The Wild Things Read Online Free Page A

calmly and help clean up, and then play quietly alone in the living room.
    But there were other times, other days, most days really, when the thoughts did not line up. Days when he chased the various memories and impulses as they veered and scattered away from him, hiding in the thicket of his mind.
    And it seemed that when this happened, when he couldn't make sense of something, when the thoughts did not flow from one to the other, that on the heels of the scattering quail he did things and said things that he wished he had not said or done.
    Max wondered why he was the way he was. He didn't want to hate Claire and he didn't want to have destroyed her room. He didn't want to have broken the window over the kitchen sink when he thought he was locked out of the house -- which he'd done a few months ago. He didn't want to have screamed and pounded the walls of his room last year, when in the middle of the night he couldn't find the door. There were so many things he'd done, so many things he'd broken or torn or said, and always he knew he'd done them, but could only half-understand why.
    And it occurred to him that he might be in real trouble. Until then it had seemed simple enough. He had almost died in the fort, so he soaked his sister's room and tore up any evidence of any affection he had ever had for her.
    But now that simple plan, inevitable and logical, seemed less wise than it had only moments ago. His mom might not appreciate Max having thrown seven buckets of water into Claire's room. It was so strange to think about: how was it that just minutes ago, doing all that had seemed like the only thing to do? He hadn't even questioned it. It was the only idea in his head, and he carried it out with great speed and determination. Now he was listening to his mother's footsteps on the stairs, coming up to see him, and he felt like erasing the past, everything he had ever done. He wanted to say, I know I've always been bad, and now I will be good. Just let me live .
    "Anyone home?" Max's mother asked. "Max?"
    He could escape. He could slip downstairs and run out the front door. Could he? He could live in another town, he could hop trains, become a hobo. He could leave, try to explain himself in a note, wait it out while everyone calmed down. He was sure that there would be anger, and yelling and stomping, maybe that violent sort of silence his mother had perfected. He didn't want to be around for all that.
    So he got ready to leave home for good.
    He retrieved his backpack, the one his father had bought him before they hiked through Maine. But just as he was getting up to put on dry clothes and pack the bag, his mom was there, door open, already in his room, standing over him.
    "What's happening in here? Anything good?" she asked.
    She was wearing her work clothes, a wool skirt and white cotton blouse. She smelled of cold air and sweat and something else. God, he loved her so much. She sat down on his bed and kissed his head. He briefly fell apart, disintegrated by her gentle touch. But then he placed the smell: it was Gary's deodorant, which she had begun sharing. It was a wet, chemical smell.
    He sat back in his bed and his eyes welled. How could so many tears come so quickly? Stupid crying. So stupid. He threw the covers over his face.
    "What's wrong?" she asked.
    Max didn't answer. He couldn't look at her.
    "Are you mad at me?" she asked.
    Max was surprised by this question, though it wasn't a new one. For a second, it gave him strength. It reminded him there were other problems, other people to blame.
    "No," he said.
    She pulled the covers down from his face.
    "What is it then?" she asked. "Were you crying?"
    "Claire's stupid friends smashed my igloo," he said. It came out far sooner than he'd planned.
    "Oh," his mom said, running her hand through his matted hair. She didn't seem very impressed with the crime. He knew he had to make his mom furious at what Claire had done. If he made her angry enough, she might understand