street after a storm, throwing off sparks, dancing like a thick black snake. Sometimes, listening to the sounds grow louder, watching the letters multiply, he would walk into walls or get lost heading home from the bus stop. When that happened, Uncle Steve would teach him the concentration game. That's how his uncle stole all those bases when he played baseball at U.M. Focusing on the pitcher, studying every twitch, knowing whether he would go to the plate, or try to pick him off first base.
"You're gonna be even better than me at the concentration game, kiddo, because your brain's a Ferrari and mine's an old pickup truck."
But it didn't feel that way. Sometimes Bobby thought there was too much floating around in his head, like Grandpop's stews where he tossed in snapper heads and mackerel tails and called it bouillabaisse.
Bouillabaisse. USE A SLOB ALIBI.
The letters ricocheted inside his skull.
Noise. Face. Fish.
He tried to clear out all the other images and draw a picture of the face in the window. For several moments, nothing. Then . . .
A woman!
What else? Bobby played cop, like on the TV shows. What color hair? How old? Any identifying marks?
She looked familiar.
She looked like Mom!
Only cleaner. Bobby remembered the way his mother had looked on the farm. She was carrying cold soup into the shed where he was locked up. Her face streaked with soot from the fireplace, her eyes watery and far away. Totally zonked on stuff she smoked or inhaled or injected. That night, Uncle Steve broke into the shed to take him away. Lots of images there.
The bearded man with the walking stick.
The man smelled like wet straw and tobacco. Sometimes he slept in Mom's bed, and sometimes, after they yelled and hit each other, he would spend the night on the floor of the shed, farting and cursing. Bobby had watched the man carve the stick from a solid piece of wood. It was as long as a cane, but thicker, with a curved top like a shepherd's staff. The man had polished it and painted it with a shiny varnish.
Whoosh! Ker-thomp!
The sounds from that night. The man had tried to hit Uncle Steve with the staff. But Uncle Steve was very quick and strong, too, stronger than he looked. He wrestled the staff away and swung it like a baseball bat. Whoosh. Then, ker-thomp, the stick struck the man's head, sounding like a bat hitting a ball. Home run.
Bobby remembered Uncle Steve carrying him through the woods, slipping on wet stones, but never falling. Bobby could feel his uncle's heart beating as he ran. Instead of slowing down, he ran faster, Bobby wondering how anyone could go so fast while carrying another person, even someone as skinny as him.
Ever since that night, Bobby had lived with Uncle Steve. They were best buds. But Bobby couldn't tell him about Mom in the window. Uncle Steve hated Mom, even though she was his sister.
"My worthless sister Janice."
That's what he called her when he didn't think Bobby was listening.
There was another reason to keep quiet, too. It might only have been a dream.
* * *
Bobby spotted Maria kneeling at her locker, her shirt riding up the back of her low-rise jeans, revealing the dainty knobs of her spinal column, like the peaks of a mountain range. He caught a glimpse of her smooth skin, disappearing into the top of her black panties. Black panties. PACK A SIN BELT. Maria was the hottest hottie in the sixth grade. Caramel skin, hair as black as her panties. Eyes as dark as the obsidian rock Bobby handed her in earth science class, their hands touching. Maria Munoz-Goldberg.
Bobby crouched down at his own locker. He wanted to say something, but what?
Maria had taped photos of Hillary Duff and Chad Michael Murray to the inside of her locker. Bobby had seen them in that dipshit movie, A Cinderella Story, but maybe slamming Maria's favorite actors wasn't the way to go.
What could he do? Maria lived only a block away on Loquat, 573 steps from his front door. Should he tell her
"You're gonna be even better than me at the concentration game, kiddo, because your brain's a Ferrari and mine's an old pickup truck."
But it didn't feel that way. Sometimes Bobby thought there was too much floating around in his head, like Grandpop's stews where he tossed in snapper heads and mackerel tails and called it bouillabaisse.
Bouillabaisse. USE A SLOB ALIBI.
The letters ricocheted inside his skull.
Noise. Face. Fish.
He tried to clear out all the other images and draw a picture of the face in the window. For several moments, nothing. Then . . .
A woman!
What else? Bobby played cop, like on the TV shows. What color hair? How old? Any identifying marks?
She looked familiar.
She looked like Mom!
Only cleaner. Bobby remembered the way his mother had looked on the farm. She was carrying cold soup into the shed where he was locked up. Her face streaked with soot from the fireplace, her eyes watery and far away. Totally zonked on stuff she smoked or inhaled or injected. That night, Uncle Steve broke into the shed to take him away. Lots of images there.
The bearded man with the walking stick.
The man smelled like wet straw and tobacco. Sometimes he slept in Mom's bed, and sometimes, after they yelled and hit each other, he would spend the night on the floor of the shed, farting and cursing. Bobby had watched the man carve the stick from a solid piece of wood. It was as long as a cane, but thicker, with a curved top like a shepherd's staff. The man had polished it and painted it with a shiny varnish.
Whoosh! Ker-thomp!
The sounds from that night. The man had tried to hit Uncle Steve with the staff. But Uncle Steve was very quick and strong, too, stronger than he looked. He wrestled the staff away and swung it like a baseball bat. Whoosh. Then, ker-thomp, the stick struck the man's head, sounding like a bat hitting a ball. Home run.
Bobby remembered Uncle Steve carrying him through the woods, slipping on wet stones, but never falling. Bobby could feel his uncle's heart beating as he ran. Instead of slowing down, he ran faster, Bobby wondering how anyone could go so fast while carrying another person, even someone as skinny as him.
Ever since that night, Bobby had lived with Uncle Steve. They were best buds. But Bobby couldn't tell him about Mom in the window. Uncle Steve hated Mom, even though she was his sister.
"My worthless sister Janice."
That's what he called her when he didn't think Bobby was listening.
There was another reason to keep quiet, too. It might only have been a dream.
* * *
Bobby spotted Maria kneeling at her locker, her shirt riding up the back of her low-rise jeans, revealing the dainty knobs of her spinal column, like the peaks of a mountain range. He caught a glimpse of her smooth skin, disappearing into the top of her black panties. Black panties. PACK A SIN BELT. Maria was the hottest hottie in the sixth grade. Caramel skin, hair as black as her panties. Eyes as dark as the obsidian rock Bobby handed her in earth science class, their hands touching. Maria Munoz-Goldberg.
Bobby crouched down at his own locker. He wanted to say something, but what?
Maria had taped photos of Hillary Duff and Chad Michael Murray to the inside of her locker. Bobby had seen them in that dipshit movie, A Cinderella Story, but maybe slamming Maria's favorite actors wasn't the way to go.
What could he do? Maria lived only a block away on Loquat, 573 steps from his front door. Should he tell her
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