Finton Moon by Gerard Collins

graduate to the penitentiary one day. Skeet stretched out his legs and laid his books on his lap, rocking and rolling with the jittery bus.
    â€œThey can’t find Sawyer,” Finton said. The bus sputtered and rattled up the hill.
    â€œTook off somewhere, I’d say—up in the woods.” Skeet reached inside his jacket and pulled out a foot-long piece of red licorice. Finton couldn’t help notice that his friend’s hand was shaking. The bruised knuckles weren’t so unusual, as Skeet seemed to be always into a racket with someone. But something seemed off about him this morning. “Piece?” he said, offering him a string of licorice.
    â€œNo, thanks.” Finton looked out at the passing woods. The trees glistened with melting frost. “Another fine day—but it was some cold last night, I tell ya.”
    â€œGot that right.” Skeet paused thoughtfully, clamped his teeth around the licorice, bit off a piece and gnawed on it. “Mudder even took Jakey in last night. She said it weren’t even fit for a dog out. Mudder’s a case, b’y.” He jammed the licorice into his pocket and pulled out a Marlboro, which he stuffed into his mouth. “I was out for a while, but had to get home out of it. Freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”
    The bus driver glared into his big, rectangular mirror and yelled, “Put that fuckin’ cigarette away or I’ll tell your mother!”
    Skeet gave him the finger—the one adorned with a wide, copper ring. “Fuck off,” he muttered. “I’m not in the mood for you today.”
    Finton fell quiet as they passed through Laughing Woods. Nighttime in the woods was darker than anywhere else, especially this time of year when the days were warm and dazzlingly bright, while the nights seemed colder and more foreboding. Sawyer had probably stumbled a lot, tripping in roots and stones. The branches would have scratched his face and tortured him as he called out to his mother.
    â€œWhat’s wrong wit’ you?” Skeet stuck the Marlboro behind his ear.
    Finton blinked, realizing he’d drifted off. He could smell the turpentine and 10W-40 off Sawyer Moon’s jacket, but Skeet seemed far away. “Just thinkin’ about Sawyer.”
    Skeet shrugged and gazed out the window. “Poor bugger’s better off dead.”
    â€œNobody’s better off dead.”
    â€œSawyer is.”
    Finton wrapped himself in silence as the bus squealed to a stop for Dolly. She strode to the back of the bus in cloppy high heels, clasping her books to her breasts and propping them up, presumably to make them look bigger. “You guys heard? Sawyer Moon’s prob’ly dead.”
    Al Kelly followed behind her; because Al was an albino, everything he said carried extra weight. He calmly sat down, taking up a full seat, as they each did. “Dad says he’s gone to St. John’s on a drinkin’ spree.”
    â€œSo how come no one knows where he is then?” Dolly blew a bright pink bubble the size of a plum, popped it, cracked it, and renewed her vigorous chewing which gave Finton a weird, gushy feeling just below his stomach. He watched her intently until she glanced at him. When he looked away, she smiled to herself. While the bus stopped at the Connelly house, he waited breathlessly for Mary to get on board. When he saw her, his brain slipped into a sort of alternate space from where he watched her every move but was unable to sense anything around her except vague images and muffled noises. When she finally took her seat near Dolly, Finton gradually began to breathe again, and the world returned to normal.
    â€œI bet he’s after callin’ Fanny Fukuto and he’s in gettin’ laid,” Skeet said.
    Finton squirmed. He didn’t exactly know what “gettin’ laid” was, but he had heard some of the boys talking about finding Fanny