Page 40 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“Thanks. The waterfall makes it so it doesn’t echo because of…some reason.”
“Science, probably,” I say.
“Right. Science. Okay, you go.”
I take a deep breath, too, clap twice, hop a couple of times. “Ahhhhhh!” I say.
“Henry, Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“That was terrible. You screamed louder at the mice in my kitchen. Go again.”
I do, and it’s maybe a little better, but my lungs are scorched from running, and it’s tough to scream when you’re actively in pain and out of shape.
“Okay, not bad for a first-timer,” she says. “Maybe let’s do it together. On three. One, two…three!”
We scream. Then we take a breath to reload, and we scream again. Grace was right, itistherapeutic. It burns my throat, hurts my chest and cheeks. But like my pounding heart earlier, I like it.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” Grace screams.
Her face goes flushed, and her eyes look wild in this light as her chest heaves.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” I scream back.
She rises up onto the toes of her running shoes, her fists clenched. “Fuck you, cancer!”
“Fuck…um…fuck you, airplanes!”
“Yes! Fuck you, airplanes!” Grace’s face has gone from flushed to burning red. “And fuck you, Christmas!” she screams.
“Oh my god, totally,” I tell her, then I scream, “Fuck you, Christmas! In fact, fuck you, especially!”
I notice an old lady approaching with her elderly dog before Grace does, so she screams a few more times. Fuck you, Boxing Day. New Year’s Eve. Michael Bublé. Common Core, which I think is something to do with math.
“Um, Grace,” I say, touching her shoulder.
The lady is standing in a puffy coat with her mouth open, horrified. Her dog is wearing a holiday sweater and also looks horrified.
“Oh, shit,” Grace says, but she’s laughing.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I say. “We’re just…we’re just mad at some stuff over here. Happy Holidays.”
“Well, we gave her astory to tell, at least,” I say.
“City living,” Grace says. “You gotta be tough.”
We’re walking now, which I prefer to running any day, but particularly now because the right side of my groin will likely never be the same. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the route she led me on was a loop, so we’re not far from our cars.
“Any other grief tricks up your sleeve?” I ask. “Because honestly, that was great.”
She looks up into the mostly barren trees like she’s thinking. “That’s about all I got.”
“Holiday movies and rage running,” I say. “We could do worse.”
She folds her arms over her chest. We were sweating before at the waterfall, but she’s obviously chilly now, and I wish I had something to give her.
“So, what movie are we watching next, Henry?” she asks.
