Holden Caulfied 17

‘Has Dr Thurmer written to your parents yet?’ old Spencer asked me.

‘He said he was going to write them Monday.’

‘Have you yourself communicated with them?’

‘No, sir, I haven’t communicated with them because I’ll probably see them Wednesday night when I get home.’

‘And how do you think they’ll take the news?’

‘Well… they’ll be pretty irritated about it,’ I said. ‘They really will. This is about the fourth school I’ve gone to.’ I shook my head. I shake my head quite a lot. ‘Boy!’ I said. I also say ‘boy!’ quite a lot. Partly because I have a lousy vocabulary and partly because I act quite young for my age sometimes. I was sixteen then, and I’m seventeen now, and sometimes I act like I’m about thirteen. It’s really ironical because I’m six-foot-two-and-a-half and I have grey hair. I really do. The one side of my head – the right side – is full of millions of grey hairs. I’ve had them ever since I was a kid. And yet I still act sometimes like I was only about twelve. Everybody says that, especially my father. It’s partly true, too, but it isn’t all true. People always think something’s all true. I don’t give a damn, except that I get bored sometimes when people tell me to act my age. Sometimes I act a lot older than I am – I really do – but people never notice it. People never notice anything.