Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

Grandma?” “Oskar?” “I'm OK. Over.” “It's late. What's happened? Over.” “Did I wake you up? Over.” “No. Over.” “What were you doing? Over.” “I was talking to the renter. Over.” “He's still awake? Over.” Mom told me not to ask questions about the renter, but a lot of the time I couldn't help it. “Yeah,” Grandma said, “but he just left. He had to go run some errands. Over.” “But it's 4:12 A.M.? Over.”
    The renter had been living with Grandma since Dad died, and even though I was at her apartment basically every day, I still hadn't met him. He was constantly running errands, or taking a nap, or in the shower, even when I didn't hear any water. Mom told me, “It probably gets pretty lonely to be Grandma, don't you think?” I told her, “It probably gets pretty lonely to be anyone.” “But she doesn't have a mom, or friends like Daniel and Jake, or even a Buckminster.” “That's true.” “Maybe she needs an imaginary friend.” “But I'm real,” I said. “Yes, and she loves spending time with you. But you have school to go to, and friends to hang out with, and Hamlet rehearsals, and hobby shops—” “Please don't call them hobby shops.” “I just mean you can't be around all the time. And maybe she wants a friend her own age.” “How do you know her imaginary friend is old?” “I guess I don't.”
    She said, “There's nothing wrong with someone needing a friend.” “Are you actually talking about Ron now?” “No. I'm talking about Grandma.” “Except actually you're talking about Ron.” “No, Oskar. I'm not. And I don't appreciate that tone.” “I wasn't using a tone.” “You were using your accusatory tone.” “I don't even know what 'accusatory' means, so how could that be my tone?” “You were trying to make me feel badly for having a friend.” “No I wasn't.” She put her hand with the ring on it in her hair and said, “You know, I actually was talking about Grandma, Oskar, but it's true, I need friends, too. What's wrong with that?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Don't you think Dad would want me to have friends?” “I wasn't using a tone.”
    Grandma lives in the building across the street. We're on the fifth floor and she's on the third, but you can't really tell the difference. Sometimes she'll write notes for me on her window, which I can see through my binoculars, and once Dad and I spent a whole afternoon trying to design a paper airplane that we could throw from our apartment into hers. Stan stood in the street, collecting all of the failed attempts. I remember one of the notes she wrote right after Dad died was “Don't go away.”
    Grandma leaned her head out the window and put her mouth incredibly close to the walkie-talkie, which made her voice sound fuzzy. “Is everything OK? Over?” “Grandma? Over.” “Yes? Over.” “Why are matches so short? Over.” “What do you mean? Over.” “Well, they always seem to run out. Everyone's always rushing at the end, and sometimes even burning their fingers. Over.” “I'm not very smart,” she said, insulting herself like she always does before she gives an opinion, “but I think the matches are short so they can fit in your pocket. Over.” “Yeah,” I said, balancing my chin on my hand, and my elbow on the windowsill. “I think that, too. So what if pockets were a lot bigger? Over.” “Well, what do I know, but I think the people might have a hard time reaching the bottoms of them if they went much lower. Over.” “Right,” I said, switching hands, because that one was getting tired, “so what about a portable pocket? Over.” “A portable pocket? Over.” “Yeah. It would be sort of like a sock, but with a Velcro outside, so you could attach it to anything. It's not quite a bag, because it actually becomes part of what you're wearing, but it's not quite a pocket either, because it's on the outside of your clothes, and also you can remove it, which would have all sorts of advantages, like how you could move things from one outfit to another easily, and how you could carry bigger things around, since you can take the pocket off and reach your arm all the way in. Over.” She put her hand against the part of her nightgown that covered her heart and said, “That sounds like one hundred dollars. Over.” “A portable pocket would prevent a lot of finger burns from short matches,” I said, “but also a lot of dry lips from short ChapSticks. And why are