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Received: from nobody by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with local (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cRnSl-00040E-Ck for lojban-newreal@lojban.org; Thu, 12 Jan 2017 14:03:15 -0800 Received: from ip55.ip-213-32-63.eu ([213.32.63.55]:59959 helo=thereallookingreat.com) by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with esmtp (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cRnSg-0003zR-H2 for lojban@lojban.org; Thu, 12 Jan 2017 14:03:14 -0800 Date: Thu, 12 Jan 2017 15:02:40 -0700 Mime-Version: 1 From: "Terri Palmer" Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii Subject: Jillian Michaels private photos released 6449329 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Message-ID: To: X-Spam-Score: -1.2 (-) X-Spam_score: -1.2 X-Spam_score_int: -11 X-Spam_bar: - betterr looking

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Me Isaac said, his voice breathy. Me! Youre the one who suggested we hole up in the freaking power station. Gus turned away from the screen for a second and flashed his crooked smile at Isaac. I knew you could talk, buddy, he said. Now lets go save some fictional schoolren. Together, they ran down the alleyway, firing and hiding at the right moments, until they reached this onestory, singleroom schoolhouse. They crouched behind a wall across the street and picked off the enemy one by one. Why do they want to get into the school I asked. They want the kids as hostages, Augustus answered. His shoulders rounded over his controller, slamming buttons, his forearms taut, veins visible. Isaac leaned toward the screen, the controller dancing in his thinfingered hands. Get it get it get it, Augustus said. The waves of terrorists continued, and they mowed down every one, their shooting astonishingly precise, as it had to be, lest they fire into the school. Grenade! Grenade! Augustus shouted as something arced across the screen, bounced in the doorway of the school, and then rolled against the door. Isaac dropped his controller in disappointment. If the bastards cant take hostages, they just kill them and claim we did it. Cover me! Augustus said as he jumped out from behind the wall and raced toward the school. Isaac fumbled for his controller and then started firing while the bullets rained down on Augustus, who was shot once and then twice but still ran, Augustus shouting, YOU CANT KILL MAX MAYHEM! and with a final flurry of button combinations, he dove onto the grenade, which detonated beneath him. His dismembered body exploded like a geyser and the screen went red. A throaty voice said, MISSION FAILURE, but Augustus seemed to think otherwise as he smiled at his remnants on the screen. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and shoved it between his teeth. Saved the kids, he said. Temporarily, I pointed out. All salvation is temporary, Augustus shot back. I bought them a minute. Maybe thats the minute that buys them an hour, which is the hour that buys them a year. No ones gonna buy them forever, Hazel Grace, but my life bought them a minute. And thats not nothing. Whoa, okay, I said. Were just talking about pixels. He shrugged, as if he believed the game might be really real. Isaac was wailing again. Augustus snapped his head back to him. Another go at the mission, corporal Isaac shook his head no. He leaned over Augustus to look at me and through tightly strung vocal cords said, She didnt want to do it after. She didnt want to dump a blind guy, I said. He nodded, the tears not like tears so much as a quiet metronomesteady, endless. She said she couldnt handle it, he told me. Im about to lose my eyesight and she cant handle it. I was thinking about the word handle, and all the unholdable things that get handled. Im sorry, I said. He wiped his sopping face with a sleeve. Behind his glasses, Isaacs eyes seemed so big that everything else on his face kind of disappeared and it was just these disembodied floating eyes staring at meone real, one glass. Its unacceptable, he told me. Its totally unacceptable. Well, to be fair, I said, I mean, she probably cant handle it. Neither can you, but she doesnt have to handle it. And you do. I kept saying always to her today, always always always, and she just kept talking over me and not saying it back. It was like I was already gone, you know Always was a promise! How can you just break the promise Sometimes people dont understand the promises theyre making when they make them, I said. Isaac shot me a look. Right, of course. But you keep the promise anyway. Thats what love is. Love is keeping the promise anyway. Dont you believe in true love I didnt answer. I didnt have an answer. But I thought that if true love did exist, that was a pretty good definition of it. Well, I believe in true love, Isaac said. And I love her. And she promised. She promised me always. He stood and took a step toward me. I pushed myself up, thinking he wanted a hug or something, but then he just spun around, like he couldnt remember why hed stood up in the first place, and then Augustus and I both saw this rage settle into his face. Isaac, Gus said. What You look a littleâ€¦Pardon the double entendre, my friend, but theres something a little worrisome in your eyes. Suddenly Isaac started kicking the crap out of his gaming chair, which somersaulted back toward Guss bed. Here we go, said Augustus. Isaac chased after the chair and kicked it again. Yes, Augustus said. Get it. Kick the shit out of that chair! Isaac kicked the chair again, until it bounced against Guss bed, and then he grabbed one of the pillows and started slamming it against the wall between the bed and the trophy shelf above. Augustus looked over at me, cigarette still in his mouth, and half smiled. I cant stop thinking about that book. I know, right He never said what happens to the other characters No, I told him. Isaac was still throttling the wall with the pillow. He moved to Amsterdam, which makes me think maybe he is writing a sequel featuring the Dutch Tulip Man, but he hasnt published anything. Hes never interviewed. He doesnt seem to be online. Ive written him a bunch of letters asking what happens to everyone, but he never responds. Soâ€¦yeah. I stopped talking because Augustus didnt appear to be listening. Instead, he was squinting at Isaac. Hold on, he mumbled to me. He walked over to Isaac and grabbed him by the shoulders. Dude, pillows dont break. Try something that breaks. Isaac reached for a basketball trophy from the shelf above the bed and then held it over his head as if waiting for permission. Yes, Augustus said. Yes! The trophy smashed against the floor, the plastic basketball players arm splintering off, still grasping its ball. Isaac stomped on the trophy. Yes! Augustus said. Get it! And then back to me, Ive been looking for a way to tell my father that I actually sort of hate basketball, and I think weve found it. The trophies came down one after the other, and Isaac stomped on them and screamed while Augustus and I stood a few feet away, bearing witness to the madness. The poor, mangled bodies of plastic basketballers littered the carpeted ground: here, a ball palmed by a disembodied hand; there, two torsoless legs caught midjump. Isaac kept attacking the trophies, jumping on them with both feet, screaming, breathless, sweaty, until finally he collapsed on top of the jagged trophic remnants. Augustus stepped toward him and looked down. Feel better he asked. No, Isaac mumbled, his chest heaving. Thats the thing about pain, Augustus said, and then glanced back at me. It demands to be felt. CHAPTER FIVE I did not speak to Augustus again for about a week. I had called him on the Night of the Broken Trophies, so per tradition it was his turn to call. But he didnt. Now, it wasnt as if I held my phone in my sweaty hand all day, staring at it while wearing my Special Yellow Dress, patiently waiting for my gentleman caller to live up to his sobriquet. I went about my life: I met Kaitlyn and her (cute but frankly not Augustinian) friend for coffee one afternoon; I ingested my recommended daily allowance of Phalanxifor; I attended classes three mornings that week at MCC; and every night, I sat down to dinner with my mom and dad. Sunday night, we had pizza with green peppers and broccoli. We were seated around our little circular table in the kitchen when my phone started singing, but I wasnt allowed to check it because we have a strict nophonesduringdinner rule. So I ate a little while Mom and Dad talked about this earthquake that had just happened in Papua New Guinea. They met in the Peace Corps in Papua New Guinea, and so whenever anything happened there, even something terrible, it was like all of a sudden they were not large sedentary creatures, but the young and idealistic and selfsufficient and rugged people they had once been, and their rapture was such that they didnt even glance over at me as I ate faster than Id ever eaten, transmitting items from my plate into my mouth with a speed and ferocity that left me quite out of breath, which of course made me worry that my lungs were again swimming in a rising pool of fluid. I banished the thought as best I could. I had a PET scan scheduled in a couple weeks. If something was wrong, Id find out soon enough. Nothing to be gained by worrying between now and then. And yet still I worried. I liked being a person. I wanted to keep at it. Worry is yet another side effect of dying.

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