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211 pages, Hardcover
First published July 6, 2005
"Must you whistle all the time?" said Miss Booey as Henry strolled the hall, hands in his pockets, Vince Guaraldi's "Red Baron" coruscating off his lips. He had taken to strolling in his thirteenth year, assuming the air of a retiree, referring to himself as an "old soul." He dressed comfortably, often in cruisewear—sun hats, sandals, drawstring pants—and began crossing his legs as he sat in class. he watched game shows, at herring, drank borscht, called girls "dames," pinched his peers' cheeks, sat down while he peed, even once tried wearing Depends, but the convenience wasn't worth it
But before taking aim, Henry felt he needed to work out his own answers to the essay question [Who are you?]. The metaphysical topic struck a chord and he found himself starting at the Precambrian era and sifting through four and a half billion years worth of being, contemplating cranial capacity, pondering the earlobe, tracing back his belly button, double checking his thumbs and toes. Henry was always cloud about matters of the self. He didn't trust mirrors. On registration forms, under ethnic background, he'd always check "Other." At night he'd lie awake and ask Hello? He'd always felt faulty, incomplete—as if his insides didn't match his outsides.
(p.125-26)
Benna, benchmark, benighted, beneficial, benediction, benevolence, benefactress. . . This girl was named correctly. This girl's good. I was drunk as hell, but the moment's crystal clear, polished, preserved. She makes me feel flowery. Corny. Like a poet. She's the marshmallow in a bag of charcoal. The branch in the rapids that saves me. She came to my room, dressed as Death, carrying a few extra pillows. "Wanna have breakfast tomorrow?" In the morning there was proof. The phone rang. "Hungry?" she said.
I was starving. I was starving and I was jealous of the phone receiver, so close to her mouth.