The Last Child by John Hart Page A

tell you?” Jack spit in the dirt, a universal sign of disgust between the two boys. “Come on. Let’s do something. It makes you feel better. We both know it. And I can’t sit out here all day.”
    “No.”
    “Whatever,” Jack said, and shoved the map back between the spokes. He saw the feather tied to Johnny’s bike. It dangled from a cord looped around the seat post. He took it in his hand. “Hey, what’s this?”
    Johnny stared at his friend. “Nothing,” he said.
    Jack ran the feather between his fingers. Light made it glisten at the edges. He tilted it against the light. “It’s cool,” he said.
    “I said, leave it alone.”
    Jack saw the new angle in his friend’s shoulders, and he let the feather drop. It swung once on its cord. “Jeez. It was just a question.”
    Johnny relaxed his fingers. Jack was Jack. He meant no harm. “I heard that your brother picked Clemson.”
    “You heard that?”
    “It was all over the news.”
    Jack picked up a rock, rolled it from his good hand to his bad. “He’s already being scouted by the pros. He broke the record last week.”
    “What record?”
    “Career home runs.”
    “For the school?”
    Jack shook his head. “The state.”
    “Guess your old man is proud,” Johnny said.
    “His son is gonna be famous.” Jack’s smile looked real, but Johnny saw how he tucked his bad arm more tightly against his ribs. “Of course he’s proud.”
    They went back to drinking. The sun crawled higher, but the daylight seemed to dim. The air grew cool, as if the river itself had chilled. Johnny got halfway through his third beer, then put it down.
    Jack got drunk.
    They spoke no more of his brother.
    It was noon when they heard the car downshift on the road. It stopped at the bridge, then turned onto the old logging track that led to the high bank above them. “Shit.” Jack hid the beer cans. Johnny pulled on his shirt to cover the bruises, and Jack pretended that it was a normal thing to do. It was an old argument between them, whether or not to tell.
    A high, metal grill pushed through the weeds that grew between the ruts of the track, and Johnny saw that it was a pickup, waxed. Chrome threw off glints of sun and the windshield was mirrored. When it stopped, the engine revved, then died. Three of the four doors opened. Jack stood up straighter.
    Blue jeans. Boots. Thick arms. Johnny saw all of that as the older kids circled to the front of the truck. He’d seen them around. They were high school kids. Seventeen, eighteen years old. Grown men, or close to it. One had a pint of bourbon in his hand. All three were smoking cigarettes. They stood on a lip of earth where the bank fell away to the water. They looked down on Johnny, and one of them, a tall blond kid with a raspberry birthmark on his neck, nudged the driver. “Look at this,” he said. “Couple of junior high faggots.”
    The driver’s face showed no emotion. The guy with the bourbon took a pull on the bottle. Jack said, “Fuck off, Wayne.”
    Birthmark stopped laughing.
    “That’s right,” Jack said. “I know who you are.”
    The driver thumped the back of his hand on Birthmark’s chest. He was tall and well built, handsome in a postcard way. He regarded Wayne coolly, then pointed at Jack. “That’s Gerald Cross’s brother, so show him a little respect.”
    Wayne made a face. “That little dipshit? I don’t believe it.” He took a step, leaned over the bank and raised his voice. “Your brother should have signed with Carolina,” he said. “You tell him Clemson is for pussies.”
    “Is that where you’ll be going?” Johnny asked.
    The driver laughed. So did the kid holding the bourbon. Wayne’s face darkened, but the driver stepped forward, cut him off. “I know you, too,” he said to Johnny, then paused and took a drag on his cigarette. “I’m sorry about your sister.”
    “Wait a minute,” Wayne said, and pointed. “That’s this guy?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    The words came