BooksBarbecue
Back The Art of Breathing Save as PDF
Contents ( 42)
  1. The Art of Breathing
  2. Part One: How We Became Who We Are
  3. Prologue: Or, Where the Kid Hears the Word of the Day
  4. 1. Where Tyson Learns to Breathe
  5. 2. Where Tyson Makes a Phone Call
  6. 3. Where Tyson Graduates and Bear Freaks Out
  7. 4. Where Tyson Says Good-Bye
  8. 5. Where Tyson Gets the Mail
  9. Part Two: Coming Home
  10. 6. Where Tyson Comes Home
  11. 7. Where Tyson Gives a History Lesson
  12. 8. Where Tyson Attends the Most Awkward Party Ever
  13. 9. Where Tyson Plans Attends a Protest
  14. 10. Where Tyson Gets Arrested
  15. 11. Where Tyson Gets His Ass Handed to Him
  16. 12. Where Tyson Writes Bad Poetry and Gawks at Frat Boys
  17. 13. Where Tyson Decides to Man the Fuck Up
  18. 14. Where Tyson Asks Some Questions
  19. 15. Where Tyson Remembers Theresa Jean Paquinn
  20. 16. Where Tyson Learns the Benefit of Therapy
  21. 17. Where Tyson Meets the Man Who Becomes Helena Handbasket
  22. 18. Where Tyson Gets Screwed at His Own Birthday Party (And Not in a Good Way)
  23. Part Three: Just Breathe
  24. 19. Where Tyson Goes to Helena Handbasket’s Sex Dungeon
  25. 20. Where Tyson Beholds the Awesome Wonder That Is Paul Auster
  26. 21. Where Tyson Receives Advice from the Six Sages
  27. 22. Where Tyson Makes a Phone Call
  28. 23. Where Tyson Hears the Inevitable
  29. 24. Where Tyson Meets His Match
  30. 25. Where Tyson Says Hello, Where Tyson Says Good-bye
  31. 26. Where Tyson Touches upon the Inevitable
  32. 27. Where Tyson Faces the Music
  33. 28. Where Tyson Breathes
  34. 29. Tyson And Dominic
  35. 30. The Art Of Breathing
  36. Epilogue: Or, Bear’s Perspective, As It Were (Yeah, He’s Gonna Freak)
  37. Author’s Note
  38. Excerpt
  39. Prologue: Or, Where Bear Answers the Door
  40. More from TJ Klune
  41. Readers love the Bear, Otter, and the Kid Chronicles by TJ Klune
  42. By TJ Klune

“Tyson,” he says.

“Dominic,” I breathe.

10. Where Tyson Gets Arrested

HAVE YOU ever been handcuffed by someone who you’d thought at one point was the love of your life (how naïve, that), sat down on a sidewalk next to your best friend, who is also handcuffed and staring at you murderously, and wondered just how life got to this point? But you know, really, it’s not your fault at all, because the blame is totally and completely resting on the beach hippies, and you swear on all you have that if you ever get your hands on the members of DEAD! you’ll strangle them until their eyes glaze over. While you plot these revenge fantasies in your head (“How apt, Cornflower and Beach Vagrant, that you belong to a group called DEAD! because that is what you soon shall be!”), you also wonder if you can find some way to make sure your older brother doesn’t find out about this little… infraction… because your older brother has a propensity to… overreact… about every single little thing, even if it was all the beach hippies’ fault. And while you’re sitting with the metal cuffs pinching your skin (did he really have to tighten them that much?) worrying about your brother and plotting DEAD! deaths, it probably also doesn’t help that a reporter who smells like she ate 1-800-FLOWERS is trying to interview you, pushing the microphone in your face and asking if destruction of property is the best way to get environmental messages across, and just what did the beach hippies mean when they were shouting about Chinese mink cats?

No? Never been in that situation?

Lucky you.

“No comment,” I mumble, wondering just what shade of red Bear’s face is going to turn this time. It’s been a while since he’s been crimson. Or possibly beet. Either way, this can’t possibly end well.

Yes, I’m nineteen years old and able to think for myself.

Yes, I’m terrified of what my older brother is going to say.

You would be too. It’s Bear.

Katie Rhine must figure she’s not going to get anything further out of me. She instructs her cameraman to take a few more shots of the “destructive power of protest” (she’s still gunning for that Pulitzer), before she turns in a cloud of self-importance and azaleas. She leaves, her high heels clicking along the asphalt.

People come and go from the restaurant, staring at us curiously, whispering to themselves. Part of me wants to get up and remind them that they’re eating their way to a heart attack by the age of thirty-five, but I’m able to squash that down as it appears that would probably only make things worse. Plus, I’m still hoping the ground will open up beneath me and swallow me whole so I don’t have to suffer through the rest of what will undoubtedly be my short, short life.

I wonder how easy it would be to get out of the cuffs and make a break for it. I’d probably head for Canada and change my name to something Canadian. Like Carl. Or French-Canadian, like Pierre. I’d have to go into hiding and make a living as a Zamboni driver. All that talent, wasted on smoothing ice. Ah, well. No matter. What will be will be.