said.
“What?” His mouth was full. I stood up and walked into the kitchenette, stuck a finger in the cake, licked off the frosting.
Dad swallowed. “Don’t you have homework?” he said.
“I did it.”
“Good kid,” he said.
“Good cake?”
“That’s what I said,” he said. “Good cake.”
The next day at school I walked the halls with my head down.
“Stop staring at me,” someone said.
“Andrew Stronifer is staring at me,” someone else said.
Class was no refuge. When Ms. Castillo said, “Andrew,” I banged my head against the table. When Mr. Trund said, “Come to the board and try this equation,” I stood hunched, chalk in hand, and wrote the number 666 next to the equals sign. They sent me to Father Gutierrez for counseling.
His office was simple, adorned only with hanging rosary beads and a portrait of Mary cradling her young child. Soft jazz played in the background, a trumpet moving in short bursts, a clinking piano. I sat across from the priest. He nodded at me as though he understood, knew God’s world was a difficult one to navigate. I shut my eyes.
“How are you?” Father Gutierrez said.
“I’m Jewish,” I said.
There was a different counselor for Jewish kids, a social worker named Javier whose office was lined with science-fiction books and posters from Star Trek conventions. He had shag carpet eyebrows and miniature hands, and instead of talking about my family he lent me books with intricately designed covers featuring slutty space-babes and men whose heads were half robot.
I saw Javier after school on Tuesdays. Afterwards, instead of being picked up by Luis, who had already driven Jane home, I caught the number seven bus in town, riding it out of the Grove and back to Coral Gables. I liked the smell of the bus, and I liked the people on it who didn’t look up. My parents would have flipped if they knew I was taking the bus, but they weren’t paying attention to me. They hadn’t mentioned the increasing length of my hair, or the way I talked back in mumbles.
Summer became summer which became summer. There were no seasons, just heat and air-conditioning. Technically, it was almost Christmas.
One day while I waited for the bus with crossed arms to cover my armpit stains, someone called me from behind a tree.
“Hey, Triple Six,” the voice said. I kept my head down.
“Don’t worry, Triple Six, it’s cool.” There were two of them, lanky and pube-faced, peeking out. I walked over.
“Quick, hit this,” one of them said, and handed me the remnants of a joint. I’d never smoked pot before, but only because I’d never been offered it. I took the joint and held it to my mouth.
“You gotta inhale,” the other said. He was taller and pockmarked. I’d seen him around school, squirreling down the halls. I tried to push the smoke down and coughed.
“Quiet,” Squirrel Boy said. “We’ll get busted.” I passed the joint to the other guy, who I’d never seen before. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a white T-shirt with Charles Manson’s face on it.
“Celia Escarole is a cunt fork,” he said. He had a man’s voice, almost Russian sounding it was so deep.
“What’s a cunt fork?” I said.
“You know,” Squirrel said. “A johnson scraper.”
“A toothed twat,” Deep Voice said.
“Oh,” I said. I was trying to figure out if I could feel the weed. We each took another puff and then Squirrel put out the joint with his foot.
“Squirrel Boy,” I said.
“Who’s Squirrel Boy?”
“You,” I said. “You’re Squirrel Boy.”
“Triple Six is totally lit.”
“Am I?”
We walked across the bridge. A jogging bodybuilder almost knocked me over.
“What a pec-tard,” Squirrel said. These were my people, I thought. They had words for things I’d wanted to name.
Back home, I lay on the couch. Jane and her friend Cressida were doing homework at the table. Cressida had wire-rimmed specs and braces, but she was pretty.
I was
“What?” His mouth was full. I stood up and walked into the kitchenette, stuck a finger in the cake, licked off the frosting.
Dad swallowed. “Don’t you have homework?” he said.
“I did it.”
“Good kid,” he said.
“Good cake?”
“That’s what I said,” he said. “Good cake.”
The next day at school I walked the halls with my head down.
“Stop staring at me,” someone said.
“Andrew Stronifer is staring at me,” someone else said.
Class was no refuge. When Ms. Castillo said, “Andrew,” I banged my head against the table. When Mr. Trund said, “Come to the board and try this equation,” I stood hunched, chalk in hand, and wrote the number 666 next to the equals sign. They sent me to Father Gutierrez for counseling.
His office was simple, adorned only with hanging rosary beads and a portrait of Mary cradling her young child. Soft jazz played in the background, a trumpet moving in short bursts, a clinking piano. I sat across from the priest. He nodded at me as though he understood, knew God’s world was a difficult one to navigate. I shut my eyes.
“How are you?” Father Gutierrez said.
“I’m Jewish,” I said.
There was a different counselor for Jewish kids, a social worker named Javier whose office was lined with science-fiction books and posters from Star Trek conventions. He had shag carpet eyebrows and miniature hands, and instead of talking about my family he lent me books with intricately designed covers featuring slutty space-babes and men whose heads were half robot.
I saw Javier after school on Tuesdays. Afterwards, instead of being picked up by Luis, who had already driven Jane home, I caught the number seven bus in town, riding it out of the Grove and back to Coral Gables. I liked the smell of the bus, and I liked the people on it who didn’t look up. My parents would have flipped if they knew I was taking the bus, but they weren’t paying attention to me. They hadn’t mentioned the increasing length of my hair, or the way I talked back in mumbles.
Summer became summer which became summer. There were no seasons, just heat and air-conditioning. Technically, it was almost Christmas.
One day while I waited for the bus with crossed arms to cover my armpit stains, someone called me from behind a tree.
“Hey, Triple Six,” the voice said. I kept my head down.
“Don’t worry, Triple Six, it’s cool.” There were two of them, lanky and pube-faced, peeking out. I walked over.
“Quick, hit this,” one of them said, and handed me the remnants of a joint. I’d never smoked pot before, but only because I’d never been offered it. I took the joint and held it to my mouth.
“You gotta inhale,” the other said. He was taller and pockmarked. I’d seen him around school, squirreling down the halls. I tried to push the smoke down and coughed.
“Quiet,” Squirrel Boy said. “We’ll get busted.” I passed the joint to the other guy, who I’d never seen before. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a white T-shirt with Charles Manson’s face on it.
“Celia Escarole is a cunt fork,” he said. He had a man’s voice, almost Russian sounding it was so deep.
“What’s a cunt fork?” I said.
“You know,” Squirrel said. “A johnson scraper.”
“A toothed twat,” Deep Voice said.
“Oh,” I said. I was trying to figure out if I could feel the weed. We each took another puff and then Squirrel put out the joint with his foot.
“Squirrel Boy,” I said.
“Who’s Squirrel Boy?”
“You,” I said. “You’re Squirrel Boy.”
“Triple Six is totally lit.”
“Am I?”
We walked across the bridge. A jogging bodybuilder almost knocked me over.
“What a pec-tard,” Squirrel said. These were my people, I thought. They had words for things I’d wanted to name.
Back home, I lay on the couch. Jane and her friend Cressida were doing homework at the table. Cressida had wire-rimmed specs and braces, but she was pretty.
I was
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