Laughter. Another dirt clod. I fall to my knees, trying to wipe my eyes and fend off the soft-soled tennis shoes jolting me from random directions.
“So keep your worthless amp ass inside your rat hole,” says Billy.
I fall onto my stomach. I desperately try to clear my eyes while more dirt clods rain down. Climbing to my hands and knees, I hear sly laughter.
A wetness spreads over the back of my neck and I stagger to my feet in shock. With one arm shielding my eyes, I stumble back toward the trailers. More clods bounce off my back as I retreat.
“Don’t come back!” shouts Billy.
They don’t follow me past the other side of the fence.
Nick is gone. There’s a spatter of blood where he stood. Tree branches swaying quietly overhead.
“Nick?” I call.
Just the seesaw buzz of cicadas in the trees.
I reach back and touch my neck where it’s wet, smell my fingers. Piss. Those kids pissed on me while I was wallowing in the dirt like a helpless baby. Like an amp retard. That’s what they called me. A worthless freak.
I wipe my hand on my pants and then freeze. Lucy has come around the corner of her trailer. Watching me. She’s in blue jeans and in the morning sunlight I can see she’s got a smattering of freckles beneath serious eyes. She’s even more beautiful in the light.
“Nick is okay,” she says. “I cleaned him up and gave him a Band-Aid. What about you? Do you need help?”
Me? Well, I’ve got a cold ball of shame wedged tight under my rib cage. Hot piss drying on the back of my neck.
Lucy steps toward me and I put on an unconvincing smile, try to speak—to tell her it was just a stupid thing that I’m laughing off. No big deal. But the words dig their heels into my throat and refuse to come out.
An aftershock of anger rolls through me, and I tuck my hands on my hips to hide their shaking. I want to smash skulls, gouge eyes, and—hell, I don’t know—cry. Instead, I drop the trembling, not-fooling-anybody attempt at a smile and turn my back on Lucy.
“Owen,” she calls, walking closer. “It’s okay.”
Pity is in her voice, twisting like a knife between my shoulder blades.
“I’m fine,” I say.
She puts a hand on my shoulder and touches the warm urine, and now I know that I have got to get the fuck out of here immediately. I shrug my shoulder and she hangs on.
“Owen—” she’s trying to say.
I wrench away from her. “Leave me the fuck alone!” I shout. “Damn.”
“What is the matter with you?” she asks, plaintive, wiping her hand on her dress.
Oh my God. Anything. Anything to get away from this shame. I’m walking fast, away, away, away.
“Nothing,” I call over my shoulder. “I don’t need help. I’m not another stray for you to take in.” Immediately, I flush scalp to spine with hot regret. I break into a trot until I can’t hear her. Along theway, I yank my piss-soaked shirt over my head, ball it up, and hurl it lamely into the grass.
Back in Jim’s trailer, I slam the flimsy broken door shut behind me. The sink piddles a weak stream of warm water and I let it pool in my dirt-caked fingers. Splash it on my face and let it carry away the snot and tears and dirt.
In the fart-smelling freezer, I find a plastic tray of shallow ice cubes. I twist the cracked tray and let the slivers of ice fall on the counter. Wrap them in a napkin and push the mass against my swollen lip.
Would things be easier if I were a reggie? Yeah, they damn well would be. I wouldn’t stink like urine and humiliation. I could sit in my nice apartment and feel sorry for all those poor amps out there, instead of taking my own lashes here in this trailer park.
The reality of this new world is settling in. Spotlighters watching the fringes of town every night. Protesters outside the job site every day. Hiding here with nobody to talk to. “Head down, antennae up,” as Jim says. And now, my ass handed to me by a bunch of teenagers. With poor Nicky there to watch.
And so much for
“So keep your worthless amp ass inside your rat hole,” says Billy.
I fall onto my stomach. I desperately try to clear my eyes while more dirt clods rain down. Climbing to my hands and knees, I hear sly laughter.
A wetness spreads over the back of my neck and I stagger to my feet in shock. With one arm shielding my eyes, I stumble back toward the trailers. More clods bounce off my back as I retreat.
“Don’t come back!” shouts Billy.
They don’t follow me past the other side of the fence.
Nick is gone. There’s a spatter of blood where he stood. Tree branches swaying quietly overhead.
“Nick?” I call.
Just the seesaw buzz of cicadas in the trees.
I reach back and touch my neck where it’s wet, smell my fingers. Piss. Those kids pissed on me while I was wallowing in the dirt like a helpless baby. Like an amp retard. That’s what they called me. A worthless freak.
I wipe my hand on my pants and then freeze. Lucy has come around the corner of her trailer. Watching me. She’s in blue jeans and in the morning sunlight I can see she’s got a smattering of freckles beneath serious eyes. She’s even more beautiful in the light.
“Nick is okay,” she says. “I cleaned him up and gave him a Band-Aid. What about you? Do you need help?”
Me? Well, I’ve got a cold ball of shame wedged tight under my rib cage. Hot piss drying on the back of my neck.
Lucy steps toward me and I put on an unconvincing smile, try to speak—to tell her it was just a stupid thing that I’m laughing off. No big deal. But the words dig their heels into my throat and refuse to come out.
An aftershock of anger rolls through me, and I tuck my hands on my hips to hide their shaking. I want to smash skulls, gouge eyes, and—hell, I don’t know—cry. Instead, I drop the trembling, not-fooling-anybody attempt at a smile and turn my back on Lucy.
“Owen,” she calls, walking closer. “It’s okay.”
Pity is in her voice, twisting like a knife between my shoulder blades.
“I’m fine,” I say.
She puts a hand on my shoulder and touches the warm urine, and now I know that I have got to get the fuck out of here immediately. I shrug my shoulder and she hangs on.
“Owen—” she’s trying to say.
I wrench away from her. “Leave me the fuck alone!” I shout. “Damn.”
“What is the matter with you?” she asks, plaintive, wiping her hand on her dress.
Oh my God. Anything. Anything to get away from this shame. I’m walking fast, away, away, away.
“Nothing,” I call over my shoulder. “I don’t need help. I’m not another stray for you to take in.” Immediately, I flush scalp to spine with hot regret. I break into a trot until I can’t hear her. Along theway, I yank my piss-soaked shirt over my head, ball it up, and hurl it lamely into the grass.
Back in Jim’s trailer, I slam the flimsy broken door shut behind me. The sink piddles a weak stream of warm water and I let it pool in my dirt-caked fingers. Splash it on my face and let it carry away the snot and tears and dirt.
In the fart-smelling freezer, I find a plastic tray of shallow ice cubes. I twist the cracked tray and let the slivers of ice fall on the counter. Wrap them in a napkin and push the mass against my swollen lip.
Would things be easier if I were a reggie? Yeah, they damn well would be. I wouldn’t stink like urine and humiliation. I could sit in my nice apartment and feel sorry for all those poor amps out there, instead of taking my own lashes here in this trailer park.
The reality of this new world is settling in. Spotlighters watching the fringes of town every night. Protesters outside the job site every day. Hiding here with nobody to talk to. “Head down, antennae up,” as Jim says. And now, my ass handed to me by a bunch of teenagers. With poor Nicky there to watch.
And so much for
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