Free A Troublesome Boy by Paul Vasey Page B

second.”
    He turned to his bookshelf, ran a finger along the spines until he found the book he was looking for. Took another couple of minutes flipping pages.
    â€œYes,” he said. “It’s almost three hundred miles long and about fifty miles across. A pretty big island. The tallest mountain . . .”
    There was a knock on the door. Dunlop went over and opened it.
    â€œAh, Mr. Rozell.” Rozey came in carrying a stepladder.
    â€œThis one right here,” said Dunlop, pointing to the dead light over his desk. Rozey set up his ladder.
    â€œWhere was I?” said Dunlop.
    Someone chirped out from the back. “Vancouver Island.”
    Dunlop went on for a few minutes about some of the things he’d done out there: whale watching, fishing, hiking. He’d seen eagles and bears and, just once, a cougar.
    Rozey was fiddling with the globe over the lightbulb. There was a little screw thing you had to undo. Then the globe came off. He climbed down the ladder and set it on Dunlop’s desk. Then he climbed back up and unscrewed the bulb, climbed back down and set it on the desk.
    â€œHow many men does it take to change a lightbulb?” This was Henderson, leaning over and whispering. I shrugged. “One,” he said. “But it could take all day.”
    I gave Henderson the glare. Whispered, “Shut up, asshole.”
    â€œYou were saying something, Mr. Clemson?”
    â€œNo, Father.”
    Rozey looked at the bulb he’d taken out, and the one he’d brought to replace it.
    â€œSorry, Father. I brought the wrong one. I’ll be right back.”
    Henderson snickered. Rozey headed out the door.
    I asked Dunlop about the beaches.
    Dunlop watched Rozey go, then turned to face us.
    â€œThe beaches. Yes, the beaches. They’re mostly pebbles and rocks. They call them cobble beaches. You need to wear running shoes to walk along them. They tend to be piled with driftwood, and during the winter there are wonderful storms. Waves ten, twenty, thirty feet high crashing ashore. They pick up those driftwood logs and toss them around like matchsticks. It’s quite a sight.” He paused, and it looked like he was remembering it all from a long time ago.
    â€œYou should go there some day, Mr. Clemson. You would be enthralled.”
    A couple of the guys at the back giggled. I turned around and told them to shut up. I felt bad for Dunlop. He made himself an easy target with words like that but he was a pretty decent guy. I turned back around and put up my hand.
    â€œIs it true that you can live on those beaches year round?”
    â€œThat’s what they say. It’s a very temperate climate.” He looked at me and smiled. “Thinking about it, Mr. Clemson?”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “One of these days I might give it a try.”
    â€”
    I WAS IN NO mood for The Pear’s religion class. We were talking about God’s grand design. I put up my hand.
    â€œYes, Mr. Clemson.”
    â€œDoes anything happen without God knowing about it?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Clemson,” said Bartlett. “God knows about everything. Even your innermost thoughts. Which is why you might choose to be careful what you’re thinking.”
    â€œSo he’s spying on us all the time?”
    â€œI wouldn’t say he was spying, Mr. Clemson. More like keeping a watchful eye.”
    â€œSo he sees everything?”
    â€œYes, he does. Even the little sparrow who falls.”
    â€œWhat about when an innocent person is killed. Like accidentally being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe crossing the street and gets hit by a car. Could God have seen that coming?”
    â€œOf course. God sees everything.”
    â€œWell, if the person was innocent, was just walking into it, why wouldn’t God save him?”
    â€œGod works in mysterious ways, Mr. Clemson. We never really know why he does what he does.”
    â€œSuppose