Read Between the Lines Read online

  One: Finger Boy

  Two: Sign Language

  Three: It’s Temporary

  Four: Bad Boys

  Five: Death of a Salesman

  Six: That Girl on the Wall

  Seven: Ape Boy

  Eight: Dirty Finger

  Nine: Stay Gold

  Ten: Read Between the Lines

  Acknowledgments

  I STEP OUT OF THE MASS OF STINKING BODIES and get ready to catch the ball.

  “Granger’s open!” someone yells.

  Ben Mead has it. He pivots on one foot, trying to find an opening among the hands blocking his vision. He sees me and pauses doubtfully, then looks around for someone else. Anyone else. Everyone knows passing to Granger is about as effective as throwing the ball out of bounds. Or worse, handing it over to the other team.

  I raise my hands to show him Granger’s ready anyway. I am wide open.

  He darts his head around again. Desperate. Ben Mead is the captain of the basketball team and doesn’t even need to take PE. But I guess, for him, it’s an easy A.

  “Give it to Granger!” another commands. It’s Keith. He’s always looking out for me, even though it comes at a risk. It’s never a good idea to be friends with the Kcoj. That’s “jock” spelled backward. Because I am the opposite of a jock.

  Ben passes it to Jacob Richarde instead. He’s also on the basketball team and also most likely trying to get an easy A. He dribbles a few times but gets swarmed by the other side. Without warning, he hurls the ball at me four times harder than he really needs to. Like we’re back in third grade playing dodgeball and he not only wants to hit me — he wants to make it count.

  I hear the break before I feel it. It’s kind of a click. Like the sound my dad’s fingers make when he cracks his knuckles, one by one, as he watches a fight on TV. Like he’s the one getting ready to use his fists.

  The basketball slips from my fingers and bounces into a mass of hands and white T-shirts, half of them covered with red mesh pinnies to show which team they’re on. Ben and Jacob look at me with disgust as a red gets the ball and dribbles toward the other end of the court. The rest take chase — a sprawling, blurry candy cane. Their sneakers squeak on the gym floor. The sound echoes through the empty stands.

  “Defense!” Ben yells above the squeaks. No one responds. I hate gym.

  I stand alone at my end of the court, finger throbbing, and try to concentrate on not letting the water welling up in my eyes spill over.

  Please, God. Not that.

  I take a deep breath to calm myself, but that just seems to make the pain worse, as if proof of life makes the pain that much more unbearable.

  How long does it take for a broken finger to start to swell up like a sausage? I grit my teeth against the throbbing and wait to find out.

  Ms. Sawyer blows the whistle she keeps on a black cord around her neck as a second wave of pain rushes at me and brings me to my knees. The candy-cane mass beyond me becomes a pink jumble as my eyes water again. If I wasn’t in so much pain, I would laugh. They are so far from pink.

  I blink away my tears before anyone can see.

  “Granger!” Ms. Sawyer yells. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Her tiny body bobs toward me. Behind her, the candy-cane mob turns to finally notice they are short one guy. Not that my participation was making much difference.

  Keith is the first to part from the pack and follow Ms. Sawyer up the court, ignoring one essential rule of survival: Never show the crowd you feel sorry for the Kcoj, or you become the Kcoj. But he’s my best friend. He can’t help it.

  “Granger!” Ms. Sawyer yells again. It’s weird how in gym class everyone resorts to using last names, like we’re in the army or something. I don’t see the connection. Maybe it makes us seem more tough. Most of us, anyway.

  Ms. Sawyer’s small head peers down at me. She tilts it to the right and squints at me the way a crow looks at a dying animal on the side of the road, soon to be roadkill.

  Do I let him live, or put him out of his misery? I bet she’s thinking.

  Kill me now, I think back. Please.

  She bends down and puts her hand on my shoulder. It’s small and dainty. Not like you would think a gym teacher’s would be.

  “Let’s see, kiddo,” she says. Kiddo. Like I’m nine instead of a ninth-grader. Somehow though, coming from her, it isn’t insulting. It’s comforting.

  She reaches for my hand, but I pull it away fast, knowing it will hurt more if she touches it. Instead she bends down to get a closer look and winces. “Grab the hall pass and go to the nurse,” she says. “You’ll be all right.”

  She turns and jogs toward the candy canes. This seems to indicate that I’m not hurt that badly, and everyone goes back to ignoring me. Keith pauses and turns toward me, giving me a questioning look like, You sure you’re OK? I give him a slight nod so no one else notices: I’ll survive.

  At this school, and especially in this gym class, one guy showing sympathy toward another guy is not recommended. At least showing sympathy toward this guy. And by this guy, I mean me.

  I stand up and immediately feel woozy. The gym floor rocks to one side, then the other. I spread my legs to get my balance, as if I’m standing on the deck of a boat. Slowly, the floor steadies and I find the hall pass at the bottom step of the bleachers.

  Ms. Sawyer blows her whistle again. The sneakers go back to squeaking and the shouts to Pass it! Pass it! Pass it! Shoot! pick up. I’m not sad to leave them.

  I walk down the empty hallway slowly, savoring being able to walk without fear of being pushed or tripped.

  The floor is littered with crinkled-up paper and pens with no ink.

  A strip of toilet paper.

  The distorted metal from a spiral notebook.

  An empty Doritos bag.

  A crushed Gatorade bottle. Blue.

  And me.

  Mr. French, the head custodian, is usually so fanatical about clean hallways. Any time I leave class to hide in the bathroom or go to the nurse, I see him in the hall with his push mop, cleaning up everyone’s garbage. I always try to say hi or thank you, because I imagine it is a crappy job, but whenever he sees me, he looks away and hurries down the hall. One time I bumped into him when I was rushing out of class, and he dropped his mop and kind of panicked and just stared at me like I was a ghost. Then he kept saying he was sorry, as if me bumping into him was his fault. He’s a strange guy. My guess is he’s out sick today because this place looks like a dump.

  I reach out with my good hand and clang the locks on the locker doors, just because I can. Clang-clang-clang. It feels good to be bad for once. Confident.

  I wish this could be me all the time, not just in the safety of an empty hall. I wish I could be more than the kid everyone likes to watch fall on his face because he’s “clumsy” (they trip me). Who wears lame clothes because he’s “poor” (my dad doesn’t give me money to buy the right stuff). Who’s a “wimp” (how does a skinny guy like me stand up to someone twice his size without being trampled?).

  They don’t know me.

  My finger throbs with each step as I get closer to the nurse’s office, which is in the same direction as the main entrance. Or exit, depending on how you look at it. I consider what would happen if I kept walking and didn’t go to the nurse’s office. What would happen if I slipped outside? Slipped away?

  But the throbbing aches all the way up to my eardrums now, and I am so tired.

  All I want to do is lie down and disappear.

  In the nurse’s office there is a daisy-covered plastic shower curtain hanging from the ceiling to hide the vinyl-covered bed that smells like bleach and makes a farting sound when you roll over on it.

  I can’t
wait do to that now, despite the embarrassing sound. I just want to go behind the curtain and drink from the paper cone cup that makes the water taste funny and swallow the white pills that I know will barely dull the pain. I want to lean back on the farting bed and stare at the dots in the ceiling tiles and listen to the nurse make personal calls because she forgot I’m in the room, behind the curtain, pretending not to exist.

  The nurse swivels around on her stool when she hears me come in. Her thick thighs bulge over it so you can’t see the fake leather seat. She eyes me up and down, scanning me for what’s wrong. Her eyes settle on my cradled hand, then hone in on my finger.

  “Ouch,” she says, wheeling herself over to me. She reaches for my hand, just like Ms. Sawyer did. She’s a nurse. Doesn’t she know that’s a terrible idea? Why do people always want to touch what hurts?

  I pull my hand out of reach.

  “I need to take a look,” she says, smiling in a gentle sort of way. She has eyes like a deer. They are deep brown and too big for her face. She blinks at me. She’s wearing green eye shadow and thick purple mascara. The green matches her nurse’s shirt.

  “I won’t touch it. Promise.”

  I step forward and hold out my swollen finger. It’s even bigger than a sausage now. It makes me think of those old-fashioned cartoons of Tom and Jerry when Jerry hammers Tom on the head and a furless pink bump pops up out of his skull and pulses like a neon sign.

  Womp-womp-womp.

  “Hmmm,” she says, squinting. Her name is Mrs. O’Connor. She darts her head around my hand, trying to see my finger from all sides. “Looks like a bad one. Think you broke it, hon?”

  I remember the sound I heard when the ball hit. I’m sure there was a crack. But I don’t think bones really make a sound when they break.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “Could I just lie down for a while?” The floor has started to sway again.

  “I wonder if you should have that X-rayed,” she says, ignoring my question.

  The floor sways in a new direction and I stumble a little. “No,” I say. “I’m sure it’s just a sprain.”

  She frowns.

  “Couldn’t I just lie down?” I ask again.

  “Of course, hon. Let me call your folks and see if it’s OK to give you some ibuprofen for the swelling.”

  I don’t have folks. I have a folk. She should know this by now since I’ve spent enough time in here. Maybe it’s just a word she’s used to saying in the plural. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, that there is someone else she could call besides my father. She’s had to deal with that folk on the phone before. It couldn’t possibly have been pleasant.

  She glides back over to her desk. There is something graceful in how she moves across the floor on that stool, her feet pointing at the same angle, as she zooms away from me. Like she’s trying to fly.

  “What’s the number, hon?”

  I tell her.

  She clicks the number using the eraser end of a pencil.

  “Hello, is this Mr. Granger?” she asks. She turns to me and winks, as if to say, I got this.

  I’m pretty sure she’s about to be disappointed.

  “This is the school nurse at Irving High. I have your son here with me. He hurt his hand in gym class this morning.”

  She’s quiet while my dad replies. Then she squirms, ever so slightly.

  I picture my dad on the other line, making his combination disgusted and disappointed face. It’s a bit like Ben Mead’s, come to think of it.

  What did the hurt magnet get up to this time? I imagine him asking.

  My dad thinks everyone wants to beat me up.

  I wish he wasn’t right.

  When I was younger and still dumb enough to go to him after “getting hurt on the playground at school” (someone kicked the crap out of me), he would always have the same two reactions: “Christ, don’t be such a baby” followed by “What did you do that for?” As if I had a choice. He really loved that second one. The old joke that was never funny.

  “Well, no,” Mrs. O’Connor says. “It’s not his hand exactly.” She pauses. It’s like she knows what she is going to say will sound pathetic. “He hurt his finger. Actually.”

  Another pause. Probably while she waits for him to stop bitching about what a lost cause I am.

  “It’s very swollen,” she says. “I think it might be broken. I’d like to give him some ibuprofen and ice it, try to get the swelling down so I can get a better look.”

  She squirms on her stool and turns to smile at me sympathetically, as if to say, I’m so sorry your father is such an asshole, even though she doesn’t seem the type to use that word except in extreme cases. I shrug back like, No worries. I can handle him.

  She looks doubtful.

  “All right, Mr. Granger,” she says, twisting away from me again. “I’ll do that. Yes. I’ll keep you posted. [Pause.] Yes, I’m sure you’re busy. [Pause.] Well, it does look like a nasty injury. [Pause.] Finger injuries can be very painful, sir. [Pause.] All right. Yes. I’ll call you back.”

  She hangs up the phone but waits a minute before turning around to face me again. Her shoulders and back rise up and down. Deep breaths. Calming breaths. My dad has that effect on people.

  When she stands, the squished cushion seat slowly begins to inflate, erasing the indent her huge rear left on it. “He says it’s fine to give you some pain relief,” she says. She walks to the cupboard and unlocks it with the key she wears on a cord around her neck, similar to the one Ms. Sawyer keeps her whistle on.

  She opens a bottle and empties two pills into a tiny paper cup that always reminds me of the kind you put ketchup in at the food court at the interstate rest area. I used to love stopping there on road trips with my parents. It was always my job to fill the cups with ketchup, mustard, and relish. Before my mom left, it was the best job ever. We’d share cups and dip our fries in, talking about how much fun we were going to have wherever it was we were headed. Sometimes she’d tap my nose with the end of a fry and get ketchup on me, and before I could wipe it off, she’d call me Rudolph. Then one day my dad said, “More like Bozo,” and that put an end to that. Even so, my dad seemed happy then. Happy to be with my mom, at least. But that was before. The last time I went anywhere with him, I tried to carry two cups of ketchup in one hand, and they tipped and oozed down my hand and onto my new sneakers. My dad called me a “waste of space” and everyone looked at us, like they were trying to figure out if I really was, or if my father was one for calling me that. I think the jury is still out.

  Mrs. O’Connor hands me the mini cup. “Let me get you some water to swallow those down with,” she says. She reaches for the cone cup dispenser next to the sink and fills one up.

  “Here you go, hon,” she says sweetly.

  Confession: I like it when she calls me hon. It is so much nicer than the words my dad is fond of: Little prick. Loser. Moron. Good-for-nothing. Dumbass. Little queer. Pussy. Worthless little —

  I drop the pills onto my tongue, lift the cup to my mouth, and breathe in the familiar school water and paper smell. I swallow the pills and water in one giant gulp.

  Mrs. O’Connor smiles at me again in her sympathetic way. Sometimes I think she’s the only one who cares. Who understands.

  I am still holding my hurt hand against my chest. It’s throbbing like crazy. My finger is more swollen now and turning purple. I can almost hear the sound of the throb.

  Womp-womp-womp.

  I’ve seen my hand look like this before. When I was nine. It was only a year after my mom left. My dad had forced me to eat everything on my plate even though I hated everything on it. Especially the peas. They were cold and wrinkled, but he made me sit there until I ate every last one. When I finished, I very calmly brought my plate into the kitchen and washed and dried it. Then I walked to the front door.

  I was leaving. For good. I had decided as I choked down the last pea. This was it. I would be homeless. I would starve. But at least I wouldn’t have
to eat any more cold peas while my father looked on with hatred. I couldn’t understand why he tortured me. Blamed me. I knew the truth about my mom. I knew it wasn’t my fault she left us. Why couldn’t he?

  So, I was leaving. And I wanted to go with a bang. Or, more accurately, a slam. I knew it would piss him off, but I wanted to show him I didn’t care anymore. I wanted him to know I wasn’t afraid. Sure, I knew he’d probably come after me. Make me pay. But maybe I could outrun him. My anger was stronger than my fear and common sense.

  I gripped the edge of the door and felt the solidness of it. Then I put everything I had into slamming it closed against the House of Horror.

  Somehow though, I wasn’t able to move my hand away at the same time. It was as if the door itself was grabbing me. Trapping me.

  I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere.

  I felt a hot, hot pain when I finally freed myself from the door’s jaw. My finger swelled up just like it is now. I bit my lips together to keep in my scream because if my father heard, if he knew I couldn’t even get slamming the door right, he would laugh. He would say it served me right. And I couldn’t let him say that. So I swallowed the scream and my tears and choked on the pain as I ran down the driveway and up the road. I ran and ran and wished I would never have to turn back. Never have to face the ugly mouth of That House again.

  I ran until I found a stand of lilac bushes. I crawled under the lowest branches and hid there, crying privately under the green leaves, just as I did the day my mother left us. A deep hole had been dug out there by some neighborhood dog. I fit myself into the hole and wished I was that dog. A dog someone probably loved and didn’t mind if he dug a hole under the lilacs to stay cool in the summer. My dad would make fun of me for knowing the name of the bushes. He would call me a sissy or mama’s boy or worse.

  But lilacs were my mom’s favorite, so of course I recognized them. Every spring she would cut a few sprigs and put them in a vase so the house would smell nice. “Like the promise of summer days coming,” she always said. Then she would hug me close, and I could feel her hope and love settle into me.

  That’s how I knew what the bush was called.