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since Charlie had initiated me into the Mailbox Club. He still ignored me at school. I’d gone back to calling Dad, not every night, but weird times, when I figured he wouldn’t expect it. I still hated Gate, hated living with Mom.
    Now, Mom held out the paper. I saw it was a telephone bill. I looked away.
    â€œYou’ve been calling your father,” she said evenly.
    I didn’t answer.
    She tried again. “Twenty-two calls, Paul. Twenty-two one-minute calls to his answering machine. And he hasn’t called back.”
    â€œHow do you know he hasn’t?”
    â€œI know, sweetheart.”
    I didn’t need her sympathy, didn’t want it. Something inside made me yell, “You don’t know anything. He’s called a bunch of times, but late at night. We talk all the time.”
    â€œPaul…”
    â€œJust because you couldn’t hold on to him doesn’t mean he left me . It doesn’t mean…”
    I saw her restrain herself from reaching for me. “It shouldn’t mean that, honey. But it does. It isn’t your fault.”
    â€œOf course it’s not. It’s your fault. Your fault. You drove him away. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand you anymore. And you fucked me up so bad he couldn’t stand me either.”
    â€œDon’t use such language.”
    But the word felt good, liberating. So, I repeated it. “Fuck.” Then, again. And again. Because it made me someone else, someone normal and happy, someone who used words like that, like St. John. I repeated it, over and over until she walked away, wounded. Then, I was glad. And still, I kept repeating it, because that word was the only thing that kept me from crying.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    The knock didn’t startle me this time.
    â€œGive me a second,” I told Meat. I put on jeans, a T-shirt. I’d laid them aside, just in case.
    The ride was as wild as the first time, and I was as drunk—this time on something called Piesporter that Charlie’s parents had brought from Germany. I think it was wine. I climbed into St. John’s backseat after our tenth mailbox, feeling the alcohol seep through my system. Charlie said, “I’m hungry, St. John.”
    St. John put down his window and spat into the cooling night. “Everything’s closed, Charlie. It’s four A.M. ”
    â€œI know that,” Charlie said. He hadn’t been drinking, so he sounded reasonable.
    â€œSo what—?”
    â€œTurn here.” Charlie pointed to a street we’d nearly passed. St. John veered left with a string of obscenities. A few blocks later, Charlie instructed another turn, then another into a strip-mall parking lot.
    It was deserted. Abandoned cars loomed like crouching criminals. St. John glanced at Charlie but said nothing. He passed a consignment store window filled with battered strollers, a Chinese restaurant. We reached the 7-Eleven.
    â€œSee? Closed.”
    â€œMove along.” Charlie flicked his hand as if brushing a speck of dust. St. John rolled forward. At the end of the line, there was a bagel place, its pink neon sign announcing B GELS. Charlie held up a hand. “Here.”
    â€œBut it’s—”
    â€œI know it’s closed.” Charlie’s voice was patience personified. “That doesn’t mean we can’t eat here.” He gestured toward the pink-lit doorway. “See?”
    I made out two images. At first, I thought they were homeless people, which Miami had plenty of. I looked closer. They were sacks filled with bagels.
    â€œThey drop them off, each morning, early,” Charlie said. “They trust people to stay away out of the goodness of their hearts.” Charlie looked at Meat and me for the first time. “Take them.”
    I started. Seemed like wine made you drunk a different way than ouzo. Drowsy, dreamy, mind barely recognizing the body’s actions. Beside me, Meat