Free Grasshopper Jungle by Andrew Smith

the morning after Robby and I went up on the roof of the Ealing Mall to find some shit, my father had to come into my room and shake my shoulder.
    â€œYou stink, Austin,” my father, whose name was Eric, told me.
    â€œI have B.O.,” I agreed.
    â€œIngrid needs to shit,” my father said.
    That was how we told each other good morning that day.
    I sat up.
    I would have gotten out of bed, but I realized I was naked under the sheet. I’d taken everything off when I finished writing, when I went to bed.
    No sixteen-year-old boy wants to stand up naked in front of his father.
    I thought about my decision to talk to him. I wanted to ask him if maybe he was confused about sexual attraction when he was my age. Or if maybe he was still confused about sexual attraction. Experimenting. Things falling into place. Where else would things fall, if not a place? It’s not like things are just going to float away. Gravity works. Dr. Grady McKeon certainly knew that when he was watching the Gulf of Mexico get closer and closer and closer.
    Maybe the guys who painted the caves in Lascaux and Altamira were sexually confused, too.
    I could not bring myself to talk to my father about sexuality while I was naked.
    I decided it could wait.
    Things would have to float a little while longer.
    My father could tell I was naked. He watched me, like he was testing to see if I would get out from under the sheet.
    But I was naked. I wasn’t going anywhere.
    We watched each other, both of us caught up in eyeballing the palindrome of each other’s lives.
    My mother took an antianxiety drug called Xanax . It was a little blue pill that looked like a tiny kayak. Robbie’s mother took it, too. Our moms were like Xanax sisters, except they didn’t know much more about each other than first names, who their baby boys’ best friends were, and Ealing gossip.
    Kayak and Xanax are palindromes.
    Robby’s mother was named Connie, too.
    It was always fascinating to me how perfect things could be if you just let all the connections happen. My history showed how everything connected in Ealing, Iowa.
    You could never get everything in a book.
    Good books are always about everything.
    My mother would take her antianxiety drug when she felt stress or panic setting in. Saturday mornings usually meant no drugs. She took her drugs in the afternoons, on holidays, and whenever we had visiting human beings at the house.
    â€œUm. Dad?”
    â€œYes, Austin?”
    â€œWould you please let Ingrid outside for me so she can shit?”
    â€œNo problem, son.”
    I got out of bed and pulled on some shorts.
    I stunk.
    My phone was lying on the floor, under the rumpled boxers I wore the day before. No fire trucks and dogs. They were blue plaid. Iowa was blue plaid. That is the truth.
    The battery in my phone was nearly dead.
    At 3:45 a.m. I received a text message from Robby. It said:
    I’m sorry, Austin.
    Robby and I always used punctuation and spelling in text messages.
    We both despised abbreviations.
    I sent him a message in reply:
    Don’t be dumb, Robby.
    I was certain Robby was asleep at that precise moment. I felt bad for calling him dumb, like maybe he would take it the wrong way and not know if I meant dumb for asking to kiss me or dumb for being sorry, which is what I meant.
    So I sent him another message:
    You shouldn’t worry about me, Rob. Let’s talk and have a fag later. Ha-ha. Now relax, and come meet me at SATAN’S after I get off at 5. Bring boards.
    I was so confused.
    That was true.
A BATH, A SHAVE, AND MODESTY

    I AM POLISH.
    My hair is the color of potato peels and I have skin the shade of boxed oatmeal.
    Food descriptions work well in Iowa.
    Polish kids have natural and persistent bags under their eyes. I think we evolved through a lot of sleepless nights or shit like that. If you read the history of Poland, which I have done, you’d probably just shake your head and say, That is full