was a third problem that swept away everything, a sick dizziness that was going to end in puking, real soon. Brandon turned and ran, or stumbled, away.
Laughter, this time at him.
T he next thing he knew, he was lying by the log near the pond, wedged under its curve. He sat up, bottles, beer cans, cigarette butts all around, but no people. He was alone.
Brandon rose, real fuckin’ dizzy, and puked again. He went down to the pond to rinse his mouth out, reached in, not in, because his hand bumped up against the ice. Frozen, he’d forgotten that. Had someone actually fallen in? Oh, yeah. All refrozen now. Brandon crouched by the side of the pond, trying to feel right, unable to even rinse his goddamn mouth.
He heard a crack. A cracking sound, out on the pond. Not the ice cracking, but something striking it. He looked out and saw a big stick still sliding across the ice, not far away.
The cops? They sometimes raided the woods, but not this late, and throwing sticks wasn’t their style; they came barreling right in. Some kid then, because it had to be someone, too far out to have fallen from a tree. He peered through the darkness of the woods around the pond, saw no one. Brandon thought of saying something out loud, maybe
fuck you
, decided he would if another stick got thrown.
That didn’t happen. He rose, found the path no problem—he’d been in these woods all his life—started for home. The air turned funny, and he realized it was snowing. Then, goddamn it, he figured out a cool thing he could have said to Whitney:
Go with the Beatles answer.
Too late. Why couldn’t—
That was when the second stick got thrown. Brandon heard it crack on the pond, now far behind him. Probably some kid, totally wrecked, more wrecked than him. He walked a little faster anyway, not quite so dizzy. Snow drifted down through the bare trees, black flakes that clung to his skin. Brandon realized his jacket, red with black sleeves and
West Hill Tennis
on the back, was gone. No shirt, either. Pants, yes, shoes, yes. Tomorrow was Sunday, sleep for fuckin’ ever. He just wanted to be in his bed.
A man’s hand was on Linda’s breast, a beautiful hand. She awoke, nipples taut, aroused. No one was touching her. She could sense Scott over on his side, fast asleep.
Maybe now.
Now when they were working together so well at the beginning of this new stage of life, getting Brandon into a good college. Linda remembered a piece of advice she’d come upon while leafing through a self-help book at Barnes and Noble, waiting for Ruby to finish her Christmas shopping:
The heat generated in the master bedroom warms the whole house.
A line that stabbed her at the time, stabbed her now. She reached for Scott.
Just don’t wake up.
Another little stab—why couldn’t she control her mind better, rid it of thoughts like that?—but her nipples stayed taut.
He was hard already, hard in his sleep. In a moment or two her nightie was hiked up and she was straddling him, got him inside. He made a little moan, not a moan, more musical than that, striking a note of surprise and pleasure. She felt him waking up.
Just don’t speak.
“Hey,” said Scott. Only one word, but too much.
I n the cave: snow, peace, nothing. And then something real bad happened. A fat, fat snake with a squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck was creeping slowly up the inside of her leg. It looked up, looked her right in the eye with eyes of its own, knowing eyes. Then Ruby was bolting down the hall, crying
Snake, snake,
in her mind.
She stopped outside her parents’s door. Sounds came from the other side, sounds that stopped her, stopped her long enough for the nightmare to break up and fall away. More sounds. She still wanted to go in, would have, maybe even a few months ago. But she was almost eleven. Ruby turned back.
But not to her own room, her own bed. No way. She went into Brandon’s room instead, thinking of climbing in with him, which hadn’t happened in years,
Laughter, this time at him.
T he next thing he knew, he was lying by the log near the pond, wedged under its curve. He sat up, bottles, beer cans, cigarette butts all around, but no people. He was alone.
Brandon rose, real fuckin’ dizzy, and puked again. He went down to the pond to rinse his mouth out, reached in, not in, because his hand bumped up against the ice. Frozen, he’d forgotten that. Had someone actually fallen in? Oh, yeah. All refrozen now. Brandon crouched by the side of the pond, trying to feel right, unable to even rinse his goddamn mouth.
He heard a crack. A cracking sound, out on the pond. Not the ice cracking, but something striking it. He looked out and saw a big stick still sliding across the ice, not far away.
The cops? They sometimes raided the woods, but not this late, and throwing sticks wasn’t their style; they came barreling right in. Some kid then, because it had to be someone, too far out to have fallen from a tree. He peered through the darkness of the woods around the pond, saw no one. Brandon thought of saying something out loud, maybe
fuck you
, decided he would if another stick got thrown.
That didn’t happen. He rose, found the path no problem—he’d been in these woods all his life—started for home. The air turned funny, and he realized it was snowing. Then, goddamn it, he figured out a cool thing he could have said to Whitney:
Go with the Beatles answer.
Too late. Why couldn’t—
That was when the second stick got thrown. Brandon heard it crack on the pond, now far behind him. Probably some kid, totally wrecked, more wrecked than him. He walked a little faster anyway, not quite so dizzy. Snow drifted down through the bare trees, black flakes that clung to his skin. Brandon realized his jacket, red with black sleeves and
West Hill Tennis
on the back, was gone. No shirt, either. Pants, yes, shoes, yes. Tomorrow was Sunday, sleep for fuckin’ ever. He just wanted to be in his bed.
A man’s hand was on Linda’s breast, a beautiful hand. She awoke, nipples taut, aroused. No one was touching her. She could sense Scott over on his side, fast asleep.
Maybe now.
Now when they were working together so well at the beginning of this new stage of life, getting Brandon into a good college. Linda remembered a piece of advice she’d come upon while leafing through a self-help book at Barnes and Noble, waiting for Ruby to finish her Christmas shopping:
The heat generated in the master bedroom warms the whole house.
A line that stabbed her at the time, stabbed her now. She reached for Scott.
Just don’t wake up.
Another little stab—why couldn’t she control her mind better, rid it of thoughts like that?—but her nipples stayed taut.
He was hard already, hard in his sleep. In a moment or two her nightie was hiked up and she was straddling him, got him inside. He made a little moan, not a moan, more musical than that, striking a note of surprise and pleasure. She felt him waking up.
Just don’t speak.
“Hey,” said Scott. Only one word, but too much.
I n the cave: snow, peace, nothing. And then something real bad happened. A fat, fat snake with a squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck was creeping slowly up the inside of her leg. It looked up, looked her right in the eye with eyes of its own, knowing eyes. Then Ruby was bolting down the hall, crying
Snake, snake,
in her mind.
She stopped outside her parents’s door. Sounds came from the other side, sounds that stopped her, stopped her long enough for the nightmare to break up and fall away. More sounds. She still wanted to go in, would have, maybe even a few months ago. But she was almost eleven. Ruby turned back.
But not to her own room, her own bed. No way. She went into Brandon’s room instead, thinking of climbing in with him, which hadn’t happened in years,
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