The United States of Leland Page #3

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and bring your books up to the front.

Hey, where were you, B?

I was kinda wondering...

Maybe I could keep this

and do some writing in my room?

Unfortunately, I can't allow you

to take anything out of a class.

But I'll keep it up

here safe for you.

Hey, um... I'm jealous.

- When did you go to Italy?

- My dad lives in Paris.

So sometimes,

we travel together.

I guess I'll see you tomorrow.

You're the one that killed

that retarded kid, huh?

Was it some kind of

devil worship thing?

What did you do to your hand?

I stabbed myself.

If you're going for suicide,

I'd say try the stomach or somethin'.

I just wanted to know

what it felt like.

I bet it hurt.

Should've just asked me, devil boy,

I would have saved you some trouble.

The journal goes down the front of your

pants, the pencil goes in your sock.

Thanks.

I'm just glad to see

somebody's writing.

Er, Pearl?

Can I ask you a question?

It's about your name.

You're wondering, why Pearl?

- You like basketball?

- Sure.

Well, in the '70s, there was this guy

who played for the Knicks.

His name was Earl Monroe.

His nickname was The Pearl.

- Earl the Pearl?

- Earl the Pearl, right.

Well, my parents

were in Queens then.

My mom was a dancer.

She hated sports.

But somehow my dad talked her into going

to check out a game at the Garden.

It just turns out that it's

Earl the Pearl's night.

Cat went off,

dropped 33 points on the Celtics.

After the game, all my mom could do

was talk about how watching him play

was like watching a dance recital,

because he moved like poetry...

- Hey! Hey! Break it up!

- Outta my way, man!

Anyway, when I was a kid,

that was pretty much

all the story I got.

But a couple of Christmases ago,

I'm knocking a few back with my dad.

And he embellishes.

So, after the game,

they went back to Queens.

Well, thankfully,

my dad spared me the details here.

But um... the condom broke.

And nine months later, whoops.

- Here comes Pearl.

- Here comes Pearl.

Trust me, the sock.

I know what they

want from me.

They want a reason, something to tie up

with a little Bow and bury in the back yard.

Bury it down so deep,

it's like it never happened.

They want me to

say how I'm so sorry

and it was my mom's fault,

or maybe it was

my dad's fault,

or it happened because

of TV or movies or...

some junk like that.

Or maybe I blame some girl.

Not even when you

were a little kid?

You never thought about

whether there was angels or not?

Maybe when I was a little kid.

My grandmother died

when I was real little.

And after that, every time...

I stole candy or fought

with my mom or...

...played with myself

or something,

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