Читать книгу Bad Haircut - Том Перротта - Страница 6

“It's foolproof,” Kevin explained. “If someone comes in and buys fifteen dollars worth of gas, I just ring up five and keep ten for myself.”

“What about the pump?” I asked. “Doesn't that keep track?”

“Not really. It just goes back to zero every time you flip the switch.”

Gas was expensive that summer, in 1974, and for a few weeks we were rich. Kevin bought me albums, food, and sporting goods with the money he stole from Paul's Amoco. He paid his brother's friend Burnsy to drive us to Yankee Stadium and Bowcraft Amusement Park. Every time I returned from one of these excursions I told my mother the same half-lie. I said that Paul had paid for everything.

Paul was Kevin's new stepfather. He had met Mrs. Ross on the supermarket checkout line in February and married her in March. When he moved in, he bought Kevin a fantastic ten-speed bike and tried to be his friend. But Kevin didn't want to be friends. He claimed that Paul was a sex maniac.

“Listen to this,” Kevin said, just a few weeks after the wedding. He slipped a cassette into his tape player and cranked up the volume. All I could hear was loud static with vague murmurs in the background.

“What is it?”

“They're humping.” he said. “Can't you tell?”

He rewound the tape. The murmurs turned into soft moans and deep sighs. I had a hard time connecting these sounds with Kevin's mother, a thin quiet woman who smoked extra-long cigarettes and told him to be careful every time he left the house.

“I swear,” he said. “It's all they ever do.”

Kevin's real father had died a long time ago. He had been an amateur boxer. Kevin had once come to a Halloween party dressed in gym shorts and boxing gloves, with his father's jockstrap and huge protective cup fitted over his head like a mask. Whenever someone asked him what he was, he lifted the cup away from his face with his fat leather thumbs and said, “I'm a dick, what are you?”

A sticky heat wave rolled in early that summer, right after school let out. We got in the habit of going to Kevin's house in the afternoon to watch reruns of The Twilight Zone on channel eleven. Sometimes Kevin's older brother Jack would be there with Burnsy and a couple other guys, smoking pot from a red plastic bong. Jack had just graduated from high school, but he didn't seem too interested in finding a job. He made all the money he needed selling nickel bags to kids who hung out at the Little League and McDonald's. Kevin and I didn't get high—we had just finished seventh grade—but we liked to pretend we did, watching TV through our eyelashes and laughing hysterically at the commercials for Peter Lemongello's Greatest Hits and truck-driver training.

Paul barged in on us right in the middle of a great Twilight Zone, the one where the businessman steps into a time warp and returns, as an adult, to the world of his childhood. He meets his ten-year-old self on the playground and begs him to appreciate the beauty and wonder of youth while he still has time and not to be in such a big hurry to grow up. The kid pounds his baseball mitt, and says, “Sure, mister, whatever you say.”

“Wow,” said Jack. “Is that intense or what?”

We heard keys jangling, but it was too late to move. Paul stood in the doorway looking hot and grimy in his oil-stained work clothes. I thought he was going to deliver a big lecture, but he just turned off the TV and stared at us like we were Martians.

“Don't you guys have anything better to do?”

There were six of us in the room. One by one, we shook our heads.

The next day Kevin and Jack began manning the pumps at Paul's Amoco. Jack hated it so much that he quit after two days and moved down to Seaside, where some guys he knew were renting a house for the summer. Kevin stuck with the job and began stealing from Paul.

It didn't occur to me to think it was wrong. Ever since I'd met Kevin, he'd been doing crazy things and dragging me along. On the morning of our First Holy Communion, we'd slipped into the Sunday school cafeteria and raided a tray of jelly donuts; we got powdered sugar all over our new blue suits. For our first and only Webelos camping trip, Kevin had shoplifted a gigantic T-bone steak, which we never got around to cooking, though we did have a great time banging each other over the head with it inside our tent. We threw snowballs at cars, ordered pizzas for people we didn't like, and played whiffle ball when there was nothing else to do. He was my best friend.

The night he told me about the money, Kevin took me to Shoe Town and bought us identical pairs of Puma sneakers. Before we went home, we took off our old sneakers, knotted the laces together, and tossed them at a telephone line on Center Street. We didn't stop until both pairs were dangling from the wire, kicking back and forth like they were walking on air.

* * *

I was with Kevin at the St. Agnes carnival in Cranwood the night he first laid eyes on Angela Farrone. We were standing by the food booths, spearing french fries from a paper cone.

“Look at that,” he said. “By the Porta-John.”

She was a gum-snapping bleached blond about our age, a knockout in a white tube top and jeans so tight that Kevin said she probably had to pack herself in with a shoehorn. In one hand she held a green helium balloon on a string, in the other a goldfish in a little plastic bag filled with water. The door of the Porta-John popped open and a scrawny redhead stepped out, glancing sheepishly around. She took the balloon from her friend and the two of them entered the moving crowd, like cars merging with highway traffic.

We followed them past the bake sale, the wheels of fortune, and the creaky rent-a-rides, then out of the carnival and down a sidestreet littered with ripped tickets and greasy paper plates. They stopped beneath a streetlight, huddling together with their backs turned in our direction. The green balloon jerked up and down above their heads. We caught up with them just as they stepped apart, hands empty at their sides. For one miraculous moment the balloon and the fish were suspended in midair, connected by the string. Then they started to rise.

We stood with our heads back, watching the balloon gain altitude as it drifted upward and eastward over the treetops, toward New York City. The goldfish glinted orange in the light, then disappeared, like a match flaring out.

“Hey,” Kevin said. “Why'd you do that?” The blond shrugged. “The last time I brought a fish home, my Dad flushed it down the toilet.”

Kevin called Angela every night for a week, but she kept hanging up on him. Then he had an idea. He bought a dozen roses and hired me—I was good in school—to write her a letter.

Dear Angela,

My name is Kevin Ross and I have a crush on you. We met on Friday night outside the Carnival. I've been thinking about your fish. Maybe it got lucky and fell in a lake! Will you please come to the movies with me sometime soon? We can see anything you want.

Your (hopefully) friend,

Kevin Ross

P.S.—In case you're wondering, I've employed a friend to give us a ride.

Kevin paid me ten dollars for the letter and another ten for delivery, five of which went to Burnsy, who drove me to Angela's house in the ritzy section of Cranwood. It was early evening, and a sprinkler spun jets of water across the plush front lawn. The shrubs near the house had been trimmed to look like gum drops and spinning tops. I set the roses on the welcome mat, then turned and ran back to Burnsy's Duster.

Kevin and Angela went to the drive-in on their first date. They really hit it off. Burnsy said there was so much heavy breathing in the back seat that he had to get out of the car and watch the second half of Billy Jack sitting on the gravel, holding the speaker to his ear. He told me this as we drove to Angela's to deliver another bouquet of roses, along with a poem I'd written at White Diamond:

Last night at the drive-in

The people in cars

Were watching the movie

But we were the stars!

It was Wednesday afternoon and I should have been doing my paper route. I was a carrier for the Community News, a freebie shopper paper. Once a week I had to fold 300 papers, secure them with rubber bands, then deliver one to every house in a six-block area. The entire process took about seven hours, and I made ten bucks.

I had been wobbling down Oak Street around noon on my old stingray bike when Burnsy's car pulled up and began crawling down the street beside me. Kevin rolled down the passenger window. I could tell from his greasy T-shirt that he was on lunch hour from the station.

“Hey Buddy,” he said. “You ever write a poem?”

“Nope.”

“Think you could handle it?”

I whizzed a paper at someone's front porch, just a little too hard. It slammed into the screen door: dogs started barking up and down the street.

“Sure,” I said. “No sweat. Just let me finish up.”

He leaned out the window and waved some money in my face.

“Come on,” he told me. “I'll make it worth your while.”

At the corner, Burnsy opened his trunk and threw my bike and canvas bag inside. By the time we got back from Angela's, I didn't feel like finishing my route. I went home, stuffed the last fifty papers into my bag, and rode out to the woods behind Indian Park. I dumped the papers into the brook, then sat down under a tree to leaf through a copy of Playboy someone had thoughtfully left behind.

“Sue really likes you,” Angela whispered. “Do you like her?”

“I don't know,” I said. “We just met.”

Sue was the redhead. Her parents were away for the weekend, and her older sister had agreed to let us have the house to ourselves on Friday night. It was my job to keep her occupied so Kevin could be alone with Angela.

Sue and I sat rigidly on the love seat while Kevin and Angela huddled together on the couch, holding hands and playing games with their fingers. Angela smoked like an old movie star, closing one eye and shooting a slender jet of smoke at the plastic-covered lampshade. She was wearing a turquoise tube top, and I felt a pang of sadness. Sue was okay. She had thick red hair and a cute face. But Angela! I must have been staring, because she smiled at me and stuck out her tongue.

“Hey,” Kevin said. “Let's play spin the bottle.”

It was a surprising suggestion. None of us had ever played before, and Kevin had to explain the rules. I got Sue on the first spin of the game. Embarrassed, I craned my neck and planted a quick dry peck on the corner of her mouth. Kevin booed.

“What kind of a kiss was that?”

Sue spun next and got Kevin. Their mouths were so wide open it looked more like artificial respiration than making out. When they finally unstuck their faces, Kevin collapsed to the floor. Sue wiped her mouth and grinned.

Angela's kiss had a sweet, complicated taste. I felt her tongue working its way between my teeth and then something else, something soft and loose, and the next thing I knew her gum had slipped into my mouth, a secret gift. We kept going until Kevin wrenched us apart.

Angela fanned her face with one hand. “Whew,” she said. “Who turned up the heat?”

The game ended on the next spin. Kevin and Angela started on their knees, then tipped over and stretched out on the floor. Five minutes passed, and they still hadn't surfaced for air.

Sue smiled apologetically. “Well,” she said. “Looks like you're stuck with me.”

We kissed for a while, then decided to go for a walk. We ended up sitting on the swings at a playground down the street. It was a beautiful night, the whole world at room temperature.

“I'm sorry Kevin dragged you here,” she said.

“He didn't drag me. I wanted to come.”

“Right.” She pushed off and started swinging lazily back and forth. “Angela always tries to fix me up with her boyfriends’ friends.”

“Does she have a lot of boyfriends?”

“Pretty many. The last one was nineteen. Her father threw a shit fit when he found out.”

“Nineteen,” I said. “That's incredible.”

“I know,” said Sue. “But I think she really likes Kevin. He sends her flowers and writes her these sweet little poems. I wish someone would do that for me.”

I didn't say anything. I just sat there chewing Angela's bland gum, thinking about her and Kevin.

“I'm scared of going to high school,” she said. “Aren't you?”

“I'm not going yet.”

She seemed surprised. “How old are you?” “I'll be thirteen next week.” “Huh,” she said. “I thought you were older.” She hopped off the swing and cartwheeled into a handstand. Her shirt came untucked, exposing a band of creamy skin.

“Come on,” she called out. “Let's go home.” Sue walked effortlessly on her hands for an entire block, her palms slapping out a rubbery rhythm on the sidewalk. At the corner she arched forward like a Slinky and snapped into an upright position. We went back to her house and played Ping-Pong until Burnsy showed up to drive us home. Kevin was quiet in the back seat. Midway through the ride, he tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a ten-dollar bill.

We had planned to go to Bowcraft Amusement Park on Monday night—play a round of miniature golf, take some cuts at the batting cage, feed a few quarters to the pinball machine. But when Burn-sy's car swung into the Little League parking lot, I could tell something was wrong.

“Where's Kevin?” I asked.

“Back here.”

I leaned over the headrest and saw him lying on the floor between the seats, his head poking out from underneath a green army blanket.

“I'm dead,” he told me. “The accountant came today and Paul found out about the money.

I think he knows it was me.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No, but you should have seen the way he was staring.”

I felt myself getting angry. It was fun being rich, doing something different every night, writing stuff for money. I wasn't ready for it to end. In less than a month I'd managed to save almost fifty bucks, but that wasn't nearly enough for the ten-speed bike I was hoping to buy.

“I thought you said it was foolproof,” I snapped.

“Christ, Buddy. I didn't know he had a fucking accountant.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I can't go home,” he said. “Paul's gonna kill me.”

He spent the night in Burnsy's car. The next morning Burnsy drove him to Seaside, where Kevin figured he could stay with his brother until Paul had a chance to cool off. But when they finally located the house where Jack was supposed to be staying, they found out that he had split for Florida with this chick he'd picked up on the beach.

“So where's Kevin now?” I asked Burnsy later that night.

“Come on,” Burnsy said. “I'll show you.”

He parked his car on Center Street and led me into Indian Park. At the edge of the bike path, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The signal was returned from inside the woods.

“Go in about a hundred yards and take the left fork,” he told me.

“Aren't you coming?” I asked.

Burnsy shook his head. “I'm going back to Seaside. They said I could have Jack's room.” He kicked some gravel and told me to take it easy.

Kevin was waiting for me on the main path, his blond hair and white T-shirt radiating a ghostly light, seeming to float disembodied on the darkness.

“Boy,” he said. “Am I glad to see you.”

He had a pup tent set up in a small clearing, its fluorescent orange fabric camouflaged by a web of tree branches and uprooted weeds. We sat together on a half-rotten log and made plans for Kevin's new life as a fugitive. I promised to keep him well-stocked with food, to deliver messages to Angela, and not to reveal his hiding place even if Paul tried to torture me for the information, which Kevin claimed was a definite possibility. Everything was okay as long as we kept talking. But as soon as our conversation died out, the woods turned spooky. A million insects hummed together; small animals darted through the underbrush.

Kevin slapped his leg. “Damn! I wish I had some bug spray.”

“I'll get you some tomorrow,” I said, standing up from the log.

His fingers wrapped around my ankle. “Hey,” he said, “why don't you go home and tell your parents that you're sleeping over at my house. Then you can get your sleeping bag and come back here. It'll be like that camping trip.”

“Not tonight, Kev. I have to fold my papers.”

His grip tightened. “Please, Buddy. Just this once?”

I shook my leg free. “I can't.”

There was a long pause. The insects turned up the volume. I was glad I couldn't see Kevin's face.

“Thanks a lot, Buddy. After everything I've given you, you can't even do me this one little favor.”

“Hey,” I said, “no one told you to rip off your own family.”

I went home and folded my papers on the living room floor. My parents sat behind me on the couch, laughing along with the canned laughter on television.

“Happy birthday!”

My mother woke me the next morning with a lipsticky kiss on the cheek. It was August 8,1974, and I was officially thirteen years old. It was something I'd been waiting for for a long time.

“Don't make any plans for tonight,” she said. “We have a surprise for you.”

After she left for work, I wolfed down a bowl of cereal and hopped, still half asleep, onto my bike. I wanted to finish my paper route as quickly as possible so I could spend the afternoon with Kevin. I hoped he wasn't mad at me.

Around eleven o'clock a brown tow truck turned the corner and began tailgating me down Maple Street. I veered up a driveway to give it room, but the truck didn't accelerate to pass. Then I saw why: “PAUL'S AMOCO EMERGENCY SERVICE” was written in yellow letters on the side door. Paul himself was scowling at me from the driver's seat, jabbing his finger like a cop pulling over a speeding car. I stepped on the brakes and so did he. The truck's passenger door swung open on a creaky hinge.

“Get in,” he commanded.

“What about my bike?”

“Just leave it.”

I dropped my bike on someone's lawn and climbed into the cab, which smelled pleasantly of gasoline. Paul sat beside me, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The skin on his knuckles was cracked, the crevices caked with grease. He took his hand away from his face and looked at me.

“Where's Kevin?”

“Isn't he home?” I tried to sound casual, but I could feel my blood abruptly reverse itself, rushing into my face as though I were doing a headstand.

Paul gave me a disgusted look and shifted into gear. I wondered vaguely if I was being kidnapped.

“It's not the money that bugs me,” he said. “It's really not. But if he needed it, why didn't he just ask?”

I didn't answer. How could I explain that Kevin didn't need the money, that we were just having fun?

“Tell me the truth,” Paul said. “Is he doing drugs?”

I shook my head. It gradually became clear to me that I wasn't being kidnapped. We were just orbiting the streets of Darwin, cruising up one and down another. I began to relax and enjoy the ride, my first ever in a tow truck. The heavy chains swayed and clanked behind us; our bodies vibrated along with the powerful engine. The parked cars we passed looked small and vulnerable. If Paul and I had felt like it, we could have just hoisted one up and dragged it away.

“How come he hates me?” Paul asked.

“I don't know,” I said.

He took a couple of quick turns, and pretty soon we were back on Maple. I was almost disappointed that nothing more exciting had happened, that Paul hadn't tried to make me talk. I had one leg out the door when he grabbed my arm.

“You tell Kevin to come home. He's not going to get punished. We just want him back. You tell him his mother's worried sick.”

“Okay,” I said.

I got out, walked over to my bike, and slung the heavy canvas bag over my shoulder. The tow truck didn't move. Paul was slumped forward in the driver's seat, his forehead resting on the wheel.

That afternoon I told Kevin about my encounter with Paul. He was only half finished with the sandwich I'd brought him, but he got mad and whipped it at a tree.

“He's a liar! The second I walk through the door he's gonna kill me.”

“I bet he won't.”

“You don't know him.”

We sat sullenly on the log. The woods weren't the least bit scary during the day. Birds were chirping; the air was cool and fresh. You could see through the trees to the houses on Center Street.

“Can you camp out tonight?” Kevin asked.

“Tonight's my birthday,” I said. “I promised my parents I'd spend it at home.”

Kevin looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair matted down against his head. “But what about later? Think you can sneak out?”

“I'll try.”

Before I left, Kevin asked me to do him a favor. He unzipped the flap of his tent—not very well camouflaged during the day—and pulled out a wrinkled envelope, which he handed to me along with a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Angela's name was scrawled across the envelope in big childish letters.

“I wrote it myself,” he said.

People's houses have distinctive odors. Kevin's, for example, always reminded me of a doctor's office. Burnsy's smelled like cat food, even though he didn't have a cat. My grandmother's house gave off an odor of rancid orange peels. And the Far-rones’ house smelled like Angela. As soon as I stepped inside, I remembered that when I had kissed her, her mouth had tasted exactly like this.

I followed her father down the hallway into the kitchen. On the way I caught a glimpse of the living room. It resembled a display in a furniture store, not a cushion dented or an ashtray out of place. An oil portrait of Angela, done before she bleached her hair, was hanging above the couch. In her tartan plaid dress with the lace collar, this brown-haired Angela looked innocent and full of wonder.

Mr. Farrone tossed my bouquet carelessly on the kitchen table and headed for the refrigerator. It was the modern kind that dispensed ice water from a compartment on the freezer door. I had only seen them on commercials and game shows, never in someone's house.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“Just water.”

On my previous flower deliveries, I had managed to escape undetected. But that afternoon my timing was off. I was halfway up the front steps when a maroon Lincoln Continental pulled into the driveway. A dumpy man in a gray suit got out of the car and came to meet me.

“I'm Pat Farrone,” he said, extending his hand. “You must be Kevin.”

I started to say no, then caught myself and nodded. It seemed easier not to have to explain the situation.

“Here,” I said, thrusting the roses into his arms. “These are for Angela.”

Mr. Farrone cradled the roses like a baby. He had heavy jowls and a mustache that looked like a misplaced eyebrow. It seemed bizarre to me that such an odd-looking man could have a daughter as beautiful as Angela.

“Kevin,” he said, “I think you and I need to have a talk.”

Mr. Farrone sat at the head of the table, stroking his mustache. His voice was calm and professional, as though he were interviewing me for a job.

“How old are you, Kevin?”

“Thirteen,” I said.

“Thirteen.” He nodded solemnly. “You know, Kevin, when I was thirteen I wasn't chasing girls. All I wanted to do was play baseball.”

He lifted the flowers to his nose, sniffed them, and frowned. When he set them back down, he inadvertently rotated the bouquet, so the envelope with Angela's name was now facing up.

“Roses are expensive, Kevin. Where do you get your money?”

“My Dad owns a gas station. He lets me work there.”

“Tell me, Kevin. What do you want to do with your life?”

“I'm not sure. I think I'd like to be a park ranger. Either that or a truck driver.”

“My daughter tells me you're quite the little poet.”

“Thanks.”

I was blushing with pride when he reached out and casually detached the envelope from the wrapping paper on the bouquet. He jammed his finger into the flap and began tearing it open, as though it were addressed to him. He stopped halfway through and glanced at me.

“That was a helluva hickey you gave her the other night.”

“A hickey?” I said.

“Don't bullshit me, Kevin. I don't like bull-shitters.”

I should have been alarmed, but I had this funny feeling that I wasn't really there, that all this was happening to Kevin, not to me. Mr. Farrone unfolded the sheet of loose-leaf paper and spread it flat on the table. He squinted at the words. A vertical fold appeared in his forehead.

“You little bastard,” he whispered.

For a heavy man he was nimble. Before I understood what was happening, he was out of his chair. He grabbed a handful of my T-shirt and yanked me to my feet. We danced awkwardly across the linoleum floor until my back slammed into the humming refrigerator.

“I oughta knock your teeth out,” he said softly. “She's just a little girl.”

His face was so close to mine I could feel hot bursts of air coming from his nostrils. A muscle in his cheek began to twitch. I watched his hand form itself into a fist. “What kind of rubbers did you buy, smart guy? Why don't you take them out of your wallet and show me?”

This isn't happening to me, I told myself, but the formula had lost its magic. All at once I was terribly frightened, not just for me but for Kevin too.

“Come on, big man. Show me your rubbers.”

“I don't have any,” I told him. “I don't even know what they look like.”

“I oughta knock your teeth out,” he said again, drawing back his fist until it was level with his ear. His knuckles were coated with thick black hair. “What do you say to that, big man?”

I had spent the past several years learning not to cry, but I hadn't forgotten how. My bottom lip trembled. My eyes felt like they were growing inside my head. The first few sobs came from somewhere deep in my stomach. A jet of warm snot exploded from my nose.

“I'm a kid,” I blubbered. “I'm just a kid.” Mr. Farrone lowered his fist and let go of my shirt. He stepped back and looked at the floor, as though he were ashamed for both of us.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, then went and got me a Kleenex.

My father wheeled the bicycle into the living room. My mother stood behind him, smiling nervously.

“Happy birthday,” they said.

This was definitely not the bike I wanted. It was a Schwinn three-speed, clunky and old-fashioned, with a chain guard, lots of chrome, and a two-tone seat straight out of Happy Days.

“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile.

“It'll be much easier to do your papers,” my mother said hopefully.

My father slapped the seat. “She's a beauty. Why don't you take her for a spin.”

“It's getting dark,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

A wounded look flashed across my mother's face. My father gave me the raspberry.

“Hey,” he said, “if you won't, I will.”

My mother held open the front door as he lugged the bike outside. I got out of the recliner and followed them down the front steps to the edge of the driveway. My father straddled the crossbar.

“Here goes nothing,” he said.

“Be careful,” my mother called out.

He got off to a shaky start. The handlebars swiveled from side to side, and the bike followed an invisible slalom course down the sidewalk.

“He fell in love with that bike the moment he saw it,” my mother said. “I hope you like it.”

“I do,” I said. “It's really nice.”

My father turned around at the corner and headed back in the street, looking much steadier on his return. He was grinning and breathing hard when he dismounted.

“Give ‘er a whirl,” he told me. “She's got some pep.”

As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. The fat tires hummed, and the bike, heavy as it was, floated luxuriously on the blacktop. I could go as fast as I wanted.

The sky darkened as I pedaled past houses, stores, and factories, shifting through my three new gears. If Kevin had been home, I would've gone straight to his house to show him my birthday present. He would've laughed and taken it for a test ride. Instead he was sitting on a log in the woods, listening to the spooky night.

Somehow I ended up in front of his house anyway. It was as if the bike had taken me there of its own accord. My legs felt hollow as I climbed the front steps. The doorbell button was glowing orange, like a lit cigarette.

* * *

I had been gone for a long time, but my father was still waiting for me on the front stoop when I got back.

“How'd you like it?” he asked.

“It's great. I didn't want to get off”

“Man,” he said, “what I wouldn't have given for a bike like that when I was your age.”

We each took a handlebar and wheeled my new bike up the driveway. My father had cleared a place for it inside the toolshed.

“I looked at the ten-speeds,” he told me, “but they cost an arm and a leg. Besides, what do you need ten speeds for?”

“I don't know,” I said.

Before we went inside, we stood for a few minutes in the backyard, gazing up at the stars. It was a clear, moonless night. The Big Dipper, one of the few constellations I knew, was blazing in the sky like an upside-down question mark.

I had just ratted on my best friend. At that very moment, Kevin was probably walking out of the woods between his mother and Paul, and I didn't know if he was going to hate me or thank me. My father put his hand on my shoulder.

“Thirteen,” he said, as if that explained everything.