’
    â€˜Well, it would be nice if there was a heaven or something.’
    â€˜That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ He picked up a pen and smiled – this totally patronising smile. I think somebody forgot to tell him that I wasn’t six years old. ‘Of course, we can’t be sure what happens when we die. That doesn’t change the importance of what you did. I’m sure Mrs Reever, wherever she is, appreciates how bravely you acted.’
    I smiled and nodded, wanting to scream.

    The thing is, I actually