Dimmer stars than we’d had at Oranjee, but still good enough to drink. “You know,” Gus said to me, “everything Van Houten said was true.”
“Maybe, but he didn’t have to be such a douche about it. I can’t believe he imagined a future for Sisyphus the Hamster but not for Anna’s mom.”
Augustus shrugged. He seemed to zone out all of a sudden. “Okay?” I asked.
He shook his head microscopically. “Hurts,” he said. “Chest?” He nodded. Fists clenched.
Later, he would describe it as a one-legged fat man wearing a stiletto heel standing on the middle of his chest.
I returned my seat-back tray to its upright and locked position and bent forward to dig pills out of his backpack.
He swallowed one with champagne. “Okay?” I asked again. Gus sat there, pumping his fist, waiting for the medicine to work,
the medicine that did not kill the pain so much as distance him from it (and from me).
“It was like it was personal,” Gus said quietly. “Like he was mad at us for some reason. Van Houten, I mean.”
He drank the rest of his champagne in a quick series of gulps and soon fell asleep.
My dad was waiting for us in baggage claim, standing amid all the limo drivers in suits
holding signs printed with the last names of their passengers: JOHNSON, BARRINGTON, CARMICHAEL.
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