Gravestone by Travis Thrasher

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.

27. Ghosts
     
    My future is waiting for me on the counter when I come home.
    “Some drunken fool came up to me and passed it along.”
    Are you talking about yourself, Mom?
    “He said that she pays really well.”
    Then maybe you should take the job.
    I pick up the tiny, cut-out block of paper with a typed job listing.
    Wanted: Strong teenager who works hard. Groundskeep, maintenance, indoor and outdoor work. Flexible hours.
    There’s a number at the bottom of the sheet.
    “You trust the guy who gave it to you?”
    “Al