Little Little
“It was this book I described to Little Little, the story of a hunchbacked dwarf, harelipped and suffering from gargoylism, born to the wealthy Jerónimo de Azcoitia. Don Jerónimo called his son Boy and isolated him in the world of La Rinconda, a plantation he populated entirely with other monsters, so Boy would never know he was different from other people.
Then I told her about my life at Mistakes, about Sara Lees—we talked so long my ear hurt from having the phone’s receiver pressed against it..., and a carillon in La Belle sounded “Old McDonald.”
Little Little said, “It can’t be six o’clock!”
I was about to describe my summers at Leprechaun Village, but my appointment with Mr. Palmer and Mr. Hiroyuki was at seven, and Little Little said she was due somewhere a half an hour ago.
She gave me a number where I could reach her later.
“How much later?” I asked.
“Much later,” she said. “Midnight.”
“What about your family?”
“It’s my own private number,” she said.MoreLess
Then I told her about my life at Mistakes, about Sara Lees—we talked so long my ear hurt from having the phone’s receiver pressed against it..., and a carillon in La Belle sounded “Old McDonald.”
Little Little said, “It can’t be six o’clock!”
I was about to describe my summers at Leprechaun Village, but my appointment with Mr. Palmer and Mr. Hiroyuki was at seven, and Little Little said she was due somewhere a half an hour ago.
She gave me a number where I could reach her later.
“How much later?” I asked.
“Much later,” she said. “Midnight.”
“What about your family?”
“It’s my own private number,” she said.MoreLess
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