26. The Prisoner

I’m in the restroom when I see Gus and his boys walk in. I think it’s the same one that we were in when they cornered me in the stall and forced me to go militant all over them.

“Relax,” Gus says. “You look like you’re auditioning for the next Karate Kid movie.”

“What do you want?”

Gus looks back at Oli and the two other clowns he’s with, then comes and stands next to me at the sinks. He washes his hands and watches me.

“So we’re all cool, right?” he asks. “After that nice little chat with my pop?”

I nod. Oli is looking at me but giving away nothing.

It seems like Gus is biding his time. He moves and checks down the line of stalls, then nods to the guys. Oli goes and stands by the door. Burt goes over to make sure I don’t hide in a stall while Riley stands close to Oli.

Gus looks at me, laughs, then darts in my direction and grips the top of my T-shirt with his hand, bringing me forward and off my feet. He pulls me down, and in one motion I crash against the floor and then feel him pulling me back up.

Something’s in his hand it’s a knife.

Then something pricks at my temple.

It’s not a knife but the edge of a very sharp pencil that digs into my skin.

He presses hard as he moves his head to my ear. “Now you listen and you listen good. We’re not finished, you and I. And just because my pop said that everything’s fine and dandy doesn’t mean it’s fine and dandy.”

I yell as he digs the pencil in further.

“I could take this and put it in your eye just for starters. And don’t think I won’t. I will.”

My eyes are closed, and I’m wondering what’s next.

I hear someone else speak, but Gus curses over the voice. “When the time comes, when nobody is looking, I’m going to be there.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything. Not a thing. I just want to watch you bleed.”

I howl as he thrusts the pencil deeper, then lets it go.

“You tell anybody about this and it will just get worse for you. But I don’t want you walking around thinking you’re safe.”

He lets go, and I grab the side of my face and hold it.

He leans over me. “I don’t care what your last name is or what you may or may not do. When this—all of this—is over with, you’re mine.”

He spits in my face, and I feel it splatter on my forehead, nose, and cheeks. I wipe it and watch Gus walk out, followed by the boys in boots and jeans and then Oli.

I look down at my hand, which is covered in blood and spit. Then I glance at the doorway.

Oli is still there. He looks like he’s about to say something, then he leaves.

The dark prick on the side of my head is bleeding. I wash it with warm water that doesn’t really stop the bleeding; it only makes the pain worse.

I glance briefly at myself in the mirror, my hair a bit wet, my face a bit red, the piece of tissue on my puncture.

Chris.

I open my eyes wide but don’t see myself anymore. I don’t see anyone. Instead, I see an image of something real, something alive, something like a scene in a movie.

What …

I close my eyes and open them again.

There I am.

What was that?

I realize I just imagined a cabin or a small house with a porch on it. A swing. Sometime in the afternoon. Just like that girl’s painting.

I’m seeing things, and it’s because I can’t control my head. I can’t control the earthquake going on inside it.

I leave the bathroom, remembering the first time an altercation like this happened. That was the day I lost the letter for Jocelyn, a letter that would change everything.

I’d give anything if I could go back and be given one more night, Jocelyn.

I’m walking around with a bloody piece of toilet paper on the side of my forehead, but nobody cares. I could have a missing limb, a squirting and bloody stump like the kind in funny horror movies. I could be spraying these kids around me, and they still wouldn’t care. They’d go on laughing and leering and looking my way. They’d keep ignoring me, keep wondering what my name is and why I moved from Chicago and why I am so stuck-up/full of myself/quiet/shy/snobbish/fill in the negative blank.

I am a loaded gun, full of blanks.

When I enter Mr. Meiners’ room for history a bit early, he surprises me by asking about the wound.

“What happened, Chris? Who did this to you?”

“Oh, you know,” I say.

“No, I don’t know.”

“Just the same old story.”

“Hold on.” He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a white handkerchief. “It’s clean.”

I pick the dried clump of bloody tissue away from my skin and apply the soft fabric.

“Thanks.”

“You’re getting close, Chris.”

“Excuse me?”

Mr. Meiners shakes his head. I can see the smile underneath the beard, the friendly smile and the open eyes.

I go to my seat and know there’s absolutely no way I’ll be able to learn a thing the rest of this day.

The bus rumbles like some old mule carrying too much weight up a hill. The outside resembles the Russia of World War II that Mr. Meiners was talking about. Cold, lifeless, in a state of shock. We’re prisoners on our way to a prisoner-of-war camp.

I can’t do this anymore.

It’s only January.

The bus jerks to a halt, sending all of us against the backs of the seats in front of us.

I need a license and then a car and a map, and I can leave.

I’m near the back of the bus and see a curly-haired guy with glasses eating a candy bar and watching me. I nod.

Then he stops chewing, as if something is wrong, as if somebody actually noticed this strange weird eating trance that he’s in.

He looks at the rest of his candy bar, a Milky Way, and shoves the whole thing into his mouth. He chews it quickly, as if he’s in a contest. Or as if he thinks I might try and grab it from him.

I gotta get out of here.

My hand rubs the edge of my temple where there’s a nice, healthy scab.

“How was your day, son?” an imaginary mom might ask me.

“Same old story,” an imaginary son might say back. “Got stabbed with a pencil. Insulted by a couple of girls.”

“Why aren’t you at track practice?” she’d ask.

I curse to myself.

I totally forgot about it.

Too late now.

I can hear Coach Brinks. “Where’s Chicago? Somebody tell me where Chicago is! We’re running a five mile for no reason other than I hate you all, so where is Chicago?”

Candy-bar boy is still looking at me.

“Buddy, come on,” I say.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to understand English, because he just keeps watching until, fifteen minutes later, he stands up for his stop.

He leaves me a parting gift before he gets off. The wrapper for his Milky Way.

Nice.