about him. Something wrong, other than his fucked hands. I move to an enormous nearby tree and press my back up against it. I’m a sneaky, badass private detective. I slide down the tree to its base and pivot, peering out at him. 8-Fingers sorts through keys with his sad, remaining digits, and walks to the back of his car. He pops the trunk and leans in. He rearranges whatever is inside—spare tire, ice scraper, gym bag, books, windshield wiper fluid, flares, a dead body, his missing fingers. Who the fuck knows?
At the entrance to the school by the Byron Hall sign, a familiar-looking car signals a turn, waiting for a few cars to pass, then accelerates into the teachers’ lot. The car’s engine runs smooth and quiet. Sunlight glints off of the windshield, creating a phenomenal glare. It stops behind the bald man, and the window goes down.
This car belongs to my father and he is right behind the wheel. The great Ballentine Barker shakes 8-Fingers’ hand in that acceptable way men exchange hand hugs. Who the fuck is this guy and how does Dad know him?
8-Fingers hands Dad a thin book and a plastic case, a DVD or CD. Dad tosses them into the passenger seat. Dad salutes, his hand at his forehead, chopping it down, and 8-Fingers returns the salute with his fucked-up hand. Dad rolls up the window, slips the car into reverse, and backs out of the faculty parking lot. 8-Fingerswatches my father disappear into traffic. Sickness returns to my body, a scourge of hot and cold panic sets in.
I breathe. An uneven lightness lifts my head. Tiny, white circles spiral and pop, clouding my vision. A headache roars up behind my eyes. My skin breaks out into a cold sweat. I haven’t taken that
goddamn thing
, my Ritalin, today and my body is ringing me up to say hello, to inform me that I am a sick young man and need to be back on medication to regulate myself. I focus on my breathing. The spots clear away. The lightness is still there. The roar fades to an echo of a freight train churning down a distant track.
I run.
I blast through the bushes to the sidewalk.
Brother Lee. Like some kind of mini-ninja. An Asian Christian Brother assassin. His hand grips my collar, like the scruff of a cat, and eases me into the chain-link fence of the tennis courts
“Mr. Barker,” Brother Lee says. “We not met yet. I’m Brother Lee. Why you not in class, Mr. Barker?”
19
B rother Lee pushes me through the odd hallway by my elbow and aims me toward a closed classroom door. “Knock, Mr. Barker.”
I make a fist and place it below the vertical window in the door. I want to knock, if only to rid myself of Brother Lee, but I cannot move my fist. It remains still against the door in a peaceful state of possibility.
“Knock, Mr. Barker,” Brother Lee says. Brother Lee bangs on the door himself with an open hand of fury until the door swings open.
“Brother Lee.” 8-Fingers adjusts his blue-rimmed frames and leans against the doorframe crossing his arms at his chest. “To what do I owe this honor?”
I see my classmates behind 8-Fingers. They look excited to witness this embarrassment.
“Mr. Rembrandt, are you missing anything?” Brother Lee asks.
“Thank you for finding him, Brother. High school can be disorienting for some freshmen. They have a tendency to disappear.”
“He was very lost.”
“Where did this young man think we were having class today?”
“Tennis courts.”
“Really,” Mr. Rembrandt says, smiling. “Tennis courts.” Mr. Rembrandt wears a bright blue necktie with white polka dots tied in a Limp Dick knot. “What’s your name, son?”
“Jeremy,” I say.
“Jeremy. Jeremy. Jeremy.” He repeats my name. “Does Jeremy have a last name like everyone else in the world?”
“Barker,” Brother Lee says.
“My name is Jeremy Barker,” I say.
Mr. Rembrandt points to a seat in the back next to a big, black kid and closes the door. Dirtbag Boy and Super Shy Kid are seated on the opposite side of the room,
At the entrance to the school by the Byron Hall sign, a familiar-looking car signals a turn, waiting for a few cars to pass, then accelerates into the teachers’ lot. The car’s engine runs smooth and quiet. Sunlight glints off of the windshield, creating a phenomenal glare. It stops behind the bald man, and the window goes down.
This car belongs to my father and he is right behind the wheel. The great Ballentine Barker shakes 8-Fingers’ hand in that acceptable way men exchange hand hugs. Who the fuck is this guy and how does Dad know him?
8-Fingers hands Dad a thin book and a plastic case, a DVD or CD. Dad tosses them into the passenger seat. Dad salutes, his hand at his forehead, chopping it down, and 8-Fingers returns the salute with his fucked-up hand. Dad rolls up the window, slips the car into reverse, and backs out of the faculty parking lot. 8-Fingerswatches my father disappear into traffic. Sickness returns to my body, a scourge of hot and cold panic sets in.
I breathe. An uneven lightness lifts my head. Tiny, white circles spiral and pop, clouding my vision. A headache roars up behind my eyes. My skin breaks out into a cold sweat. I haven’t taken that
goddamn thing
, my Ritalin, today and my body is ringing me up to say hello, to inform me that I am a sick young man and need to be back on medication to regulate myself. I focus on my breathing. The spots clear away. The lightness is still there. The roar fades to an echo of a freight train churning down a distant track.
I run.
I blast through the bushes to the sidewalk.
Brother Lee. Like some kind of mini-ninja. An Asian Christian Brother assassin. His hand grips my collar, like the scruff of a cat, and eases me into the chain-link fence of the tennis courts
“Mr. Barker,” Brother Lee says. “We not met yet. I’m Brother Lee. Why you not in class, Mr. Barker?”
19
B rother Lee pushes me through the odd hallway by my elbow and aims me toward a closed classroom door. “Knock, Mr. Barker.”
I make a fist and place it below the vertical window in the door. I want to knock, if only to rid myself of Brother Lee, but I cannot move my fist. It remains still against the door in a peaceful state of possibility.
“Knock, Mr. Barker,” Brother Lee says. Brother Lee bangs on the door himself with an open hand of fury until the door swings open.
“Brother Lee.” 8-Fingers adjusts his blue-rimmed frames and leans against the doorframe crossing his arms at his chest. “To what do I owe this honor?”
I see my classmates behind 8-Fingers. They look excited to witness this embarrassment.
“Mr. Rembrandt, are you missing anything?” Brother Lee asks.
“Thank you for finding him, Brother. High school can be disorienting for some freshmen. They have a tendency to disappear.”
“He was very lost.”
“Where did this young man think we were having class today?”
“Tennis courts.”
“Really,” Mr. Rembrandt says, smiling. “Tennis courts.” Mr. Rembrandt wears a bright blue necktie with white polka dots tied in a Limp Dick knot. “What’s your name, son?”
“Jeremy,” I say.
“Jeremy. Jeremy. Jeremy.” He repeats my name. “Does Jeremy have a last name like everyone else in the world?”
“Barker,” Brother Lee says.
“My name is Jeremy Barker,” I say.
Mr. Rembrandt points to a seat in the back next to a big, black kid and closes the door. Dirtbag Boy and Super Shy Kid are seated on the opposite side of the room,
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