Vernon God Little by D. B. C. Pierre

floats right by with a fresh mess of tributes for the Lechugas’ front porch.
    â€˜We happy we allow home to continue our young life,’ says Abdini, like he’s me, or we’re fucken brothers or something. ‘And we cantinue inbestigation into whappen that terryball day . . .’
    I got me some learnings in court, I have to say. The way everybody acts, court is like watching TV-trailers; a shade of this movie, a bite of that show. The one where the kid gets cancer, and everybody speaks haltingly. The one where the rookie cop decides whether to be a bag-man for bribes, or to blow his crusty partner’s cover. I personally wouldn’t recommend playing that one, though; everybody ends up being on the take, like even the mayor. And don’t fucken ask what show I got stuck with. ‘America’s Dumbest Assholes’ or something. ‘Ally McBowel.’
    The Mercury bitches under Pam’s sandals. That’s because she uses both pedals at once. ‘No point
having
a brake pedal if your foot’s a mile away on the other side of the car,’ she’ll tell you if you ever bring it up. I only brought it up once. ‘Might as well throw the darned pedal out the door.’ Camera people scatter as we lunge up Gurie Street. I see the TV pictures in my mind, the shot of my ole mutton head looking back from the Mercury.
    â€˜But, what kind of
meals
did you get?’ asks Pam.
    â€˜Regular stuff.’
    â€˜But like, what? Like, pork ’n’ beans? Did you get dessert?’
    â€˜Not really.’
    â€˜Oh
Lord
.’
    She spins the car into the
Barn
drive-thru. One good thing about Pam’s TV-movie; you know how the thing’s going to end. That’s the kind of life I want, the life we were fucken promised. A fuzzy ole show with some flashes of panty and a happy ending. One of those shows where the kid’s baseball coach takes him camping, and teaches him self-respect, you’ve seen that show, with electric piano notes tinkling in the background, soft as ovaries hitting oatmeal. When you hear that piano it means somebody’s hugging, or a woman is crumpling her lips with overwhelming joy, down by a lake. Boy, the life I could have with the right musicbehind me. Instead I watch Liberty Drive screen through the window, with
Galveston
playing in back. We pass the place where Max Lechuga sucked his last breath. He said some words, but you couldn’t hear them. Heat comes to my eye, so I spark up a distraction.
    â€˜Ma home?’ I ask.
    â€˜Waiting on the fridge delivery,’ says Pam.
    â€˜You’re kidding.’
    â€˜Humor her, she’s going through a lot. No harm in just waiting.’
    â€˜That’ll be one long wait.’
    Pam just sighs. ‘You’ll be sixteen in a few days. We won’t let anything spoil your birthday.’
    I cushion myself in this familiar ole cream; family, with all its flavors of smell. I’ve only been gone a week, but my ole routines seem like a past life. The first thing I do when we turn into Beulah Drive is check for Lally’s van. I try to see past a knot of reporters in the road, but then the Seldome Motel’s new minibus pulls up by the Lechugas’ teddy farm. Strangers lean out, take pictures, bow their heads, then the van pulls away toward the mantis market. Lally’s space under the willow is empty.
    â€˜Take these fries to your ma,’ says Pam through a mouthful of drumstick.
    â€˜Not coming in?’
    â€˜I have pinball right now.’ Playing pinball is healthy, according to Pam.
    Reporters jostle me all the way to the front door. I slip inside, locking the door behind me, then just hang, soaking up the familiar whiff of ketchup and wood polish. All’s quiet inside, except for the TV. I go to leave the fries on the breakfast bar, but just as I reach the kitchen, I hear a noise up the hallway. Like a sick dog. Then comes a voice.
    â€˜
Wait
–