Read Online Angelhead by Greg Bottoms - Free Book Online
Authors: Greg Bottoms
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
the teacher, was old, popular with students. She walked toward Michael, smiling. Her hair was in the shape of a giant sticky bun, glasses hung off her nose. She wore the bright designer clothes of wealthy Southerners: penny loafers, navy skirts, orange and pink and teal oxford shirts, a scarf.
Michael, she said, but he could barely hear her because she wasnât even real. Michael, this isnât your class, dear. You need to go to your own class now because Jesus Christ died a long time ago and is never coming back; he was just a man, like you. He canât save anyone now. Or maybe you should go to the nurse.
He put his head down, cried harder, began shaking the desk more and laughing; he was a fat, filthy twenty-year-old still in high school, a retard or something, and some of the students had to laugh.
The assistant principal, a guy named Kraft with greenish gray hair, came and got me out of my own math class. I started sweating when he said my name. I was sitting in the back of the room, trying to be inconspicuous.
Outside, in the hall, as I stood confused and paranoid, Mr. Kraft explained the problem to me, explained that he wanted me to go get my brother, to try to talk to him, because if anyone came into room 16 he started screaming. He leaned down into my face, his breath nearly toxicâcoffee, spearmint, a clogged drain.
All I heard after that was
your brother . . . your brother.
I was in the habit, then, of denying, as much as possible, the existence of my brother, or at least the existence of any relationship between us, or, if that didnât work, I usually pleaded about how ineffectual I was concerning him, how, yeah, he was my brother, but we didnât really communicate much.
I said I couldnât help; I couldnât do it; he wouldnât listen to me. But Mr. Kraft already had me by the arm, leading me to my brother.
We walked down the long halls, past the yellow lockers, past classrooms, past all the kids I knew, the kids I wanted desperately to like me. We walked and walked and I wanted to go home, to walk out the door. My sneakers squeaked, my jeans swished. I could hear the hair move under Kraftâs shirt.
The door was open, Miss Smythe standing in the hallway, waiting, I guess, for me, as if I knew what to do.
I sighed, felt faint, but kept walking, listening to my sneakers, my jeans, Kraftâs chest hair. I walked into the classroom without looking at anyone, feeling them all looking at me. Why did this have to be
my
brother? What had I ever done?
Someone giggled, but mostly it was all somber silence, the energy having been sucked out of the room. By now some of the kids saw Michael as an actual threat.
My brother had tears streaming down his face, one hanging off his chin. He stopped laughing and crying when he saw me. There we were, staring at each other, in a dead silence except for the low hum of the heating unit, the muffled buzz of the bright fluorescent lights.
I was scared. Thatâs what I remember more than any one detailâthat feeling of complete fear and helplessness that would come back to me over the years. Sometimes, even now, almost fifteen years later, when I'm lying in bed with my pregnant wife, in our nice comfortable life, I get this sensation that feels like falling but isnât, and I think,
I once had a brother named Michael,
and this simple fact weighs on me more than my life, weighs more than God, and I spend days afterward depressed, unable to read, unable to work. That day I could taste my fear the way you can taste the beginning of a cold, the way you can taste a penny. This all seemed so much bigger than me. It was so much bigger than me.
I gently touched Michaelâs arm, unable to think of anything to say. And touching him was a foreign thing, as awkward as a first kiss.
He looked up at me, eyes empty, face shining with tears.
Greg, he said. Jesus. Fuck.
He stood up, simple as that, completely calm. We were face to face. He
Michael, she said, but he could barely hear her because she wasnât even real. Michael, this isnât your class, dear. You need to go to your own class now because Jesus Christ died a long time ago and is never coming back; he was just a man, like you. He canât save anyone now. Or maybe you should go to the nurse.
He put his head down, cried harder, began shaking the desk more and laughing; he was a fat, filthy twenty-year-old still in high school, a retard or something, and some of the students had to laugh.
The assistant principal, a guy named Kraft with greenish gray hair, came and got me out of my own math class. I started sweating when he said my name. I was sitting in the back of the room, trying to be inconspicuous.
Outside, in the hall, as I stood confused and paranoid, Mr. Kraft explained the problem to me, explained that he wanted me to go get my brother, to try to talk to him, because if anyone came into room 16 he started screaming. He leaned down into my face, his breath nearly toxicâcoffee, spearmint, a clogged drain.
All I heard after that was
your brother . . . your brother.
I was in the habit, then, of denying, as much as possible, the existence of my brother, or at least the existence of any relationship between us, or, if that didnât work, I usually pleaded about how ineffectual I was concerning him, how, yeah, he was my brother, but we didnât really communicate much.
I said I couldnât help; I couldnât do it; he wouldnât listen to me. But Mr. Kraft already had me by the arm, leading me to my brother.
We walked down the long halls, past the yellow lockers, past classrooms, past all the kids I knew, the kids I wanted desperately to like me. We walked and walked and I wanted to go home, to walk out the door. My sneakers squeaked, my jeans swished. I could hear the hair move under Kraftâs shirt.
The door was open, Miss Smythe standing in the hallway, waiting, I guess, for me, as if I knew what to do.
I sighed, felt faint, but kept walking, listening to my sneakers, my jeans, Kraftâs chest hair. I walked into the classroom without looking at anyone, feeling them all looking at me. Why did this have to be
my
brother? What had I ever done?
Someone giggled, but mostly it was all somber silence, the energy having been sucked out of the room. By now some of the kids saw Michael as an actual threat.
My brother had tears streaming down his face, one hanging off his chin. He stopped laughing and crying when he saw me. There we were, staring at each other, in a dead silence except for the low hum of the heating unit, the muffled buzz of the bright fluorescent lights.
I was scared. Thatâs what I remember more than any one detailâthat feeling of complete fear and helplessness that would come back to me over the years. Sometimes, even now, almost fifteen years later, when I'm lying in bed with my pregnant wife, in our nice comfortable life, I get this sensation that feels like falling but isnât, and I think,
I once had a brother named Michael,
and this simple fact weighs on me more than my life, weighs more than God, and I spend days afterward depressed, unable to read, unable to work. That day I could taste my fear the way you can taste the beginning of a cold, the way you can taste a penny. This all seemed so much bigger than me. It was so much bigger than me.
I gently touched Michaelâs arm, unable to think of anything to say. And touching him was a foreign thing, as awkward as a first kiss.
He looked up at me, eyes empty, face shining with tears.
Greg, he said. Jesus. Fuck.
He stood up, simple as that, completely calm. We were face to face. He
Similar Books
