Page 42 of The Corruption of Hollis Brown

Walt paused, and something twisted in their chest.

I’m sorry.

Why? For what?

That it’s been this hard to be you.

Hollis frowned.

I’m okay. I have Annie and Yulia, and it’s fine. You don’t have to apologize for it.

All the same.

Hollis didn’t know what to say to that, so he just stayed quiet. Walt let Timothy’s comment slide until right before the bell rang, then he faced him directly.

“We’re fine, Tim. Nothing is going to change. I didn’t want this any more than you do, and I wasn’t joking about the board,” he said, quiet enough for the rustling of papers and backpack zipping to drown out any eavesdropping. “Don’t talk to me unless you want me to talk back. But otherwise, we’re square.”

Timothy shook his head sharply and snatched his bag up. He turned toward the door, then paused and looked back.

“Jorge is out in three weeks. You gotta figure out what to do about that.”

Huh

I think he likes you, Walt said.

Timothy Reid? Are you high?

Walt drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk and looked out the window instead of at the slideshow they were being made to watch.

I think he feels bad for you and that’s closer to liking you than you’d think, Walt explained. He didn’t have to give you an alibi, and he didn’t have to warn you about Jorge, and he absolutely could have made a bigger deal about you sitting next to him.

He called me a freak.

He was reminding you of your place. Try thinking about why people might do things before reacting. What would Timothy have to gain from warning you about Jorge? What would he have to lose by allowing people to think you’re close? Walt said. Maybe this is less about you and more about him.

Hollis shouldn’t have to think about Timothy at all. He never had before then.

We eat lunch with Yulia and Annie. Sometimes Yulia drives.

Walt let him change the subject, humming quietly.

I’ll eat anything except bananas. I don’t like the ones from now.

Anthropocene

Walt held his body differently.

Hollis liked to stoop a bit, but Walt stood tall, with his feet planted firmly on the ground. He tilted Hollis’s chin up and looked down with his eyes instead of crouching to talk to smaller people. He walked like he was used to people darting out of his way. Eyes followed them, scraping over places they usually didn’t. Shoulders, jaw, hands.

Walt’s original body must be shorter than Hollis’s. Taller than Annie, but probably not as tall as Yulia.

Walt seemed to think about looks the way someone average did, so he probably hadn’t been crazy hot or anything either. Hot people didn’t think of ways to make up for lacking anything, they didn’t think about colors or sharp haircuts or talking to women in a softer, slower voice.

Walt had been a guy who worked to be liked.

Hollis was getting closer to guessing his age, too. Gros Michel bananas were from the 1950s, but Hollis was already sure he was from earlier than that. The 1930s was a good bet, but The Jungle was set in the early 1900s and he clearly recognized that, so Walt could be from as early as 1905.

Hollis had heard music from the early 1900s, and Walt’s accent wasn’t that old. Unless it was somehow older and he’d been referring to agrarian life, not postindustrial hardiness.