though the radio had grown more distorted.
“How’d you get in?” I demanded. “Get out, get out!”
I waved my arms threateningly, but all that did was extinguish the flame. The boy stooped. I kicked out, afraid he’d try to grab my ankles, but there was only the flick of another match being struck. The room filled with a sweetly acrid scent, and I looked down to see him crouched in front of some burning leaves. He lifted his face, the meager flames casting a glow on round cheeks, an obdurate mouth, and very pale, coldly assessing gray-blue eyes.
“Who the hell are
you
?” The words were garbled, the voice a not-quite-broken boy’s voice, torn between accusation and wonder. Then it was as though his voice tuned in, like a radio—as though
he
tuned in. I could understand him easily, despite the accent. A dead leaf was stuck to a blondish spike above his lefteye. Instinctively I reached for it, and the boy flinched.
“It’s just a leaf,” I said, and dropped it. I waved away the smoke, coughing. “We should open the door.”
I cracked it so that the smoke could disperse, turned to see the boy crouched on his heels, staring up at me with those challenging eyes. I got a better look at his clothes: an ugly overcoat that hung to his knees; dark pants, too short, exposing his ankles; a filthy blue shirt, its cuffs flapping around knobby wrists; heavy boots caked with dirt. His hands were thick-knuckled and raw-looking, big hands for someone so slight. He looked like one of the poorer kids from back in Norville, wearing handmade clothes and daring someone to mention it. He looked like me.
“Who are you?” he said.
“My name’s Merle.”
“Merle? Merle.” He repeated my name as though tasting it, looked at my face, my paint-stained pants, and frowned. “You’re a girl?”
“Yes, I’m a goddamn girl. You’re a guy, right?”
“Your voice—you sound like a girl. But—” He gestured at my bomber jacket and pants, and gazed at me questioningly.
I stared back, wondering if this was a joke. But he sounded serious. Maybe he was drunk, or tripping. I shrugged. “So where’re you from? Are you an exchange student?”
“Exchange?” He shook his head. “I’m from Charleville. The asshole of the universe.”
“You mean Charlottesville? I’m from Norville. Greene County. Don’t worry, no one’s ever heard of it. Maybe theuniverse has two assholes.” I waited for some explanation of his accent, but he continued to stare at me. Finally I asked, “How’d you get in?”
“The door. How did you get in?”
“Ted Kampfert gave me a key. You know him? He hangs out by the river, fishing. He looks like a homeless guy but he’s some famous old rock star or something. He knew Bob Dylan.”
The boy gave me a blank look, then nodded excitedly. “Yes! I know him—he was by the canal, catching carp. A tramp. He told me to come here. The lockhouse, he said I could sleep here.”
“That’s what he told me. He gave me this.” I held out my hand, the fish bone nestled in my palm. “Did he give you one?”
The boy shook his head, staring at the key enviously, and I stuck it back in my pocket. “So how’d you get in?”
“It was open.” He looked past me to where the door revealed a wedge of mist-drenched leaves, brightening from gray to green with dawn. “I’m starving. You want to find something to eat?”
“Yeah, sure. What’s your name?”
“Ar-toorr.”
“What?” He repeated the name and I frowned. “Spell it.”
He jammed a hand into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a stumpy pencil and a wad of pages. He wrote something on the corner of a page, angling himself so I could read it. Even in blunt pencil, his signature was surprisingly elegant.
“‘Arthur,’” I said.
He nodded again, replaced the wad of paper, and ran a hand across the inch of stubble on his scalp. “In Mazas, they did that,” he said. “Shaved my head.”
“Mazas?”
“Mazas Prison. In
“How’d you get in?” I demanded. “Get out, get out!”
I waved my arms threateningly, but all that did was extinguish the flame. The boy stooped. I kicked out, afraid he’d try to grab my ankles, but there was only the flick of another match being struck. The room filled with a sweetly acrid scent, and I looked down to see him crouched in front of some burning leaves. He lifted his face, the meager flames casting a glow on round cheeks, an obdurate mouth, and very pale, coldly assessing gray-blue eyes.
“Who the hell are
you
?” The words were garbled, the voice a not-quite-broken boy’s voice, torn between accusation and wonder. Then it was as though his voice tuned in, like a radio—as though
he
tuned in. I could understand him easily, despite the accent. A dead leaf was stuck to a blondish spike above his lefteye. Instinctively I reached for it, and the boy flinched.
“It’s just a leaf,” I said, and dropped it. I waved away the smoke, coughing. “We should open the door.”
I cracked it so that the smoke could disperse, turned to see the boy crouched on his heels, staring up at me with those challenging eyes. I got a better look at his clothes: an ugly overcoat that hung to his knees; dark pants, too short, exposing his ankles; a filthy blue shirt, its cuffs flapping around knobby wrists; heavy boots caked with dirt. His hands were thick-knuckled and raw-looking, big hands for someone so slight. He looked like one of the poorer kids from back in Norville, wearing handmade clothes and daring someone to mention it. He looked like me.
“Who are you?” he said.
“My name’s Merle.”
“Merle? Merle.” He repeated my name as though tasting it, looked at my face, my paint-stained pants, and frowned. “You’re a girl?”
“Yes, I’m a goddamn girl. You’re a guy, right?”
“Your voice—you sound like a girl. But—” He gestured at my bomber jacket and pants, and gazed at me questioningly.
I stared back, wondering if this was a joke. But he sounded serious. Maybe he was drunk, or tripping. I shrugged. “So where’re you from? Are you an exchange student?”
“Exchange?” He shook his head. “I’m from Charleville. The asshole of the universe.”
“You mean Charlottesville? I’m from Norville. Greene County. Don’t worry, no one’s ever heard of it. Maybe theuniverse has two assholes.” I waited for some explanation of his accent, but he continued to stare at me. Finally I asked, “How’d you get in?”
“The door. How did you get in?”
“Ted Kampfert gave me a key. You know him? He hangs out by the river, fishing. He looks like a homeless guy but he’s some famous old rock star or something. He knew Bob Dylan.”
The boy gave me a blank look, then nodded excitedly. “Yes! I know him—he was by the canal, catching carp. A tramp. He told me to come here. The lockhouse, he said I could sleep here.”
“That’s what he told me. He gave me this.” I held out my hand, the fish bone nestled in my palm. “Did he give you one?”
The boy shook his head, staring at the key enviously, and I stuck it back in my pocket. “So how’d you get in?”
“It was open.” He looked past me to where the door revealed a wedge of mist-drenched leaves, brightening from gray to green with dawn. “I’m starving. You want to find something to eat?”
“Yeah, sure. What’s your name?”
“Ar-toorr.”
“What?” He repeated the name and I frowned. “Spell it.”
He jammed a hand into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a stumpy pencil and a wad of pages. He wrote something on the corner of a page, angling himself so I could read it. Even in blunt pencil, his signature was surprisingly elegant.
“‘Arthur,’” I said.
He nodded again, replaced the wad of paper, and ran a hand across the inch of stubble on his scalp. “In Mazas, they did that,” he said. “Shaved my head.”
“Mazas?”
“Mazas Prison. In
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