did I do? What about the guy who stabbed me?”
Fusco raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said you were poked.”
“Either way, I’m the victim,” Dave says, teeth clenched.
“You’re a victim in one sense,” Fusco says, “but not in every sense. We have rules, insurance liability, standards of behaviour. Plus, we don’t know who attacked you. ‘Italian-looking African-American’ . . . I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean—” here went the fingers again, “—‘someone’s cousin,’ doesn’t really cut it. We do know, however, that you brought contraband, the Krazy Glue, which might be an inhalant, into the school, and then used it inappropriately.”
Alvarez rises from her crooked posture and says, “Damnit, just take the week off. It’s a vacation. I can use a week’s vacation too.”
“I left a message with your parents. Three, in fact. When do they come home?”
Dave stands. “My mother’s probably already home. Do I get a police escort or an ambulance ride too?”
“If you can’t walk, I’ll drive you home, Holbrook.”
Dave can walk. Dave walks out of the main office, down two flights of wide marbled steps and into the early autumn afternoon. The street is bare of the usual bustle of classmates that accompany lunch or dismissal. Dave almost feels like a real live human being for a moment, the sort of person who can go into a store and buy something, or look at a tree and appreciate it as he strolls by. Then like a breeze Erin appears beside him, takes the crook of his arm in hand, and without saying a thing leads him away from school, away from home, and down Newark Ave. Under their feet a Conrail train pulling a dozen tanker cars rumbles past and sends pigeons flying by the swarm.
CHAPTER 10
E ven back in the days of swilling cough medicine, I’d tell myself that at least I wasn’t going to end up being one of those guys who peaked in high school. That’s probably why the version of Dave I found most interesting was the one who did just that. His life was like watching a glacier melt. He was also one of the only ones who kept in contact with Ann instead of running, screaming, away from her. Actually, he still lived with her, in Bergen County. Jeremy died of an early heart attack, thanks to a congenital condition. Nothing so melodramatic as an insane alcoholic wife and a failure of a son took him down.
I never got used to my mother. She changed. When I was a kid, she was a dreamy drunk. A murmurer and forgetter. But something had turned, even before Dad’s death. The wine in her had fermented into a sour vinegar. And she couldn’t take care of herself, so I had to take her in. I’d stay out late after work, and she’d shriek at me till the neighbours called the police. Or I could come right home after work, but that would just mean a slower boil and an earlier climax. I tended to split the difference, rolling in around eight.
I liked the video store near my home. It had parking in the back—I always imagined it was for porno fans who didn’t know how to use the Internet—and the employees were always happy to see me. They were contractually obligated to smile and make conversation. Not like those Starbucks bitches, who marched us customers through the line like we were prisoners being deloused.
I wasn’t the sort of person so desperate for human attention that I flirted with every female retail employee I encounter.
Hey, Mindy! Heh heh, yeah, you have a nametag. I guess we’re on a first-name basis. . . .
Mindy really was very into movies. She kept good ones in reserve for me. Netflix can’t do that. Not nearly as well, anyway. She was a mousy girl. Mid-20s. No college for her because her folks were poor and she was unenthusiastic in school. Small boobs, like someone who used to be an athlete. Good smile, okay teeth. Doable, but . . .
I was sure she had a similar summary of me—chubby guy with glasses. Jewish nose. Works for the state. Doesn’t know how
Fusco raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said you were poked.”
“Either way, I’m the victim,” Dave says, teeth clenched.
“You’re a victim in one sense,” Fusco says, “but not in every sense. We have rules, insurance liability, standards of behaviour. Plus, we don’t know who attacked you. ‘Italian-looking African-American’ . . . I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean—” here went the fingers again, “—‘someone’s cousin,’ doesn’t really cut it. We do know, however, that you brought contraband, the Krazy Glue, which might be an inhalant, into the school, and then used it inappropriately.”
Alvarez rises from her crooked posture and says, “Damnit, just take the week off. It’s a vacation. I can use a week’s vacation too.”
“I left a message with your parents. Three, in fact. When do they come home?”
Dave stands. “My mother’s probably already home. Do I get a police escort or an ambulance ride too?”
“If you can’t walk, I’ll drive you home, Holbrook.”
Dave can walk. Dave walks out of the main office, down two flights of wide marbled steps and into the early autumn afternoon. The street is bare of the usual bustle of classmates that accompany lunch or dismissal. Dave almost feels like a real live human being for a moment, the sort of person who can go into a store and buy something, or look at a tree and appreciate it as he strolls by. Then like a breeze Erin appears beside him, takes the crook of his arm in hand, and without saying a thing leads him away from school, away from home, and down Newark Ave. Under their feet a Conrail train pulling a dozen tanker cars rumbles past and sends pigeons flying by the swarm.
CHAPTER 10
E ven back in the days of swilling cough medicine, I’d tell myself that at least I wasn’t going to end up being one of those guys who peaked in high school. That’s probably why the version of Dave I found most interesting was the one who did just that. His life was like watching a glacier melt. He was also one of the only ones who kept in contact with Ann instead of running, screaming, away from her. Actually, he still lived with her, in Bergen County. Jeremy died of an early heart attack, thanks to a congenital condition. Nothing so melodramatic as an insane alcoholic wife and a failure of a son took him down.
I never got used to my mother. She changed. When I was a kid, she was a dreamy drunk. A murmurer and forgetter. But something had turned, even before Dad’s death. The wine in her had fermented into a sour vinegar. And she couldn’t take care of herself, so I had to take her in. I’d stay out late after work, and she’d shriek at me till the neighbours called the police. Or I could come right home after work, but that would just mean a slower boil and an earlier climax. I tended to split the difference, rolling in around eight.
I liked the video store near my home. It had parking in the back—I always imagined it was for porno fans who didn’t know how to use the Internet—and the employees were always happy to see me. They were contractually obligated to smile and make conversation. Not like those Starbucks bitches, who marched us customers through the line like we were prisoners being deloused.
I wasn’t the sort of person so desperate for human attention that I flirted with every female retail employee I encounter.
Hey, Mindy! Heh heh, yeah, you have a nametag. I guess we’re on a first-name basis. . . .
Mindy really was very into movies. She kept good ones in reserve for me. Netflix can’t do that. Not nearly as well, anyway. She was a mousy girl. Mid-20s. No college for her because her folks were poor and she was unenthusiastic in school. Small boobs, like someone who used to be an athlete. Good smile, okay teeth. Doable, but . . .
I was sure she had a similar summary of me—chubby guy with glasses. Jewish nose. Works for the state. Doesn’t know how
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