We Need to Talk About Kevin_ A Novel - Lionel Shriver [167]
“E-va,” you sang, not in the mood for a fight. “Polymer is state of the a-art.”
“So is this German Cryolite.”
“Fewer infec-tions, less chance of brea-kage—”
“Polymer’s just a fancy name for plastic. I hate plastic.” I closed the argument, “Materials are everything.”
“Look at that,” you pointed out to Kevin. “Richie sleazes out of the date, and it turns out she’s a hottie.”
I didn’t want to poop your party, but the mission from which I’d just returned was pretty grim, and I couldn’t immediately start munching your visual junk food. “Franklin, it’s almost seven. Can we please watch the news?”
“Bor-ing,” you cried.
“Not lately it isn’t.” Monica-gate was still breaking in prurient slow motion. “Lately it’s X-rated. Kevin?” I turned politely to our son. “Would you mind very much if, after this episode is over, we switched to the news?”
Kevin was slumped in the easy chair, eyes at half-mast. “Whatever.”
You sang along with the signature tune, Monday, Tuesday, happy days . . . ! as I knelt to pick white putty from Celia’s hairline. At the hour, I switched to Jim Lehrer. It was the lead story. For once our president would have to keep his fly zipped to make way for two unpleasant little boys in his home state, the older of whom was all of thirteen, the younger only eleven.
I groaned, flopping onto the leather couch. “Not another one.”
Outside Westside Middle School in Jonesboro, Arkansas, Mitchell Johnson and Andrew Golden had lain in wait, huddled in the bushes in camouflage outfits after setting off the school’s fire alarm. As students and teachers exited the building, the two opened fire with a Ruger .44-caliber rifle and a 30.06 hunting rifle, killing four girls and one teacher, and injuring eleven other students. Himself wounded, if only by romantic disappointment, the older boy had apparently warned a friend the day before with cinematic swashbuckling, “I got some killin’ to do,” while little Andrew Golden had sworn to a confidant that he was planning to shoot “all the girls who’d ever broken up with him.” A single boy was injured; the other fifteen victims were female.
“Fucking idiots,” I growled.
“Yo, Eva!” you abjured. “Watch the mouth.”
“More drowning in self-pity!” I said. “Oh, no, my girlfriend doesn’t love me any more, I’m gonna go kill five people!”
“What about all that Armenian shit?” asked Kevin, cutting his eyes toward me flintily. “Oh, no, like, a million years ago the Turks were big meanies and now nobody cares! That’s not self-pity?”
“I’d hardly put genocide on a par with being jilted,” I snapped.
“Nyeh nyeh-nyeh nyeh NYEH-nyeh-nyeh nyeh-nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh-nyeh NYEE-nyeeh!” Kevin mocked under his breath. “Jesus, give it a rest.”
“—And what’s this about wanting to kill all the girls who’d ever broken up with him?” I jeered.
“Could you shut up?” said Kevin.
“Kevin!” you scolded.
“Well, I’m trying to follow this, and she said she wanted to watch the news.” Kevin often spoke of his mother as I spoke of Americans. We both preferred the third person.
“But the brat’s eleven years old!” I hated people who talked over the news, too, but I couldn’t contain myself. “How many girlfriends can that be?”
“On average?” said our resident expert. “About twenty.”
“Why,” I said, “how many have you had?”
“Ze-ro.” Kevin was now so slumped as to be nearly supine, and his voice had a gravelly creakiness that he would soon employ all the time. “Hump ’em and dump ’em.”
“Whoa, Casanova!” you said. “This is what we get for telling a kid the facts of life at seven.”
“Mommy, who are Humpum and Dumpum? Are they like Tweedledum and Tweedledee?”
“Celia, sweetheart,” I said to our six-year-old, whose sexual education did not seem so urgent. “Wouldn’t you like to go play in the playroom? We’re watching the news, and it’s not much fun for you.”
“Twenty-seven bullets, sixteen hits,” Kevin calculated appreciatively. “Moving targets, too. You know, for little kids that’s a decent percentage.”
“No, I want to stay with you!” said Celia. “You’re my friennnd!”
“But I want