Read Fingers Pointing Somewhere Else for Free Online

darkness.

    For the three days left till the end of the year, we don’t speak to each other. On Friday, on the very brink of vacation, she stops me to say she’s not my friend anymore. Stunned, caught unawares, I say I don’t really care. It’s all over between us, she says. I say that’s fine. Hana heads home with an even stride, trailing straight A’s from her beribboned folders.
    I flee into the coatroom and cry a little. It’s my pride that hurts, not my heart. This year I have no heart. The principal meets me in front of the school and stops me with a stern gesture. She stares at me for a while, as if trying to remember who I could possibly be. Then she shakes her head with a strange horselike motion, strides off and, as she walks away, says forcefully: “The letter’s fine.”

    July is desolate. I wander listlessly around the garden with nothingto do. A dull film lies spread over everything; under its protective coating the summer fades like a chest beneath a plastic slipcover in a deserted room. I try to think about President Eisenhower, but since the incident with Hana a film has spread over him too. The chill gray days slide by.
    On Sunday evening someone rings the bell. The caretaker, Miss Zámsky, runs to the gate. Boredom keeps me eternally draped out the window, and so I see a burly old man come in. He has a cane and keeps coughing. Behind him walks a sturdy, dark-skinned girl. She furrows the ground with her dark, indifferent eyes, and scowls.
    â€œHello!” Miss Zámsky shouts, and she waves at me. “We’ve brought you a friend! She’s from Votice! Show yourself to the young lady, Sasha!”

    The next day they put us together. It is wet, and we’re wearing sweats and jackets. We wander here and there near the house. Sasha is glum.
    â€œHow old are you?” I ask.
    â€œJust turned thirteen.”
    Even under the jacket I can see that she has breasts. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t look at anything. She just goes where the path takes her, with a heavy, uninterested tread.
    â€œAre you starting eighth grade?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not? If you’re thirteen ….”
    We walk past the bench. Mr. Zámsky lets out a guffaw. He slaps Sasha on the rear and for about the fifth time says:
    â€œThatta girl! And what a piece of girl she is, huh?”
    Mr. Zámsky gives me the jitters. His big head is continually shaking. His tongue hangs out of his mouth and his eyes look like they’re swimming in formaldehyde.
    â€œIs that your uncle? Is he nice to you?”
    Sasha just shrugs her shoulders. “He’s nuts.”
    My feet are killing me. I’d like to go home. I have no idea what to say, but the footpath pulls me onward like a tugboat.
    â€œWhat do you like to play?”
    â€œYou won’t tell my aunt?”
    I raise two fingers, wet with my saliva. “Promise.”
    â€œLovers,” Sasha says. I am dumbfounded.
    â€œBut … how?” I ask. It begins to rain again. Sasha looks around.
    â€œCome over behind these trees,” she whispers. We step into cool, damp shadows. Rainwater drips down our necks. Sasha doesn’t hesitate. She bends over and kisses me on the lips. Her mouth is slippery with baby oil.
    â€œThat’s how,” she says flatly. I guess that’s all there is to it. We run out into the rain and then play rummy with Miss Zámsky until evening.

    After that we’re together all the time. We never leave the garden; we play constantly. At what? At being lovers. Sasha doesn’t want to play anything else. How? It’s simple. We walk through the birch trees, hand in hand, and give each other kisses. Do I like it? Not at all. At ten I have finally left cuddliness behind and they won’t get me back so quickly. Besides, there’s something missing for me in this game, but I don’t know what it is.
    â€œAnd what are we