feel the skin of my stomach scrape against the rock. I skid to a stop, then lie still with my cheek against the pavement.
“I didn’t even have to do anything,” Joe Butt says as he kicks me in the side. “But I can’t help myself.”
His laughter echoes in my ears as he walks away. I shut my eyes and clench my fists. My stomach burns, from my slide against the pavement, and aches, from Joe Butt’s kick. I pull myself into a sitting position. Tar blackens the entire front of my white shirt, which is ripped at the bottom, and some of the buttons have popped off. My bare stomach bleeds in places. I open my palms. They, too, are ripped and bleeding, embedded with tiny rocks. I scream. Why can’t that guy just leave me alone? Especially today, the day of my interview, when I just wanted to look good.
I climb to my feet. According to my watch, I have one hour until my interview. The location, a test prep center two towns down the highway, is 45 minutes away. I calculate how long it will take me to get home, clean my wounds, change my clothes, and drive to the test center. If I do this, I will be 10 minutes late. What is worse: being late, or looking like you’ve been hit by a car? I can’t say.
I get into my car and grip the steering wheel, causing my hands to burn as the gashes meet the leather. The car is hot from the sun beating down. In the rearview mirror, I see that sweat shines on my forehead. I jerk the engine to life. I have to go the interview without getting cleaned up. If I’m late, they might not even see me. I can explain away looking like I do, but I can’t explain anything if they won’t even see me.
If Joe Butt winds up ruining this for me, I may have to hire someone to murder him.
I speed down the highway with the windows cracked open, letting the air roar in my ears. In my head, I try to recapture my perfect interview scenario: me, looking confident, speaking intelligently about the rings of Saturn. The interviewer nods and smiles. He scribbles on a notepad. He likes me and wants to admit me to GLOBE. He overlooks the fact that my shirt is torn and my stomach is bleeding. He thinks, This kid’s so darned smart we’ve got to take him, bleeding or not.
I pull up to the test prep center ten minutes early. I look in the rearview mirror and run my fingers through my hair, scolding myself for not getting it cut. I look like a porcupine. And I’m bleeding. And I’m never going to be admitted to GLOBE and Sammie is never going to come back and I’m going to be stuck in Boorsville my whole life, with my parents, getting beat up by Joe Butt until I’m 85 and croak.
I have to get a hold of myself.
I get out of the car and walk across the parking lot to the front doors. The building is very bland: flat and rectangular, brown in color. I push through the glass doors into a blast of air conditioning, and find a lobby with lots of people sitting in cushioned chairs, while a receptionist behind a window types at a computer. I walk toward her. A few of the people look up and stare at me, eyeing my bloodied body, but I focus on keeping my back straight and my chin held high. Confident. Intelligent. I must be these things.
“Name?” says the receptionist as I stop in front of the glass. She doesn’t look up from her computer screen.
“Damien Savage.”
She looks up. Her eyes narrow on my face, and her lips press into a tight line. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she disliked me. But that’s impossible, right? She doesn’t even know me.
“Take a seat,” she chirps, turning back to her computer. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
I walk to one of the seats and slump down, stretching my hands over my knees. The room is completely silent, except for the sound of a pencil scratching paper. I look around. A girl in the corner scrawls into a spiral-bound notebook, a
“I didn’t even have to do anything,” Joe Butt says as he kicks me in the side. “But I can’t help myself.”
His laughter echoes in my ears as he walks away. I shut my eyes and clench my fists. My stomach burns, from my slide against the pavement, and aches, from Joe Butt’s kick. I pull myself into a sitting position. Tar blackens the entire front of my white shirt, which is ripped at the bottom, and some of the buttons have popped off. My bare stomach bleeds in places. I open my palms. They, too, are ripped and bleeding, embedded with tiny rocks. I scream. Why can’t that guy just leave me alone? Especially today, the day of my interview, when I just wanted to look good.
I climb to my feet. According to my watch, I have one hour until my interview. The location, a test prep center two towns down the highway, is 45 minutes away. I calculate how long it will take me to get home, clean my wounds, change my clothes, and drive to the test center. If I do this, I will be 10 minutes late. What is worse: being late, or looking like you’ve been hit by a car? I can’t say.
I get into my car and grip the steering wheel, causing my hands to burn as the gashes meet the leather. The car is hot from the sun beating down. In the rearview mirror, I see that sweat shines on my forehead. I jerk the engine to life. I have to go the interview without getting cleaned up. If I’m late, they might not even see me. I can explain away looking like I do, but I can’t explain anything if they won’t even see me.
If Joe Butt winds up ruining this for me, I may have to hire someone to murder him.
I speed down the highway with the windows cracked open, letting the air roar in my ears. In my head, I try to recapture my perfect interview scenario: me, looking confident, speaking intelligently about the rings of Saturn. The interviewer nods and smiles. He scribbles on a notepad. He likes me and wants to admit me to GLOBE. He overlooks the fact that my shirt is torn and my stomach is bleeding. He thinks, This kid’s so darned smart we’ve got to take him, bleeding or not.
I pull up to the test prep center ten minutes early. I look in the rearview mirror and run my fingers through my hair, scolding myself for not getting it cut. I look like a porcupine. And I’m bleeding. And I’m never going to be admitted to GLOBE and Sammie is never going to come back and I’m going to be stuck in Boorsville my whole life, with my parents, getting beat up by Joe Butt until I’m 85 and croak.
I have to get a hold of myself.
I get out of the car and walk across the parking lot to the front doors. The building is very bland: flat and rectangular, brown in color. I push through the glass doors into a blast of air conditioning, and find a lobby with lots of people sitting in cushioned chairs, while a receptionist behind a window types at a computer. I walk toward her. A few of the people look up and stare at me, eyeing my bloodied body, but I focus on keeping my back straight and my chin held high. Confident. Intelligent. I must be these things.
“Name?” says the receptionist as I stop in front of the glass. She doesn’t look up from her computer screen.
“Damien Savage.”
She looks up. Her eyes narrow on my face, and her lips press into a tight line. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she disliked me. But that’s impossible, right? She doesn’t even know me.
“Take a seat,” she chirps, turning back to her computer. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
I walk to one of the seats and slump down, stretching my hands over my knees. The room is completely silent, except for the sound of a pencil scratching paper. I look around. A girl in the corner scrawls into a spiral-bound notebook, a
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