Mom sits at the dining room table, not far from where the China closet once stood with its grand display of explosives. She’s surrounded by open boxes, each bursting with its own bouquet of crumpled newspaper. Random objects are arranged before her. An antique hatbox. A sculpture of a Persian cat. A plaque that reads, “Birds of a Feather Flock Together.” This has been her ritual each morning since we moved in two weeks ago. Hundreds of unpacked items remain scattered throughout the room – junk we’ve been hauling around for a decade. I grow agitated at the sight of it.

It’s not long before I grow bored with the pastel cops of primetime television. I open the blind and look through the window to the fire escape and overgrown yard below. It’s getting dark. Somewhere beyond the Verrazano the sun is setting in colors reminiscent of Crockett’s tailored blazers. Here on McDonald Avenue the oil drums and milk crates fade to grayish blurs. My gaze returns to the bedroom, panning idly across the walls and floors. I note the objects on the dresser: a zebra-striped bandana, a crumpled negligee, a brush full of Roberta’s curly brown hair. And on the low shelf of a nightstand, buried beneath a pile of romance novels, the object every delinquent babysitter prays for – a Te-Amo cigar box.

Three

From the fifth floor window of a weathered old building, a boy gazes down. He counts cars and buses, follows pedestrians rushing about. A steady hiss of steam rises from the radiator and he welcomes its warmth on his hands and face. Nose pressed against the foggy glass, the boy watches two adults usher a child onto a school bus. “Three minus one equals two,” he says as the school bus pulls away.

The apartment is only three rooms, and he is comforted by his mother’s proximity. She talks on the telephone in the kitchen, her tired voice mingling with war coverage that blares from the living room television. “I know I’m alone, you don’t gotta tell me that…. Oh, please don’t give me that Melody-I’m-sorry shit…. It was his decision. I couldn’t force him to stay.”

She hangs up and enters the living room. Melody’s eyes, young yet old as alms, settle on her son. She stumbles over a toy truck as she approaches him.

“Damn it, Ernesto, I told you to clean this up!”

He sits silently, his slight frame frozen beneath her glare.

“Well?” she says, softer now, checking her frustration.

He leaves the window and begins to gather his toys from the floor.

“Hurry,” she urges him, “we’re leaving soon.”

Arms full of dinosaurs and plastic soldiers, Ernesto pauses before the television to watch a series of orange explosions. He stands enthralled, a rifleman clutched in his tiny hand, as cryptic phrases narrate the display: “Coalition forces entered the city today…a mobile defense unit came under fire…more casualties reported….”
Melody marches over and shuts the television.

“Put your toys away,” she says.

II

The sun is bright, but it is cold for March. Hand in hand, mother and son troop up Foster Avenue. Approaching the el, they hear the familiar rumble in the distance. “Hurry,” she yells, “the train’s coming.” Melody quickens her pace up the stairs, but the boy can only climb so fast, so she scoops him up.

“Come on!” She shoves Ernesto toward the turnstile. “Go under!”

Panicked by the train's screaming halt, he pauses.

Finally, she pushes him under, pushes him through.

The doors close just as they enter the train.

She leads them to two window seats. For a few minutes Ernesto watches the world speed by. A worker in reflective orange waves from across the tracks. The man is gone almost instantly, so instead of waving back Ernesto wipes his brow. The radiator below is kicking in.

Melody’s cell chimes.

“Hello? Oh, hey, I been meaning to call you.”

“Mommy….”

“I told you, I’m waiting for that paperwork to go through.”

Ernesto tugs her sleeve.

“But I can’t give you the money if I don’t have it.”

“I’m hot,” the boy says.

She digs into an olive drab satchel, retrieves a small plastic carton, pops in a straw, hands it to him.
He drinks.

“But that’s not what you said when you lent it to me.”

“I wanna take off my coat,” he whines.

She glares and shakes her head. Her voice sharpens. “What, you think I got money hidden somewhere? That’s a good one.”

“But I’m all sweaty!”

“Well, do what you gotta do!”

Ernesto gets down off the seat, pulls at the zipper of his coat. The carton hits the floor. Red liquid dribbles from the straw.

“Shit!” Melody shuts her cell and bends over to right the carton. Then, seeing the boy’s perspiring face, she pulls him toward her, brushes away his hand and attempts to open the coat herself.

“How come you never listen?!” She yanks the stuck zipper repeatedly. The boy’s body jerks forward with each pull.

Ernesto’s face wrinkles up; a tear disturbs the red puddle at his feet.

Her son’s crying brings Melody back to herself. She focuses, steadily working polyester from the zipper’s grip. “It’s okay,” she whispers, “it’s okay.”

III

The morning has warmed. Hand in hand they walk the gravel path. They hear sparrows chirping, see bright young buds on trees.

“Do you remember where he is?” Melody asks.

“Three rows up and seven in.”

“Go ahead.”

Ernesto charges down the gravel path, turns right and vanishes behind a row of hedges. When she catches up, he is standing before a nondescript headstone.

“Can we eat yet?” he asks. “I’m hungry.”

They settle down on the grass to chips and soda.

Then, in accordance with ritual, the boy curls up in his mother’s arms. They rest, and morning sun shines on the headstone above. Rank, branch, birth and death dates, and the name of a distant desert war are illuminated. Slightly duller, yet seemingly deeper in the stone, is another name – that of the grave’s occupant: Ernesto Reyes, Sr. It is to this inscription that the boy now turns his attention.

“E-R-N-E-S-T-O,” he says.

“Very good,” says Melody.

Squeezing him to her, she closes her eyes, and for the first time in days, sleeps.

Nicholas and the Nair Egg

Nicholas was deaf to the words of old Mrs. Weinstein at the head of the class. Instead his focus remained fixed on the clock that seemed to hover three feet above her head. It was two fifty-four, and on any other day his heart would have been rejoicing at the freedom that lay just minutes away. Now it pounded like the cars that cruised the avenue outside. He nervously chewed his cuticles as the clock hands raced around the numbered face. Considering the fate that awaited him, his stomach soured like bad shrimp salad. The boy, for the first time in his eleven years, wished he didn’t have to leave the school at all.

“And may you all have a safe and happy Halloween,” croaked Mrs. Weinstein as she sank wearily into her chair.

The boy timidly approached the teacher’s desk as the rest of the class rushed out of the room. He stood there quietly as Mrs. Weinstein shuffled papers into a faded blue duffel bag. Without looking up she said sternly, “What is it this time, Nicholas?”

He muttered, “Donny is waiting for me outside. Him and his friends are going to get me with eggs and shaving cream when I leave. They told me yesterday.”

Through a mess of dyed hair that was supposed to be the shade of champagne, she growled, “Young man, ever since you joined this class you’ve been trouble. Two straight weeks of nothing but heartaches and trouble. Now I don’t know how they handled you in your old school, and I don’t really care. But your funny business isn’t going to hold up in this classroom – do you hear me? I will send your behind straight to the principal’s office and your mother will have to come and get you. Then we’ll see if you're still such a smart aleck. Do you want that?”

Nicholas stared down at the floor.

In the brief silence that followed, Mrs. Weinstein studied the boy. He was pale with chubby cheeks and dark brown hair that fell in unruly bangs over his forehead. She noted with some distaste that he’d been wearing the same pair of jeans ever since arriving in her class two weeks ago, and that his jacket was much too light for this brisk autumn weather. Probably from a broken home, she thought. Something approaching pity began to well up in her sad old heart, but she quickly squashed it. Clearing her throat, Mrs. Weinstein barked, “Well, would you like to pay a visit to the principal’s office this afternoon?”

Eyes still fixed to the floor, Nicholas shook his head.

“Now run along, and if I hear of any more shenanigans from you, it will be the last time! And that’s a promise!”

Walking slowly down the damp gray stairwell of the public school, Nicholas wondered why Mrs. Weinstein hated him so. Even Donny, who shot spitballs and tossed paper airplanes all day, was treated far better than himself. Unfortunately, Nicholas was too young to recognize the ill-fated coincidence which had branded him in his teacher’s eyes forever.

The day after he had joined her fifth grade class, Mrs. Weinstein lost her perfectly healthy husband to a severe stroke. Though she would never admit it, the old woman associated the child with her terrible, unexpected tragedy. And although she played the hard role with him, Nicholas’s presence actually filled Mrs. Weinstein with a strange, superstitious dread. The boy was her jinx, her evil eye. He was the black cat that had crossed her path.

Outside the school were gathered hordes of parents and children, all bundled up against the blustery fall afternoon. Wind ripped through the half-naked trees as different colored leaves rustled noisily along the pavement. The sky was as dull and gray as the roots of Mrs. Weinstein’s crazy hair. Moving dismally through the crowd, Nicholas wished his mother were there waiting for him….

Loitering in front of the candy store across the street were Donny and his two cronies. Donny was a bulldog of a kid with a sourdough face and dull black eyes. He’d been promising this moment every day for the last two weeks. The cronies were identical twins, both pale and underfed, with dirty blond crew cuts, pointy noses and thin lips. They were Nicholas’s age, but never attended school. He didn’t know their names. Hands thrust in pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, the three stood intently scanning the crowd. Nicholas dared not move, not even to run a sleeve over his leaky nose.

But as the minutes passed, the protective cover of the crowd thinned. One of the cronies gave Donny a nudge and pointed Nicholas out from the crowd. Donny’s perversely familiar leer – the one that always seemed to find Nicholas from across the classroom when he least expected it – sent a chill through the boy’s bones. With eggs and cans of shaving cream in hand, the three began making their way across the street, straight for Nicholas.

He broke out. Weaving through the crowd, an egg whizzed past his ear. It busted all yellow-gooey on Carol the crossing guard’s denim thigh. She screamed, “Donny, you mother! I’ll get you!”

Nicholas tore around the corner, but he took it too sharply and skidded on a patch of damp leaves. His ankle tweaked and he rolled to the pavement. With a faint crackle an egg sprayed the sidewalk beside him. Straining under the weight of his knapsack, he tried to get to his feet, but the pain in his ankle was too great. Now just yards away, the goblins trotted in for the kill. Leading the pack, an ecstatic Donny cocked his arm, but then accidentally crushed his egg as he went to throw it. He stood there dumbfounded, staring at his slimy yellow hand.

The cronies began to snicker. Infuriated, Donny produced a can of Barbasol and coated both their faces with gobs of white cream. A melee erupted, and Nicholas stole the opportunity to limp off unnoticed.

He walked three, four, five blocks in an effort to place some distance between Donny and himself. Soon he would have to start circling back – but first to explore! It was such a thrill to be alone, unchaperoned, in this strange new territory. For the first time in his life Nicholas felt the great rush of independence. Limping proudly along, he pretended he was a teenager entrusted with some urgent errand. He would finally prove he was no longer a boy....

Half an hour passed. Somehow backtracking turned out to be more difficult than he had expected. After all, aside from a couple of excursions with his mother, he’d never strayed off the route he took to school each day. That route, along with the school and his home, seemed many miles away from him now. Having turned a few corners and crossed some streets, he found himself dragging aimlessly along strange courts and avenues, each with a name more cryptic than the last.

The neighborhood began to take on a sinister shade. All adorned with bats and vampires, the homes seemed eager to swallow him up forever. Jack-o-lanterns mocked his helplessness, and the front yards, with their tombstones and spiderwebs, concealed beasts with flashing hungry eyes. Shadows flitted in doorways and driveways, behind every parked car and garbage can.

The gray sky grew dimmer, the wind sliced through his thin jacket. Nicholas wished he could call his mother. But she wouldn’t be home until six and he didn’t have her work number. He considered stopping a stranger. No. They were all so ugly, mean-looking. But he would have to ask someone for directions – there really was no other choice. Shivering from cold and fear, he recalled all the times his mother had warned him not to speak to strangers. “Mr. Smith will get you!” she’d say, and the name always inspired a chilling portrait of Evil in a dingy green overcoat. The boy was torn, yet what else could he do? Someone had to help him.

Just then a middle-aged woman and three costumed children walked by. Nicholas was trying to muster the courage to ask for help when the elder warned the young trick-or-treaters, “And if anyone gives you an apple, DON’T EAT IT! Know why? Because there are crazy people out there – WHO PUT RAZOR BLADES IN THEM!”

The children – a witch, a Power Ranger and a ballerina –sounded one long collective gasp of horror. Unconsciously, Nicholas joined them. But by the time they were eagerly climbing the steps to the next home, the others had all but forgotten the urgent warning. After all, they were safe under the protective wing of an adult. Not so for the boy – he was left all alone to ponder that ghastly bit of news. His heart began to thump and his blood raced. His throat constricted and his stomach soured. His lower lip began to quiver….

Then, choking back the sobs, he heard a sound. It was no more than a faint squeak, really. Crouching, he peered beneath a nearby row of hedges.

Huddled there in the damply banked soil was the tiniest kitten he’d ever seen. All muddy black, its fearful green eyes bulged like streetlights from the semidarkness. Nicholas extended his hand and the kitten moved awkwardly toward it. What a speck it was! More from amazement than pity, he scooped the animal up. It was soft and warm, no heavier than an orange in his small hands. Forgetting his own predicament, Nicholas opened his knapsack and slowly lowered in the kitten. It squeaked worriedly but hadn’t the slightest strength to struggle or climb. Whispering some final words of reassurance into the darkness, the boy zipped closed the bag.

Then he heard, “Well, well, well, look what we got here.”

Standing just feet away were Donny and his two cronies. Their clothes were splattered with egg and shaving cream, their faces puffy red from each other’s smacks and punches. Donny looked the worst, with a shiny black eye that was in the process of swelling shut, and a split, bulging lower lip that lent his mug a stupid, pouty expression. It was Donny who’d spoken, the words oozing thick and spitty from his busted mouth. Meeting Nicholas’s shocked stare, the sinister leer slowly returned to Donny’s face. As always, it produced the desired effect – continual chills shook the boy’s body.

Nicholas thought about running, but then remembered the kitten – he didn’t want to rattle the poor thing, scramble up its brains. Besides, he couldn’t really jet with his ankle the way it was. They’d catch him, and then it would be even worse. Maybe, just maybe, he could take the three of them in a fight? Never, he thought. Not even in the movies.

The war-torn trio was approaching. They weren’t as light on their feet as they’d been an hour ago, but that didn’t matter much – Nicholas wasn’t going anywhere. He stood there with his jaws clenched, feeling the kitten as it scratched lightly against his back. He didn’t want to think about what they’d do if they got their hands on that kitten.

“Told you we’d find him,” hissed Donny.

They encircled him.

“What should we do with him?” the first crony asked, rubbing his hands together.

“Let’s blast him with eggs – close range!” suggested the second crony.

“No, no, let’s give him a serious wedgie, pull his underwears up around his head and make him walk around in traffic.”

They were addressing Donny, each attempting to sell his idea. The pecking order was still in place.

Their leader just smiled – a twisted grin gaping like a razor slash in his swollen mug. Then, slowly, with the utmost of care, Donny removed an egg from his jacket pocket. But this was no ordinary egg. Its smooth white shell bore an ominous mark of distinction – a messy blotch of deep red ink. Upon seeing this the cronies erupted into a fit of wild, anticipatory laughter. They pointed their fingers at Nicholas, stomped their feet, slapped each other’s backs.

“You’re gonna get it now!” they cried. “Your new name is gonna be Baldy!”

The boy was well aware of what was in store for him. For days Donny had been taunting him, planting the seeds of this moment in his mind. Yes, it had been made quite clear, not only to Nicholas, but to the entire class. He was to be this year’s victim of...The Nair Egg!

Each Halloween Donny took special care to construct a very special egg, an egg that was certain to have a horrible, lasting effect on its victim. Its thin shell gently pierced with a syringe, the egg’s contents were then drained and replaced with Nair – that viscous concoction used by women to remove unsightly leg and lip hair. The end result was a projectile dreaded by every boy and girl in the neighborhood. And with good reason.

Nicholas had already seen firsthand what the Nair Egg was capable of. Last year’s casualty, a shy, chubby boy named Alan, wore a baseball cap to school every day since that fateful afternoon the preceding October. For some reason, his scalp suffered permanent damage. Alan’s once thick, curly blond locks returned only in scant, stringy patches. He looked as if he’d recently undergone chemotherapy.

Though he was fearful now, Nicholas was surprised to find that it was not for himself. His main concern was for the kitten in his backpack. It had begun to clamber around inside, and he’d even heard a muffled meow while the cronies were laughing.

“So, the little baby thought he could get away,” sneered Donny, taking a step forward. “Try to get away now, baby! Go ahead. TRY!”

The cronies tensed and readied to take chase, but Nicholas, knowing it was pointless to run, remained still. He was resigned to his fate.

“Okay, have it your way, if you think you’re so tough. Grab him!” commanded Donny.

Each arm was seized.

The head goon slowly approached, savoring every last thrilling second of the hunt. He raised his arm, blocking out the drab Brooklyn sun. He was going to let Nicholas have it square in the face.

The boy’s body tensed up like a board as he awaited the crash of light that was an egg in the grill. Donny was so close now Nicholas could smell his rancid breath through the bitter cold air. One of the cronies chuckled and gave his arm a painful twist.

Then came a sound, a muffled yet distinct squeaking sound.

“What was that?” went the cronies, staring stupidly down at their feet.

“It came from his knapsack,” Donny hissed. “Get it.”

Nicholas’s knapsack was torn from his back. He dove at the crony who held it, only to watch the knapsack fly over his head and into the waiting hands of the second crony. Donny carefully placed the Nair Egg back in his pocket and the three goons then surrounded Nicholas and proceeded to tease and taunt him by throwing the pack over his head just as he was close enough to grab it. This went on for fifteen minutes. The frustration, along with the fear that the tiny kitten would get its brains all scrambled up, made it difficult for Nicholas to keep from crying.

Then, with a gesture of brutish finality, Donny snatched the knapsack out of the air, unzipped it and peered inside. The malicious leer returned to his face. He reached inside, and when his hand appeared again it was clutching the dazed kitten.

Nicholas lunged at Donny, but again was seized.

“Leave it alone,” he yelled. “It didn’t do anything to you!”

“This is yours?”

Nicholas nodded, thinking the goon, for once in his life, might show some mercy. Just then Donny tossed the knapsack to the ground, reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved the Nair Egg. “Anyone ever seen a bald cat before?” he snickered.

Nicholas could not allow any harm to come to that kitten. He’d gone and rescued it from the dirt and now it was his responsibility. Whatever happens, he thought, I can’t leave that cat – I can’t abandon it.

Abandon.

The word reverberated in his mind. Without thinking, he lunged at Donny. This time the cronies were unable to restrain him.

All at once the kitten and the Nair Egg flew into the air as Nicholas and the goon tumbled to the pavement. Donny was so surprised that he landed flat on his back – with Nicholas flailing wildly on top of him. By some strange workings of the October wind, the Nair Egg wound up splattering right on Donny’s busted face. “My eyes! It’s burning my eyes!” he squealed, while Nicholas cracked him sharply across the cheek. The cronies, fearing for their own safety, jetted away as quickly as their feet would carry them.

Before long the boy stood. He was out of breath and he realized he’d been crying.

Donny was in rough shape. Bloody and ashamed, he peeled himself from the pavement and slinked away without so much as a glance.

Nicholas brushed himself off and caught his breath. The kitten was hiding beneath the hedge where he’d originally found it. Again he put out his hand, again it squeaked toward him. After inspecting it for injuries (there were none) he cradled the tired animal in his arms, picked a direction, and began to walk. His limp was gone. A kind spirited, silver-haired old woman was pleased to oblige when he asked for directions. Within half an hour the young man and his animal were comfortably in bed.

It was the best either of them had felt in some time.

Don’t Let Them Get You


The brothers climbed out of the second story window and sat on the edge of the roof. They listened to the cicadas rattling in the trees and stared down at the lush, jungle-like madness of the back yard. Tall, dense clusters of weeds, leaning every so often with the breeze, dominated nearly every inch of earth. Then there was the fig tree sweeping over the rotten wooden fence into the next yard, and surrounding it like a thorny moat the unchecked entanglement of the rose bush. A narrow path led to a small clearing far back in the rear where two short rows of tomato plants grew. Here was the only semblance of order in the entire yard; the boys were forbidden to go anywhere near this area.

“Sure,” said the older brother, who had just turned eleven, “there are frogs in there, and lizards and snakes too. Big nasty snakes. Boa constrictors. They mostly come out at night and climb up into the trees and wait, and when a cat walks by they drop on it and wrap themselves around it and squeeze and squeeze until it can’t breathe no more. Then when it’s dead they swallow it up in one big bite.”

“No!” said the younger brother, who was seven years old. He held a small stick in his hand which he’d sharpened by rubbing it at different angles along the pavement. Now he used the stick to dig away at the tar-covered roof. “My teacher said there was no snakes here. Only in the jungle.”

“Your teacher don’t know. I know because I saw. I came out one night when you were just a baby. I walked out to where the tomatoes are, and I heard a sound. It was like, ssss! I looked up and there it was, hanging out of the neighbor’s tree over there. I tried to run, but before I could move it dropped on me.”

The younger brother, his name was Anthony, was incredulous. “Then why didn’t you yell for mommy?”

“Because it wrapped around me before I could say anything. It started to squeeze and I was all out of air and I couldn’t talk.”

Anthony dug a pebble out of the tar and threw it off the roof as he contemplated. The story seemed to be sinking in. “How’d you get away?”

“That snake was a big one, like ten feet long. Had me all wrapped up with my arms down at my sides. I could hardly breathe! Then I saw his face. He came right up to the tip of my nose and went ssss! like he was laughing and opened his mouth up real wide and got ready to swallow me. But then I remembered –”

“What? Remembered what?!” The kid was wide-eyed now as he listened anxiously to his brother’s latest adventure. He continued to dig pebbles out of the tar, tossing them absently off the roof.

“I remembered that I had a knife in my pocket. It wasn’t big, but it was sharp. A Swiss Army knife. So I opened it with one hand and then I jammed it hard as I could into the snake’s belly. He made a noise like sss-uhh! and then unwrapped himself and slinked away.”

A crow cawed. The younger brother gazed out into the back yard, mouth agape, fear and wonderment playing over his face. He tossed another pebble off the roof and the brothers heard a loud “Ouch!” They peered below and saw their Aunt Carlotta rubbing the top of her head. There was a pained, aggravated expression on her face.

“Who threw that? Are you being bad? You better get down. It’s dangerous up there.”

“Aw, come on!” whined the older one.

“Sal, you get down here or I’m gonna tell your mother when she gets back.”

Sal smirked at his aunt. She was plump, white-haired, simple, forever shuffling about in a pale blue house dress and worn-out slippers. He did not take the woman all that seriously. Still, he didn’t want to hear it from his mother when she returned.

“Let’s go,” he said, “its boring up here anyway.”

They climbed back inside through their cousin’s bedroom window. Their cousin’s name was Vito. He was a Vietnam War veteran. The brothers knew little about him besides the fact that he had not been well ever since returning from the war. Their mother had once said that Vito hadn’t been all that well before the war, either. Recently, while riding the bus, he’d attempted to strangle an elderly woman with her own scarf. Before that he’d smashed the living room mirror, claiming it was two-way. Aunt Carlotta said he only got that way when he didn’t take his medicine. The boys had been given strict orders by their mother to stay far away from cousin Vito.

The bedroom was dark save for what little sunlight slipped in through the two windows facing the yard. On the floor beside a bare mattress the boys saw a yellowed newspaper and a souvenir ashtray from Florida. Scooter’s unchanged litter box gave the place an ammonia-like stench. The walls were bare. Cousin Vito had become something of a drifter as of late, hadn’t been seen in weeks, so the brothers felt no immediate sense of danger; still, as a precautionary measure the light remained off, and they tip-toed around as stealthily as possible. On the mattress lay Vito’s acoustic guitar. Seeing it made Sal think of the time in Prospect Park with his father, when he’d run off to explore and spotted his cousin on the far side of a brook. He was sitting on the grass, strumming a song. Vito had waved him over, but the boy could not find a way across. When he ran back to tell his father, Sal was told not to worry about Cousin Vito, to leave him be. He remembered now the vague sense of guilt he felt at not returning to that brook....

His thoughts were interrupted by Anthony, who came creeping up behind him giggling wickedly. In his hand was a copy of the adult magazine High Society.

“Where’d you find that?”

“In the closet.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Pushing the guitar aside, the brothers sat down on the mattress and began thumbing through the magazine.

“Damn, most of these pages are stuck together!” went Sal. “Stupid cat must’ve pissed on them.”

They settled upon a spread entitled “Office Antics.” It opens with a shot of the impossibly sexy female business executive: raven hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, big dark-framed eyeglasses, moist red lips, long red fingernails, a smartly conservative business suit of navy blue with white pinstripes. She is seated behind a wooden desk, pencil in hand, the eraser end gently touching her teeth as she contemplates the document on her otherwise empty desktop.

Enter lackey. A strapping suntanned surfer type, only made up to appear awkward and nerdy in ill-fitting middle management attire, pocket-protector and thick-lensed, old-fashioned eyeglasses. His face is fearful, apologetic, as he brings his boss her morning coffee.

The exec is now spread-eagle on the edge of her desk (no panties) and with a stern authoritative face pointing to her raven crotch. Lackey knows the drill. He drops to his knees and gets to work. With each ensuing shot the couple wear less clothes, until both are completely naked. Eyes closed, moist lips forming the oohs and aahs of fiery passion, they run the gamut of positions upon the desktop. With one catch. There is no penetration of any kind. Not once do tongue and genital meet. Bone-dry poses, all. The exec and her lackey have engaged in the safest of sex.

The brothers, however, enthralled as they were by the brunette’s exceptional anatomy, did not notice that little detail.

“Ever see one of those before?” Sal asked slyly.

Anthony shook his head. “Looks like roast beef,” he said dreamily.

That was when Aunt Carlotta called from downstairs. Lunch was ready. Anthony jumped up from the bed, sprinted over to the closet and flung the magazine inside as if it were on fire. Laughing at his panic, Sal smacked his little brother on the back of the head as they exited the bedroom. Anthony halted and turned around slowly. His face was grim. The sharpened stick was in his hand. That settled matters for the time being. The brothers proceeded down the creaking stairs in silence.

The first thing they saw was the blasted mirror. No one had yet figured out how to loosen its cement grip and so there it remained on the living room wall, partially masked by black electrical tape, a testament to Vito’s increasingly frequent paranoid rages. A few feet below ground level, the room was cool and dim. There was an old cat-scratched couch, a black-and-white television on a stand, some busted armchairs. The shades were drawn. A thick gray pipe ran along the ceiling for the entire length of the house. Leaping from the stairs, Sal gripped the pipe, hung there a few seconds, and began to swing.

“Hey! Get offa there! I’m gonna tell your mother when she gets back!” yelled Aunt Carlotta.

The snickering boys headed to the kitchen, a big room of poor light, peeling walls and cracked linoleum. Bologna and American cheese sandwiches, onion and garlic flavored potato chips, and plastic cups of orange soda were waiting on the table. Anthony placed some chips inside his sandwich and dipped it into his cup before taking a bite. Sal cleared his plate in under five minutes. He let loose a monstrous burp.

“Anything new in the junk drawer?” he asked.

Carlotta was busy peeling potatoes for tonight’s dinner. “Nothing new,” she muttered.

He walked over to the kitchen counter, beside where his aunt was standing in her faded blue house dress, and slid open one of the drawers. Inside was a burial ground for discarded household gadgets, the things people have no use for but are afraid to throw away for fear they may someday come in handy. There were spools of thread and lengths of thin white string tangled about corkscrews and key rings and locks with combinations long forgotten; there were little toy soldiers and cowboys and Indians mingling with empty lighters, dried-out pens and broken pencils; there was a Saint Christopher magnet for the dashboard, guitar picks, a Mickey Mouse Pez dispenser. Various nails and nuts and bolts clang together as Sal rummaged through the mess. After ten or fifteen minutes something finally caught his eye.

“What’s this?” He held up Cousin Vito’s shining tuning fork.

“Eh...for music,” said his aunt. “You tap it against things and then you listen to the sound it makes.”

He rapped the counter a few times, expecting beautiful music to resound throughout the rundown kitchen. “Don’t work,” he grumbled.

“Do it once, soft, then put it up against your ear.”

Sal followed his aunt’s instructions. “Oohh, I hear it!” he yelled, and proceeded to dash around the house, tapping the fork against as many different objects as he could find, including his little brother’s skull.

“I hear music,” said Anthony suddenly.

“That’s this,” went Sal holding up his new toy, “it made music in your head!”

“No, I hear guitars,” the boy said in full seriousness, sitting upright in his chair, his head craned toward the stairs.

Aunt Carlotta stopped peeling potatoes and turned around. All three remained silent for a full minute, listening. Then they heard the bells and tinkling melodies of an ice-cream truck outside the house. There was a collective sigh of relief.

“It’s only Mr. Softee,” smiled Carlotta.

“LOOK!” Anthony yelled.

Creeping stealthily through the back door (Carlotta kept it open on pleasant days) was a huge gray and black alley cat. It rushed over to Scooter’s food bowl and greedily gobbled down a few kernels. The old woman snatched her broom from behind a white closet and quickly shuffled over, swinging it wildly and yelling “Get! Get!” The cat was brave until it received a hard swat in the rump, which prompted an angry hiss as the animal retreated into the back yard.

“That was a giant,” said Sal. “You know he don’t have to worry about getting gobbled up by snakes back there. He’ll just bite them in half with his fangs.”

“There are no snakes,” the boys’ aunt smiled, sliding her broom behind the closet.

“See!” went Anthony. “I told you!”

“There are too snakes! Big ones! I saw!”

Carlotta just laughed quietly to herself and continued peeling her potatoes.

Sal grew frustrated. He knew that the only snakes were in his head. Still, he didn’t like getting caught in a lie and resented his aunt for exposing him. The boy was determined not to lose face.

“I’ll show you,” he yelled. “I’ll catch one and then you’ll both feel stupid!” He stormed out of the kitchen and into the back yard.

The June sun was near its peak. An airplane soared through the vast blue overhead, a light breeze gently rustled the fig tree leaves. The scents of basil and mint grew stronger as Sal walked slowly down the narrow dirt path, flies buzzing around him, sparrows chirping. The boy kicked a stone. He’d already forgotten his impossible vow to capture a serpent, yet his rotten mood remained. Once at the back of the yard he crouched down by the tomato vines and held a heavy green unripe tomato in his hand. He considered ripping them all from their vines.

“Find anything yet?” It was Anthony. He was enjoying a Fudgsicle. He caught the jealousy in his big brother’s eyes. “There’s one for you in the freezer,” he said.

“I don’t want nothing,” Sal grumbled, looking away. Then, after a pause, “I saw one – an anaconda, biggest of them all – but it was on the other side of the fence. I’m gonna set a trap for it.”

Anthony was wise to his brother’s tales by now, but without really thinking about it, decided to play along. “Need any help? I got this.” He pulled the sharpened stick from his pocket.

“We gotta dig a hole and put pointy sticks like that one all sticking up on the bottom.” Sal’s mood was improving. “Then we gotta camouflage the top so the snake don’t see, and when he crawls by he’ll fall right in.”

“Cool!”

The mission began. First they needed the necessary tools. A rusty old shovel leaned against the outer wall by the back door. That part was easy. The challenge came with sharpening the sticks. They couldn’t rub them all against the pavement as Anthony had done earlier that morning. They needed knives. But Aunt Carlotta was still in the kitchen peeling her potatoes. The boys devised a plan.

Anthony ran into the house – directly into the bathroom – screaming that there was a giant splinter in his pinky. With incredible speed for her bulk, Carlotta flew into the bathroom to attend to the crying child. That’s when Sal slipped into the kitchen, lifted two large steak knives from the utensil drawer, and then slipped back out into the yard, unseen. Anthony came strutting out a few minutes later, a bandage wrapped around his little finger, a grin stretched across his tear-streaked face. Mission accomplished.

They toiled in silence as the afternoon wore on. Digging, gathering sticks, sharpening. Before long they had a rectangular pit of approximately two feet in length, one in width, one in depth. At the bottom of this pit were planted two rows of finely sharpened sticks, each about six inches long, spaced two inches apart. The brothers now were working diligently on the third and final row, when Sal decided to speak.

“Think Mom’ll bring us back any toys?”

“I hope so,” said Anthony.

“Whatta you want?”

“An action figure.”

“Star Wars or G.I. Joe?”

“Star Wars.”

“G.I. Joe is better,” said Sal. “They move better, and they come with more weapons.”

He waited some time for a retort, but none was offered. Convinced that he was receiving the dreaded Silent Treatment, Sal glanced over at Anthony, prepared to give him a poke in the leg. That was when he noticed that his little brother had stopped what he was doing and was now staring fixedly at the wooden fence before him. His face was pale and his lips parted as if to speak, but he appeared unable to utter a word.

At first Sal could see nothing but some vines, a spider’s web, a line of ants trooping over the rotten wood. But soon the boy’s vision adjusted to the shadowy darkness that existed between the slats, on the other side of the fence. What he saw there made him gasp as he tumbled back over the moist mound of earth piled behind him.

Eyes. Not serpent’s eyes, but brown, deep-set, intelligent.

Man’s eyes.

The boys remained frozen, mesmerized, as the body rose and with effortless grace vaulted the fence to land before them.

“Well, aren’t you gonna say hello?”

Cousin Vito stood about six feet tall, but to the boys now he appeared a giant, towering high above the fig tree with a head of disheveled brown hair that seemed to scrape against the big blue sky. He was lanky in torn jeans, blue Pro-Keds and a pink button-down shirt that was tied into a knot just above his navel. The brothers were too dumbfounded to speak. After a moment Vito crouched down before them. A bitter smile crossed his bearded face.

“Sal...Anthony.” He held out his hand, but the boys did not move.

“Come on, shake,” he said with a hint of agitation.

Sal went first. His little brother followed reluctantly.

“Good. Just like little gentlemen. Not that I would know....” He stared into the distance.

Meanwhile, Sal stealthily concealed the two steak knives in the mound of soil by his feet. He considered making a run for it. He glanced at Anthony to see if he was up to it, but the kid was sitting there motionless, lost in his cousin’s faraway eyes.

“So what are you guys constructing here?” Vito suddenly wanted to know.

“A trap,” went Sal.

“A trap for what?”

“Snakes.”

Their cousin grinned as he pressed his palm down upon the spikes lining the bottom of the pit. Pulling one of the sticks up and holding it before the boys’ faces, he asked, “Do you know what these are called?”

Silence.

“Well, what are they?” he demanded. “If you use them you should know what they are, shouldn’t you?”

“Darts?” guessed Sal.

“They’re called punji sticks,” said Vito, his voice now small and sad. “The Vietnamese used to make traps just like this one, only a lot bigger, when we were in their country to save them from communism.” He snorted derisively. “They used to smear shit – excuse me, excrement – they used to smear excrement on those punji sticks so the American soldiers would get infections after they were stuck. That’s why little boys shouldn’t set traps! Someone could get hurt!” He threw the stick over the fence. “I’m sorry. I get a little...sensitive sometimes. That’s what your mom called it when she told my mom not to let you guys see me anymore. She didn’t know I heard her. She didn’t know that my powers are very far-reaching. That I’m everywhere. Maybe you don’t believe me?”

The boys were still, silent.

“Well,” he smiled, “I happen to know that you were in my room today looking at dirty pictures.” He paused, letting it sink in. Anthony was just about ready to cry. “It’s okay,” went Vito, scratching his bearded cheek, “We all gotta have a little fun sometimes, right? He inspected his fingernails for a minute or so.

“I know. I’m gonna tell you both a little story today. That’ll be fun. I’m gonna tell you about the day Cousin Vito went crazy. Would you like that? Stop fidgeting, Anthony. Stop fidgeting! Good. Now….”

Vito settled down cross-legged in the dirt. “Sal, do you know where Da Nang Province is? It’s very green and pretty and when you walk along the roads little lizards run across your feet.” He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, massaged his temples. He seemed to be deciding whether or not to continue.

“I had a friend. A very good friend. His name was Ketchum. John Ketchum from Nashville, Tennessee. One day, after I’d thrown my rations into the river (the gooks had somehow poisoned them), after I’d done that he was kind enough to split his own rations with me. That was the man John Ketchum was. That was the heart he had.

“Well, we were in a quiet little village in Da Nang looking for “Communist Activity” as they called it, but everything was...mellow. I even stopped to play with some children, two little boys and a little girl, crouching in the sand. At first I couldn’t tell what they were playing, but when I got closer I saw that there was a scorpion in the sand. It was half-crushed, dying, and they were taking turns poking it with a stick. The scorpion would grab the stick with one of its pincers, and it would hold on so tight that its whole body would be raised right off the ground. I remember thinking how strong that scorpion was, to be holding on so tightly, even as it was so close to death. Then it began to rain, and I looked up to feel the water on my face. For some reason, at that moment I wondered where John was. And then I heard the first shots. They hit a black guy from Ohio, blew the back of his head right off. Bullets just came pouring out of the jungle, couldn’t really tell from where. For a few seconds I just stood there. The children were gone and I was wondering if they’d run away after the first rounds were fired or just before that, when it began to rain....” Vito ran a dirty pink sleeve across his nose.

“What was I talking about?”

“The village,” Anthony whispered.

“Yes, the village. Well, I was standing there when suddenly I was thrown to the ground. It was John. He said, ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ I just smiled. Now all we had to do was get back to the truck, about a quarter mile up the road. It was pretty hairy, but we made it. Just in time too, as it was beginning to pull away. Some soldiers held out their hands and were pulling us up, and just then I heard John groan as if he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him, and he fell off the truck. He’d been shot in the back. They wouldn’t stop for him, said it was too dangerous. I watched him crawling in the sand, getting smaller and smaller as we retreated. He died that day, John Ketchum from Nashville, Tennessee. He died, and I died too.”

Vito hung his head in silence as a car horn blared out front. Sal glanced over at his little brother. He still sat wide-eyed, only fidgeting more now that the story was over. He seemed eager to stand and stretch his muscles, but fearful of enraging his cousin.

Neither boy thought of running.

When he raised his head again there was an amused look on Vito’s weathered face, as if he had just realized that he’d confessed his innermost feelings to two children. His expression changed, however, upon glancing at Anthony and noticing what the young boy clutched in his left hand.

“What are you doing with that punji stick?”

“No...nothing.”

“Were you going to kill me? Put me out of my misery?” Anthony shook his head.

“Give me it,” demanded Vito, snatching the stick from Anthony’s hand. “Now come here.” He moved into a shadowy spot behind the rose bush, alongside the rotten old fence.

“Both of you!”

Anthony shot a glance at his older brother, as if to seek guidance, but Sal only raised his eyebrows helplessly before rising and moving reluctantly towards the darkened recess. Soon all three were crouching together in the cool damp shade.

“See this?” whispered Vito, his eyes gleaming as he held the punji stick in front of the boys’ faces.

“Watch.”

There was a spider web stretched across one of the corners of the wooden fence. Using the stick, Vito gently prodded the outer edge of the web. As the three watched, a wood spider, alerted by the vibrations, darted out of its lair.

“You see,” said Vito, “even the spider, deadliest of all the insects, even he can be fooled. Remember that.”

Just then the brothers heard their names being called. In one swift motion Cousin Vito scaled the fence and was gone.

Their mother was sitting at the kitchen table. They ran over and bombarded her with hugs and kisses.

“These two give you any trouble?” she asked.

“No,” went Carlotta, “no trouble at all.”

And so the boys received their gifts: two brand new G.I. Joe action figures complete with gas masks, flame throwers, and the latest automatic weapons.

“Well,” said their mother, “just what you wanted, right?”

The brothers grinned, said thank you five or six times, and then proceeded to savagely tear open their presents.

Role Model

“This is the wrong formula,” says my mother, her nine-month belly bowling out in front of her. “This is the wrong damn formula.”

“You sure?” I say.

“I told you ten times get the green box, for newborns. See what color this is? It’s purple. I can’t use this. You know, Vic, sometimes I can’t believe how stupid you are.”

“It’s no big deal. I’ll take it back.”

“Well hurry up. It’s almost eight, they’re gonna close.”

I cringe. “Oh no, not tonight. I just walked ten blocks with that thing. It’s heavy! I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“No Vic, you’re gonna do it tonight. I’m going to the hospital any day now and everything’s gotta be ready when I get back.”

“Aw, come on! One day ain’t gonna make a difference!”

“You do what I tell you!”

“Shit!”

That’s when mom’s boyfriend comes marching into the kitchen. He’s a squat, swarthy guy, a contractor. Jimmy is his name. It’s his baby she got there in her belly. Jimmy’s a Greek, right off the boat, I hardly understand a word he says. He’s not too fond of me, though. That I understand perfectly.

“What happen?” Jimmy is already giving me the eye.

“Genius bought the wrong formula and now he won’t bring it back.”

“Bring it back!” grunts Jimmy.

“Tomorrow.”

The veins jump out of his forehead. His meaty, paint-flecked hands clench into fists. “YOU BRING IT BACK NOW!”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

Mom senses what’s coming next and throws herself in front of him. Once again, it’s just her and that big belly standing between me and a whole world of hurt. For some reason, ever since he knocked mom up, Jimmy’s had it in for me. I know he’s dying to throw me that first good beating, just to show me who’s the man of the house. Oh well, not tonight Jimmy boy! I grin, turn around, head on out. Boom! I slam the door hard behind me.

Chan has a burger and some onions on the grill, and the whole candy store is smokey and sweet-smelling. Slouching at the counter, a Con-Ed guy reads a newspaper and waits for his meal. My mouth waters as I walk to the back. None of my boys are around, just some little Pakistani kid spinning the wheel on the racecar game. He’s too short to even see the screen. Then I notice there’s a credit in the machine. I push the kid aside, pretend to drop in a coin, play his credit. I’m crashing every three seconds, I stink. He would’ve given the quarter better mileage.

A boney hand rests on my shoulder. “Well, well, look who it is.”

I recognize the nasal voice; it’s Shari Nussbaum, from school.

“What’s up,” I mutter, still staring at the screen.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” she says. “Where you been hiding?”

My little yellow racecar trails far behind as it nears the final lap. “I’m around,” I say nonchalantly.

“You still with Connie?”

I crash, spin, start racing in the wrong direction. “We broke up.”

“Aaww, that’s too bad!” she says half-mockingly. “You two were so cute together!”

The game ends.

Then the Pakistani whines, “You owe me a quarter!”

“Picking on little kids again?” goes Shari. “You big bully!”

I glance over at her: skinny, bucktoothed, lusty-eyed, her long pale painted grill sucking on a Marlboro. “I don’t know what he’s talking about,” I say.

The kid leaves and comes back with Mr. Chan. Old man Chan, he doesn’t particularly care for me and my boys. Especially since Dominick dropped his pants and did a little dance on the counter for Mrs. Chan. She chased him out of there with a broom that afternoon. The rest of us were laughing so hard, she turned around and started swinging on us too. I caught a sharp one, kung-fu style, right between the shoulder blades. “You boys no good!” she screamed as we hauled ass out of there. “You bad, bad boys!” But no matter what happens, Chan and his wife always lets us back in their store. They may not like us, but they love our money.

“Give his quarter back,” says Chan.

“But I don’t have it.”

“Yes, you played my game,” goes the kid.

I try to look baffled.

“Okay, you go home now,” Chan tells me, “time for you go home.”

Me and Shari exit the store as Chan begrudgingly hands the kid another quarter.

“You haven’t been in school,” she says as we walk.

“So what,” I reply.

“So, you’re not gonna graduate.”

“Sure I will. You really think they want me there another year?”

“I really don’t think they give a shit.”

“All I have to do is write a paper on the crusaders. Then I’m outta there. Genovese told me.”

“Where you going to high school?”

“Probably F.D.R. You?”

“Lincoln,” she says. “There’s a lotta cute boys in Lincoln.”


The apartment is small and dark and smells like an ashtray. We pass through the living room and a wedge of light falls through the curtains. I glimpse a cat gliding across the carpet. There are framed photos on the walls and the TV but I can’t make out the subjects. All is quiet but for the steady ticking of an unseen clock. I try to walk stealthily, even though she’s already told me nobody is home.

She takes my hand, leads me into the bedroom and flicks on the light. There is a bunk bed and an old wooden desk with names scratched into its surface. Shari + ? 4ever, it says. With a sigh she plops down onto the bottom bunk. I lean up against the steel-barred window. Outside is faded red brick and gray courtyard. Four stories down a chained-up mutt barks for food.

“Why don’t you sit with me?” she says.

I do.

“Don’t be nervous. My mom won’t be home till the morning. She’s a cop.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I don’t. Then she suddenly starts to tickle me. Or rather tries to tickle me. Her boney fingers feel like chopsticks prodding between my ribs. I restrain her by the wrists. She closes her eyes and leans toward me, expectant.

“Can I use your bathroom?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, a little baffled. “Down the hall.”

I go into the bathroom, find the light, turn it on. There are pink and black tiles on the floor. The shower curtain, the small rug and the toilet seat are also pink. On the window ledge, along with some bottles of shampoo, is a tiny ceramic duck. The duck is yellow. I pick it up, stare at it for a bit, stuff it in my pocket. Then I flush the toilet, turn off the light and return to the bedroom. Shari is still on the bed. I sit down next to her.

“I always liked you,” she says. “Even when you were with Connie.”

The name stings. Casually I say, “Oh yeah?”

“I wanna be your mommy,” she whispers, “I wanna take care of you.”

We start kissing. Shari’s tongue shoots around my mouth like a garden hose gone haywire. We don’t waste any time. Our shirts come off and I fumble with her bra. She’s helping me along when the phone begins to ring. It rings and rings. Soon we’re both naked and I’m poised over her. Shari’s eyes are closed and her mouth slightly opened, the big buck-teeth peeking out. She waits for me to take her, to take the big plunge into her. “Get the phone,” I say. She sighs, wraps a sheet around her skinny frame and goes to answer the phone in the kitchen. “Yes, Mom,” she says repeatedly. I quietly get dressed and slip out of the apartment.


When I get home there’s a note on the kitchen table:

Taken mother to hopspitil. Water broked.

First thing, I fix myself a screwdriver. I make a mental mark on the Beefeater label and then replace the missing vodka with water. I sit down at the table and sip it slowly, wincing as I stare at the box of baby formula I brought home earlier. Then I get up and head into my mother’s bedroom.

For kicks I start going through her dresser drawers. I find the bowie knife she confiscated from me last year. I pull the knife out of its tan leather sheath and inspect the blade before slipping it in my back pocket. Then I stumble upon mom’s diaphragm. I pick up the box, read the instructions, and carefully replace it in the drawer. I don’t feel like snooping anymore.

I sink into the king-size bed and flip on the TV. “The Honeymooners” is on. I prop myself up with some pillows and try to get comfortable. Once again, Ralph Cramden is pissed at his wife. He yells and yells, eyes bugging out of his head. To the moon, Alice! She is unfazed. Then, as I’m laughing, it hits me – I’m a big brother now. Alice calmly says something that reveals Ralph has been an idiot all along. They kiss and make up. That old familiar music kicks in.

Big brother….

I wonder if it’s a girl or a boy, if it has a name. I hope it’s a boy. I envision beating up some bully who made the mistake of messing with him in school.

Then I remember the ceramic duck. I pull it out of my pocket and place it on top of the TV. Ralph’s big face lights up the moon as the credits appear on the screen.

Why Are You So Angry?

“No, no, no!” squawked Ms. Tuttle. “You’re just not getting it. The work is proficient enough, but there’s no emotion. Where is the emotion, Laura?”

I dropped my charcoal and stared up at her like I was brain-dead. That always drove Tuttle nuts. She sighed a cloud of coffee breath and waddled off to the next easel.

“Don’t listen to her,” said the kid next to me. “It’s awesome.”

I was surprised he spoke to me. I mean, hardly anyone in that school ever said a word to me. Maybe that was because I was pierced and inked and only wore black. Or because my boyfriend Darrel got arrested a few times and they thought I was like him. Whatever. I didn’t want anything to do with those slut cheerleaders and date-rape jocks anyway. But I’d seen this kid around. He was different. He wasn’t a jock or a nerd and he didn’t dress a certain way just to fit in. He did his own thing.

“Yours is good, too,” I said.

“Not really,” he laughed, “but thanks for your sympathy.”

We talked for the rest of the period. Nothing special, just how crazy Ms. Tuttle was and how most everyone in that school was a total idiot. Jeff was pretty funny. We were both headed towards the cafeteria after class so we walked together down the hall. That’s when Darrell and his loser sidekick, Tanner, came up behind us. By the way, Tanner is also my little brother. Pathetic. I know.

“Hey asshole! What the hell you doing with my girl!”

“Nothing,” went Jeff. “Just walking.”

“Well you better start walking away before I shove my boot up your ass!”

Jeff held his ground as a crowd of kids began to form around us. Him and Darrel were standing eye-to-eye when I spotted the guard. I whispered in Darrel’s ear, “Corbitt’s coming. You don’t wanna mess up your probation.”

“Catch you with my girl again,” he told Jeff, “and you’ll be sorry.”

Then we broke out.


We we’re in my room doing bong hits when he started in on me.

“So that’s your new boyfriend? That’s who you’re gonna dump me for?”

I took a hit. “Please. We were just talking.”

“Sure,” he mocked, “just talking.”

“Look, I’m not getting into this now,” I said.

Darrel slid up against me. I guess he felt threatened by Jeff. He was so insecure. We messed around a while and then he wanted to do it. I didn’t feel like it, but I got tired of hearing him beg. It was so boring. I made him turn up the radio so I at least had something to do while he did me.
Neither of us heard the door.

“GET OUT!” my mother screamed.

I tried to escape with Darrel but she wasn’t having it.

“So this is what you do. This is what you do!”

I shrugged.

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“Left,” I said.

“You left. That’s nice. Maybe I should leave, too.”

“Go ahead. See if I care.”

“Oh, Laura,” she sighed, “why are you so angry?”

That night I locked myself in my room and worked on a self-portrait. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jeff. About his voice and the funny things he said and how he parted his hair down the middle. Corny stuff. I don’t know why.

Next day after class we had lunch together in the cafeteria.

“I’m telling you,” he said, “if there’s ever a nuclear war and you need food, come here. These hamburgers are gonna last forever.”

“Yeah, I heard they serve stuff that takes a long time to digest so we don’t get all hungry and distracted in class.”

He took a bite. “Sometimes it’s like my body is using all its energy just to break down my lunch. I even passed out once in gym.”

As I laughed I saw Darrel and Tanner. They were lurking outside the cafeteria doors, watching us.

“Don’t worry,” went Jeff. “I’m not afraid of them.”

“I know, but….”

“Look, I’m a ninth-degree black belt. I can take care of myself.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” he smiled, “I spar with Jackie Chan all the time.”

Then they were gone. I didn’t see them again for the rest of the day. I figured they were back at my house, smoking my weed. Losers.

After school there was a crowd around my bus stop. Another fight. I expected to find two jocks knocking their heads together like mountain goats on the Discovery Channel. Instead I saw Darrel and my brother. They were kicking someone.

I fought my way to the front and saw him curled up on the ground. They kicked and kicked, and all Jeff could do was try and protect his head. I wanted to scream, to throw myself between them….

Sirens. The cops grabbed Darrel and Tanner, and some EMT’s rolled Jeff into the ambulance. The guard, Corbitt, was with them.

He kneeled before me and spoke real low. “Laura, what happened?”

Everyone was quiet.

He placed his hands on my shoulders and repeated the question.

“We were just talking!” I snapped.

Then my bus arrived. I ran on board, to the back, away from all the windows. Two blocks later I brought an old Kleenex to my eye.

The bell rang, the faces changed. Past parks and playgrounds, Starbucks and Safeways, I waited. The whole way home, I waited….

Whatever. Tears are so overrated.