Read When We Were Animals for Free Online

occurred to me that someone would ask why I had done the things I claimed to do—just as I had never thought to ask Rosebush why she was Rosebush. Why ask? People are like characters in books. They are defined by their actions—not the other way around.
    “I don’t know,” I said pathetically.
    The smile never left his face. He narrowed his eyes at me, trying to puzzle through my gambit.
    “So…well, all these moral lapses—I guess you should be punished.”
    “I guess so.”
    “Let’s see.” He pursed his lips and tapped his chin with his fingertips. “What time is your curfew?”
    What he meant was between full moons. Everyone had the same curfew when the moon was full: sundown.
    “Ten o’clock.”
    “All right, then. Let’s make it nine thirty for the rest of the week.”
    He went back to tending my palms, rinsing away the hydrogen peroxide and bandaging the cuts.
    But something wasn’t right. The reason he didn’t know what time my curfew was was because I was almost always home for the night by eight o’clock, hunched up on one corner of the couch, reading a book. His punishment was absurd—not a real punishment. And that’s when it occurred to me: he didn’t believe my confession. He was humoring me.
    My suspicions were borne out the next day when Rosebush Lincoln confronted me on the street outside the drugstore where they sold colorful ices.
    “You were supposed to take the blame,” she said.
    “I did,” I assured her. “I did. I told my dad I did it.”
    “No, you didn’t.”
    “I swear.”
    “Then how come I’m the one being punished for everything? How come Idabel’s mom told my mom I was a bad influence?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You’re a liar.” She pointed one long finger at my chest.
    “I’m not. I told my dad it was me.” I paused. “It’s just—I don’t think he believed me.”
    Rosebush Lincoln looked disgusted.
    “Oh, that’s just great. You can’t even convince people you’ve done something wrong when you try . Just stay away from me from now on.”
    *  *  *
    At that ag e we didn’t know what we did. Or, rather, we understood that it was impossible for things to go any differently. We were too young to change the course of bodies in motion.
    My husband, Jack, he’s a schoolteacher, but a new kind of schoolteacher, a kind we didn’t have when I was a child. He works with kids who are At Risk—as though safety were such a common commodity that you could easily hang a tag from all those young people who didn’t possess it. He has one girl—Natalie, who prefers to be called Nat—who sneers and curses and spits sunflower seeds at his shoes while he’s trying to have regular, humane conversations with her. She has been sent to the principal’s office many times for fighting with boys and other girls. She, too, knows about tearing out hair.
    Trying to get her to rationalize her behavior, Jack asks her why she does the things she does.
    “I don’t know” is her reply. She says it as though the question is an absurd one and has no true answer.
    I am curious how she would respond if I had my hands squeezed around her throat. (Would her muscles grow taut, wild?) But I also understand the authenticity of what she says. People like to talk to teenagers about consequences. They like to explain how certain actions may lead to reactions that are undesired. But this is the wrong conversation to have. Teenagers understand inherently how one thing leads to another—but to them the point is moot, because the action that initiates its consequence is just as inscrutable as the consequence itself. The mouth that spits at my husband might as well not be her mouth at all. His shoes might as well be anyone’s shoes, the room a room far away in some other nondescript American suburb.
    That is the way of the young. They see something we don’t: the great machines that turn us, indifferent to our will, this way and that.
    So I wasn’t angry at Rosebush Lincoln for