be more concerned with being behind a camera than being a beautiful boy. She would have found the case in my back pocket, had she patted me down.
Once inside the visiting room, I ran to the restroom and traced the sign of the cross across my chest. Grunts and moans stopped me at nineteen. On the reflective tile, I made out a man with his face pressed against the wall. I leaned closer, peaked over inside the next stall through the gap at the end of the divider, and saw another man behind him, pumping his body. The man panted. The wall steamed. The man said, kiss me . I squeezed into the corner of the stall, smashing my face against the tile. Some of the bulbs needed replacing, rendering the man into a blur of movement and smudged lips. His skin, even and pale, revealed his young age. He slid his fingers through the opening. The screws that connected the divider to the wall screeched. He pulled it back further. Tattooed on his neck was the word rebel. The men in the stall were both rebels, and I was a co-conspirator. As his breath steamed the tile, I blew on the wall. We shared the same breath until a hand banged on their stall.
âLet us finish,â he yelled and they continued.
Feeling dizzy, I rolled my head away from him and covered my mouth to smother the laughter. The sound that came through was like stone being dragged across wood.
Chapter 13
S lipping my finger behind the paper, the book in my lap opens to my babysitter. She has cared for me since I was two. Fifteen years later she is still shield-like, quiet as a snake, and droopy-eyed. The bags under her eyes hang to her teeth. Maybe she is fifty or sixty-five, I do not know. Her mouth has never opened in front of me, but the way she says her name, Dorothy Parker, is as fixed in my head as a tree full of cicadas in the summertime. Her voice is as tattered as her grandmotherâs wedding dress. Countless nights, I imagined it and made it as sharp as the knife in my hand. I replace the wrinkled newspaper with Brettâs pocket knife. The noticeable bulge in between the pages might catch my Fatherâs eye. The last time he found a weapon in his house he broke the personâs jaw that hid it. That hammer, hidden among beads, bras, hosiery, and silk scarves serves as a reminder what could happen â a separation.
In spite of that, I am broken with happiness. The knife is a connection; a shape to tessellate Brett and me together, like triangles, so our heads touch. I tilt the book, and the pocket knife slides out, dropping beside my thigh to the bed. When extended, the blade is seven inches in length and three inches in width. The contoured handle, with wood accent, has his initials, B.F., carved into the clear pine. A bar on the knife moves backward and forward into a slot. The motion locks the blade into place. I push the bar gently toward the handle to close the knife and open it again.
The tip halfway covers the word blood on the paper. I stare at the word, in black on newsprint, and an image of meat sellers develops in the darkroom tray of my memory. The print, prodded with tongs, slowly reveals itself. They are sleepy-eyed cutting up lamb and goat and throw the guts on the ground for crying kittens. The street is unpaved and covered with wind-scattered trash. This sandy world is as familiar to me as hearing names like Mohammed, Aasha, Hassan, and Leyla screamed under low sale prices.
I swipe my thumb across the Somali newspaper. The letters E, F, and I become uncovered. I move my thumb more, and the letters N and K appear. Stabbed, robbed, and left bleeding , a woman told the reporter. Her statement and others like hers shocked people we know. The knife in my hand will never cut another person â a mango maybe and in secret. I rub my finger over the thin groove of Brettâs initials. The etching is perfect, about the same size as my thumbnail. BF sounds like the word boyfriend, but it could also mean best friend.
A glare from the
Once inside the visiting room, I ran to the restroom and traced the sign of the cross across my chest. Grunts and moans stopped me at nineteen. On the reflective tile, I made out a man with his face pressed against the wall. I leaned closer, peaked over inside the next stall through the gap at the end of the divider, and saw another man behind him, pumping his body. The man panted. The wall steamed. The man said, kiss me . I squeezed into the corner of the stall, smashing my face against the tile. Some of the bulbs needed replacing, rendering the man into a blur of movement and smudged lips. His skin, even and pale, revealed his young age. He slid his fingers through the opening. The screws that connected the divider to the wall screeched. He pulled it back further. Tattooed on his neck was the word rebel. The men in the stall were both rebels, and I was a co-conspirator. As his breath steamed the tile, I blew on the wall. We shared the same breath until a hand banged on their stall.
âLet us finish,â he yelled and they continued.
Feeling dizzy, I rolled my head away from him and covered my mouth to smother the laughter. The sound that came through was like stone being dragged across wood.
Chapter 13
S lipping my finger behind the paper, the book in my lap opens to my babysitter. She has cared for me since I was two. Fifteen years later she is still shield-like, quiet as a snake, and droopy-eyed. The bags under her eyes hang to her teeth. Maybe she is fifty or sixty-five, I do not know. Her mouth has never opened in front of me, but the way she says her name, Dorothy Parker, is as fixed in my head as a tree full of cicadas in the summertime. Her voice is as tattered as her grandmotherâs wedding dress. Countless nights, I imagined it and made it as sharp as the knife in my hand. I replace the wrinkled newspaper with Brettâs pocket knife. The noticeable bulge in between the pages might catch my Fatherâs eye. The last time he found a weapon in his house he broke the personâs jaw that hid it. That hammer, hidden among beads, bras, hosiery, and silk scarves serves as a reminder what could happen â a separation.
In spite of that, I am broken with happiness. The knife is a connection; a shape to tessellate Brett and me together, like triangles, so our heads touch. I tilt the book, and the pocket knife slides out, dropping beside my thigh to the bed. When extended, the blade is seven inches in length and three inches in width. The contoured handle, with wood accent, has his initials, B.F., carved into the clear pine. A bar on the knife moves backward and forward into a slot. The motion locks the blade into place. I push the bar gently toward the handle to close the knife and open it again.
The tip halfway covers the word blood on the paper. I stare at the word, in black on newsprint, and an image of meat sellers develops in the darkroom tray of my memory. The print, prodded with tongs, slowly reveals itself. They are sleepy-eyed cutting up lamb and goat and throw the guts on the ground for crying kittens. The street is unpaved and covered with wind-scattered trash. This sandy world is as familiar to me as hearing names like Mohammed, Aasha, Hassan, and Leyla screamed under low sale prices.
I swipe my thumb across the Somali newspaper. The letters E, F, and I become uncovered. I move my thumb more, and the letters N and K appear. Stabbed, robbed, and left bleeding , a woman told the reporter. Her statement and others like hers shocked people we know. The knife in my hand will never cut another person â a mango maybe and in secret. I rub my finger over the thin groove of Brettâs initials. The etching is perfect, about the same size as my thumbnail. BF sounds like the word boyfriend, but it could also mean best friend.
A glare from the
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