Free The Zigzag Kid by David Grossman

sensed that itch in somebody else, and Felix was lying with so much conviction now, looking at me so pityingly, that I, healthy if mildly allergic imp that I was, began to go into a decline; the morbid gray veil in Felix’s eyes floated around over me, cloaking me in blissful languor.
    That was how it started, the new sensation, the pleasant lightheadedness that nearly made me faint. I wish I could say I fought it off for a while, that I displayed more strength of character. But I didn’t fight off or display a darn thing. In a matter of minutes, Felix had made me his accomplice. He didn’t even have to train me for the role; it was as if he knew me so well, all he had to do was blow the dust off the real Nonny. The false one, that is … Who am I?
    I leaned back against the wall. Felix was staring at me, and so was the engineer. I grimaced with pain and shrank into myself. Life, my own precious life, was ebbing away. I felt cold all over. It was sweltering hot inside the locomotive, yet I was shivering. I had converted the shiver caused by Felix’s astounding lie into a shiver of sickliness, of melancholy and gloom. I was heartbroken over this terrible disease which even now was consuming my body, and by the velvety black curtain closing on the stage of my young life. My right hand began to tremble like a little animal in the throes of death, a symptom of my illness, no doubt, and totally spontaneous, while my arm flapped at my side, what a trouper, who would have believed it, too bad Gabi wasn’t there to see, not that I was thinking about her just then, I put that in just to cover my embarrassment, though I was not in the least embarrassed at the time; in fact, I was proud of myself for having put on such a wonderful act. Felix’s eyes grew wide with wonder as I writhed and grimaced and gasped for breath. I was proud that Felix was so pleased with me, as though I were his prize pupil. At long last I was somebody’s prize pupil; I mean, acting is an art, isn’t it, and writers make up stories, don’t they? And isn’t a story a kind of lie? I felt the blood throbbing in my temples as the train chugged on, and I gazed feebly at the engineer, pardoninghim in advance for thwarting me, with a look that said, “Yes, I know there are rules and regulations, Mr. Engineer, and I don’t blame you, friend, for not wishing to bend the rules and bring a little happiness to a child like me. I mean, what is one child’s suffering compared to rules and regulations, rules and regulations make the world go round and the sun shine and trains depart on schedule, and there are so many kids like me at death’s door, but only this one, very special locomotive.” “Oh, thank you, thank you, kind sir,” whispered my parched lips when the engineer reached out in the nick of time to stop me from collapsing and offered me a bench, because a lie doesn’t have a leg to stand on …
    It worked. The engineer believed me. I was filled with exhilaration: he believed me! He believed me, Nonny—though hardly anyone ever did, even when I was telling the truth!
    Yempa and hi-deh!
    The engineer mopped his bald head and face with a sooty blue rag, leaned back in his seat, which was bolted to the floor, and shook his head, not daring to meet my eyes. Instead, he stared at Felix, unaware that in so doing he had sealed his fate. In a low, gruff voice he began to explain how the engine worked, how much power it had: “1,650 horsepower,” he declared with a pout and a sideways glance in my direction. He was a clumsy, heavyset man with curly hair growing on his back and arms and even out of his ears. Though no great talker, he tried his best on account of my condition. He even offered me his seat, and leaned over me cautiously, pointing out every switch and lever and gauge, with occasional glances at the door, lest the conductor walk in and discover that he had allowed strangers