The Twelve-Fingered Boy Read Free Page A

inside, and I’ll remain incarcerado for the next eighteen months.
    And the new kid? That Jack? How’s he going to figure into my plans?
    I’m fading to black, the air blowing above me, through the vent, out into the room, like darkness.

    It’s morning. There’s a buzz, and the door clicks and swings open. I hear boys whooping, cawing like crows, rapping homespun lyrics, mumbling, cursing as they roll out of their cells, getting ready for headcount. You can be a blind man in Casimir Juvie and still be able to function fine on scent and sound.
    I figured Booth would be here to give Jack the lowdown as to Casimir operations, but no dice. I’ve got to hold the little bugger’s hand.
    I hop down and grab the least stinky jumpsuit from the dresser. Bright orange, baby. Nothing rhymes with it. Nothing matches it.
    The kid doesn’t look like he’s slept at all. I wonder.
    He sits on his bed, looking like he doesn’t want to stand. I’m tugging on the jumpsuit, pulling the sleeves over my arms.
    â€œLook, they gave you the suit. So suit up. I’ll show you the mess hall. The food ain’t that bad.” I zip. “They’ve got to feed us pretty well—otherwise, lawsuits. You know. Kids.”
    Jack looks at me, tries to smile, fails, and then moves over to his dresser and takes out … guess what? … an orange jumper. I move on to the can and scrubbing the teeth. I might sample my own product, but I make sure the pearly whites get clean. Nothing inspires confidence like a toothless candy man.
    I come back in the room, and Jack’s standing there, trying to zip up his jumper, hands tugging at the tab.
    â€œThey stick, the zippers, until they’ve been washed a couple times. You got to grab the belly fabric and rip up.” I’m moving to help the kid when I see his fingers. Something’s weird there. Jack struggles to zip his jumper, and I’m standing there looking at his hands.
    I pull on my own jumper, over the greys of underwear and T-shirt, and then look back at Jack still struggling.
    â€œYou’ve really got to pull up hard…” I say. Looking again at his hands. He notices me looking at him, and he quickly turns his back. But not before I can get a count.
    â€œHoly crow,” I breathe. There’s not much else to say. The kid’s got extra fingers. They’re not stumpy or anything. His hands look normal. Just extra fingers. “Your hands.”
    Jack stops trying to zip and puts his hands behind his back.
    â€œJack. Holy crap. Your hands. You got like a gajillion fingers. What’s up with—”
    He says nothing. Big surprise there. I move closer, wanting to see.
    â€œJack, it’s cool. I just want to look. At the fingers, man. You could be in the circus or something. Let me see.”
    Then something weird happens. The air in front of Jack wavers—like heat fumes on the highway in summer, when you’re riding in a car and looking far ahead—and I feel a slight draft. I can feel a pressure on my chest, my arms, my thighs, and my face. It’s a wind, but it’s not a wind either. It’s slower and more concentrated, and I’m slowly, slowly pushed backward into the wall between the door to the bathroom and our beds. With the wall at my back, the pressure on my chest builds and builds. I can feel something like my ribs cracking, and I’m having a hard time breathing now. Jack looks scared, like he knows what’s happening. Then he barks out a word, “No!” The pressure eases, and I’m on my knees, gasping for breath.
    Jack rushes over and grabs me. He takes my hand and pulls me up—he’s stronger than he looks, the little dude— and drags me over to his bunk. I flop on my back, gasping, feeling at my ribs to make sure nothing’s gone crunchy. They feel okay.
    â€œI’m sorry, Shreve. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Jack keeps