Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Rhetorical question.
"You know, it freaks me out how much you know about people," she says, retreating to the other side of the den. "And for the record, I learned about portfolios from that talking E-Trade baby."
She's dead serious as she says it. I let out a laugh, shaking my head, as I turn back to the screen and try to focus again.
It's pointless, though.
Even across the fucking room she still distracts me.
Sighing, I close the laptop and stand up, strolling over to where she sits. She has the book she snatched from the shelf open in her lap. I sit down beside her, curious about what she settled on.
J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan
Huh. "Ever read that before?"
"Nope," she says. "I figured you had a copy around here somewhere, though, since you could quote it."
"Yeah, it's a good one. I have most of the classics."
"I noticed." She stares down at the page for a moment before glancing at me. "Can I ask you something?"
"If you really must."
She laughs. "Yes, I must."
"Then I'm listening."
"You have all these books and all these movies, this massive entertainment set-up, but you don't have any music."
She grows silent, eyes regarding me like she's waiting for an explanation about what she just said.
"That was an observation," I point out. "That wasn't a question."
She rolls her eyes. "Why is that, Naz?"
"Why don't I own any music?"
"Yes," she says. "I mean, you don't have a radio or anything. You don't even listen to music in the car when you drive. No Mp3s or CDs or eight-tracks or whatever kind of wind-up phonograph shit they had when you were a kid."
"Phonograph? How old do you think I am?"
She rolls her eyes. "Practically ancient. I'm already starting to see some gray in that hair of yours."
She's being playful, but it wouldn't surprise me with the stress I'm under. I'm aging every fucking minute dealing with her. "First of all, if I'm going gray, it's because of you. You make me crazy. And secondly, I don't have any music because I find it pointless."
She gapes at me.
Gapes at me like I just confessed to being a murderer.
Scratch that, she didn't seem this damn distressed when she actually realized I was one of those.
"How the hell can you find music pointless?"
"Because it's just noise," I say. "It serves no purpose except to fill the silence, but I happen to enjoy the silence, personally."
The more I talk, the more horrified she looks. "Are you fucking with me?"
"No," I say. "But I'd like to be—"
"Fucking me," she interjects, cutting me off. She's finishing my thoughts. I'm getting predictable. "I know you would. But I just... wow. Really, Naz? My mind is blown right now. How can someone seriously not like music?"
"Why do you listen to it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow as I motion toward the tangled earbuds she has lying on the arm of the couch. "Why do you walk around here with those always in? Other than the fact that it keeps me from trying to talk to you, of course."
Her cheeks tinge pink as she rolls her eyes, like it's the most absurd accusation she's ever heard, but the blushing tells me I'm right. "Whatever, I listen to music because there's so much emotion in it. It feels like I'm tapping into another part of my soul, like some part of the universe actually understands me. It makes me feel alive. Like, I can literally feel the music when I listen to it. It doesn't do that to you?"
I shake my head. "I feel nothing."
Except for annoyance because I can't think straight.
And sometimes a raging headache to accompany it.
She stares at me with what feels eerily like pity.
Karissa Reed… Karissa Rita… pities me.
Unbelievable.
"But, wait... you understood my Tupac reference when we talked about Machiavelli, didn't you? I could’ve sworn you did."
"Just because I don't enjoy it doesn't mean I know nothing about it. Tupac was around back in my wind-up phonograph days, you know." I cast her a sardonic look, which makes her laugh and shrug, as if to say 'hey, not my fault you're an old ass man.' "I'm surprised you know anything about him, actually. He died around the time you were born."
"Yeah, well, music never really goes out of style, especially Tupac," she says with a smile. "Now that I did learn from Melody. She knows the lyrics to every 90s rap song, but I don't think the girl would know what the hell an investment portfolio is, regardless of what her father does for a living."
Karissa goes back to reading then, focusing on the old book. I watch her as she flips a few pages before curiosity gets the best of me. "Why do you like it so much?"
"Music?"
"No, Peter Pan."
"Oh, uh… it's just sort of always been my favorite. Since we moved around all the time, I never really had many friends, never had anyone to talk to. Whenever I got close to someone, my mother would freak out… guess she thought I'd spill who we really were, even though I didn't even know… but she was so afraid of you catching up to us, I guess."
She doesn't say it with anger. Doesn't say it with sadness. She speaks matter-of-fact like it's just a truth she's come to accept.
"And there's something magical about the idea of escaping, of never growing up or having any responsibilities," she continues. "When I was young, I thought it was all real, that there was a whole world out there my mother kept me from. I used to open my bedroom window at night, leave it wide open, just in case." She smiles wistfully, her gaze still fixed to the book, although she's not reading anymore. "My mother caught me, though, and told me to stop, but of course I didn't listen."
"Of course."
"So yeah, that's when she started nailing all the windows shut," she says. "I always pried the nails back out, though, but I remember getting mad and yelling about how much I hated her for locking Peter Pan out, and she just told me I was being ridiculous. She said if anything were to come in my window, it wouldn't be something from a fairy tale."