The Twelve-Fingered Boy Read Free

with the adjustment. “Where you from?”
    â€œLittle Rock.”
    â€œThat’s where I’m from, too. Where’d you go?”
    Silence. Maybe he’s slow. Didn’t understand the question.
    â€œSchool, you know? I went to Pulaski Heights. The Panthers. Rah rah. You?”
    â€œHome.”
    â€œHome? Whatdya mean?”
    â€œHome schooling. I never went to school.”
    â€œYou mean you just stayed at home? Didn’t go to school?”
    After that he stops talking, even when I prod. When I peek over the edge at the bottom bunk, he’s facing the wall, curled up. Maybe he’s asleep.
    Whatever.
    I read comics until I hear Booth’s voice calling lights-out and the door, my cell door, swings shut as though pushed by an invisible hand. There’s the click that indicates we’re locked down for the night.
    I feel more than hear the new kid shift, look around the darkened room, and then settle.
    I remember my first night. Hard to forget something like that.
    â€œHey, Jack.”
    Silence.
    â€œIt isn’t that bad. Okay? Might look bad now. But it’s not.”
    Hell, I don’t know how to soothe a titty-baby.
    More silence. Which skeeves me a little. Why can’t the kid react like a normal person, especially when someone’s trying to help him out?
    He might have fallen asleep. Could be. Maybe not.
    Hell, I don’t know.
    I wait, breathing slow. The trick is to make him think from my breathing that I’m asleep, but to stay awake and not let the deep breathing lull me down into the mattress. Into the pillow.
    When I’m sure Jack’s asleep, I sit up, tilt my head toward the air vent where the wall meets the ceiling, and put my mouth at the grate.
    â€œOx. You there, hoss?”
    I hear a little echo, maybe Ox adjusting the vent.
    â€œYeah. I told you not to call me that.”
    â€œWhat? Ox?”
    â€œNaw. Hoss. It’s like you’re saying I’m stupid or something.”
    â€œIt’s just a turn of phrase, bigun. But fine. I’ll stick to Ox. You know, like a farm animal. That cool? How’s that for you?”
    â€œShreve, one of these days…”
    â€œWhat? When you get sick of candy? When you get tired of stuffing chocolate bars down your hole? One of these days what?”
    â€œMan, you don’t have to be so uncool.” He pauses. “Uncool, man.”
    He’s thicker than a cinder block, but he’s got a point. He’s a hoss, a farm animal, and I shouldn’t whip him so hard.
    â€œListen, Ox.” I like the lug. I do. I like what he does for me. I try to put that into my voice. I hope it’ll carry through the vent. “I’m sorry, pard. Look. I scored a load of Heath bars. I know you love that toffee stuff. I got a couple with your name on it.” There’s a scratching and then an exhalation of air. Hard to tell if it’s the AC kicking on or if Ox is just mouth-breathing again.
    â€œI like toffee.”
    â€œThat’s good, bro. Real good. I’ll hit you up tomorrow. But I need you to run interference at midday Commons. And work escort right before lights out. Can you handle that? Two Heaths and a couple of Blow Pops?”
    There’s a gurgle at the other end of the vent. The blockhead is probably drooling on his chest like some Russian dog.
    Before Ox can answer there’s a chuff, and the air kicks on. I lie back on the bed and wait, hands cradled behind my head, working out the deals for tomorrow.

    On the inside, some folks don’t know what they want. Some folks have to be convinced they want what you got. Some folks have to be convinced they don’t want what you got. You have to scare them bad enough that they don’t think they can take it from you. It’s only been six months since I first came here, but now I can’t remember if the inside differs from the way it is outside. I doubt it really matters. I’m on the