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. “That’s 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 didn’t. Now, it wasn’t 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) boyfriend 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.
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