Page 16 of Ginjuh

Austin smiled slightly down at the notebook for a moment before shutting it. By the time he looked up at me, the smile was gone.

“It’s nothing.” He said. “Just…it’s nothing.”

“You’re kind of weird.”

“No.” He said. “I’m not.”

“Okay.” I relented. “You come off as weird.”

He shrugged, obviously unable to argue that point.

“You a writer?”

“No.” He looked away. “I mean, not really.”

“I’ve never been good with words.” I shrugged and took a long drink of water. “Maths and sciences. That’s kind of my thing.”

He nodded, still looking away.

“Why’d you quit sports, man?” I asked.

“I didn’t enjoy it.”

“I mean, you’ve always been skinny, not built like the other guys, but you seemed to be better than at least half of them.” I continued. “You didn’t enjoy showing up guys twice your size?”

“It wasn’t fun anymore.”

“Okay.” I stopped myself from sighing in frustration. “So, you write stories in your notebook?”

“Can we not talk about it?”

“Sure,” I said. “But I like to talk. Didn’t use to, but once I got the ole speech impediment under control, I love it. Grandpa is usually out here with me and he’s a good listener.”

“He’d have to be,” Austin said.

He actually teased me. That was a start. I laughed at that.

“Yeah.” I agreed. “When you spend the first eight years of your life, afraid someone is going to make fun of your speech, and then learn to speak properly, it’s hard to stop, ya’ know?”

“I guess.”

“You’ve had that in all day.” I pointed at the side of Austin’ head where a single earbud was placed. “What are you listening to?”

“Um, just stuff.”

I rose and shuffled over on my knees, which wasn’t really the best thing to do in a cornfield if you don’t want to shred your skin, but I was wearing jeans and didn’t care. My skin had become accustomed to the roughness of the dirt over the years.

“Let me hear,” I asked as I sat on my knees in front of him.

Austin looked at me, his eyes lazily opening and closing a few times before he reached down to grab the second earbud. He handed it to me and I brought it to my ear with a smile. I stuffed the earbud into my ear, my head inches from Austin’s as I listened to whatever it was that weirdos who liked black clothes and wrote in notebooks listened to on their phones.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

A coarse growl of a voice was “singing” about “falling down.”

“Tom Waits,” Austin answered simply.

I listened for a moment, then found myself twisting my body so that I could sit beside Austin and continue listening to the song. Tom Waits. His voice was gravelly and odd, not a great voice, but it was distinctive and had character. I kind of liked it.