Extraits

Someone was knocking at my door. I glanced at the clock on my office wall, then the one on my computer screen, then the one sitting on the side of my desk. It was 3:02 P.M. and I wasn’t expecting anyone. In fact, I was never expecting anyone. I sat in my chair completely unsure of what to do with myself. Do I go answer the door to a complete stranger? No, even the thought of doing that made me want to vomit. Perhaps if I ignored it, it would go away.

The knocking started again, making me jump slightly in my seat. Then someone started hollering, nothing panicked, just inquiring. I decided that if this person was so determined, I would at least make a short appearance. After all, what if the building was on fire? What if someone had died in the hallway and this person needed the telephone to call an ambulance?

I padded my way through the hall and to my front door. I got up on my toes and leaned against the door to look through the peephole. It was the same man from a few days ago, the one with the smile. Instantly my heart sped up. Why was he at my front door? What did he want? What happened to nice, quiet Mrs. Smith, and why couldn’t this man leave me alone?

He knocked again. He was definitely adamant. I didn’t think he’d go away unless I answered the door and he resolved whatever he needed from me.

I undid the four locks on the door and slowly, carefully, pulled the door open. Then I watched him smile as I gazed up at his face, wondering if my heart was about to leap right out of my chest and into his hands.

“Hi, I’m Devin,” he said. His hand stretched out toward me. I just stood there, latching on to the door and avoiding eye contact. After a few uncomfortable moments, he pulled his hand back and shoved it into his pocket.

“I just moved in next door. Thought I’d come by to say hello. Mrs. Smith told me you work from home and don’t leave your apartment too much, so I figured you’d be home.”

He looked me up and down, probably taking in the small thing I was. I was wearing a faded pair of blue jeans and an old white T-shirt. My bare feet felt clammy on the floor, but the coolness of it made me feel grounded.

I’d read the first two chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee exactly 2843 times. I knew the first two chapters of the book better than I knew the color of my own eyes, better than I knew my favorite food. My father had given me the book when I was fourteen years old and told me to read it because it might make me a better person. The first time I began reading it, I was sixteen, and I thumbed through those first two chapters gently, trying to absorb each and every word through the tips of my fingers. I wanted my father to think I was becoming a better person. Unfortunately, as time wore on, I developed a habit of reading the first two chapters, and only the first two chapters, every morning at the same time. If a day passed when I was physically unable to read the first two chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird, I’d suffer the entire rest of the day. This happened a few times when I was younger and my mother had misplaced the book. I wouldn’t eat, I wouldn’t move, I couldn’t function until I’d had my daily dose of Scout and Atticus Finch.

“Why don’t you want to read any further than the second chapter?” my mother would ask me. “Don’t you want to know what happens next?”

I’d think about it each time she asked me, wondering if that particular time I would feel differently.

“No,” I’d reply. “I’m too afraid it won’t work out well.”