by Adam Rapp
“Ms. Bledsoe, I believe you have an overdue book,” Norma Klondike says after she writes the message down. “Lorcan Nutt’s The Smallest Hands.”
“I’m rereading it,” Corinthia tells her.
“According to our system, it was due back here over two weeks ago. We’re going to have to fine you.”
“I’ll bring it by soon,” Corinthia promises, and hangs up.
Corinthia’s breath is still shallow. She feels light-headed, as if tiny bubbles are swirling around her eyeballs. Should she call her guidance counselor? Her former therapist, Dr. Flung?
She resets the phone, picks it up again, and calls information, looking for a “Birdsong” in Lugo.
“There’s no Birdsong listed in Lugo,” the operator tells Corinthia, “but there’s a Florida Birdsong in Wigwam.”
Corinthia asks to be connected to Florida Birdsong in nearby Wigwam, and after a few rings, an elderly lady with a voice like dry tissue paper answers.
“Hello?” she says.
Corinthia says hello and tells the woman that she’s sorry to bother her but was wondering if a Lavert Birdsong might live there.
“Lavert’s my grandson,” the old woman says. “But he isn’t here right now.”
“Does he live with you?” Corinthia asks.
“Who wants to know?” the old woman asks, understandably suspicious.
Corinthia tells the old woman her name.
“Corinthia who?” she says.
“Bledsoe.”
“You from the hospital?”
“No,” Corinthia replies. “I met your grandson earlier this afternoon.”
“At his therapy?”
“At the high school. We were both part of the tornado cleanup crew,” Corinthia lies.
“You with the church?”
“The Red Cross,” Corinthia lies. She can feel her temples throbbing. “We’ve had quite a day over at Lugo Memorial. The roof of the field house was damaged pretty badly.”
“Y’all have a program with the work farm, too?”
“We do,” Corinthia hears herself say, pushing the lie.
“Well, Lavert was real happy to help out,” the old woman says. “You got more work for him?”
“I just might,” Corinthia continues, braiding her lie into a long, winding serpent.
The old woman tells Corinthia that she’d be happy to pass along a message to her grandson, and Corinthia leaves her phone number.
September 2, 2015
Dave,
Hello.
It’s been a few days. You wouldn’t believe what happened. Lugo Memorial got attacked by tornadoes! Three of them! That’s like getting bum-rushed by some gangstas at a Dunkin’ Donuts! The roof of the field house got torn off and many parts of the main building were damaged. They wouldn’t even let us go into the classrooms. We were only allowed to go to our lockers to get our books, and you could see these huge piles of glass and fiberglass insulation and pieces of bulletin board getting broomed into the corners by these guys from some nearby prison.
Authentic criminals in our school, Dave! And they weren’t throwing shade at anyone; they were just minding their own business and trying to help!
There was this big assembly at which Principal Ticonderoga delivered a speech about coming together as a community, and she rallied everyone to hang tough while the school building and field house and the flagpole were being repaired.
I kept looking for Camila, that Mexican cafeteria server I was telling you about — the one whose hairnet I stole — but I couldn’t find her. I started to worry that maybe she got sucked into the sky by one of the tornadoes and that I’ll never see her again, and this was painful, Dave. I actually punched myself in the thigh twice, like really hard, and this tall guy with a huge Adam’s apple looked at me and shook his head. I have a bruise where I punched myself, and I’m hoping it’ll turn into the face of Camila. If that were to happen, I would stroke it so much she’d come back from the sky. She’d float down through the clouds with little white birds chirping in her hair.
Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you: Before Principal Ticonderoga gave that speech, Vice Principal Mejerus led us in a prayer and made everyone hold hands. I wished it was Camila’s hand I had to take, but this was not the case, Dave. I had to hold hands with this redheaded kid named Ben Krabbenhoff. Krabbenhoff is a sophomore. He plays clarinet in the band, and a lot of people say he was born in a test tube and that he stuffs his clarinet with Bumble Bee tuna and has sex with it, and as I’m sure you can imagine, Dave, many individuals get quite freaked out by this kind of behavior, particularly Lars Silence and Mark Maestro, who treat anyone who’s a little different like they’re a cat carrying a disease and must be set on fire.
Even though I was sitting in the middle of a row, Krabbenhoff was the only person close enough to hold hands with. The girl to my left was sitting several feet away from me and wouldn’t look in my direction when we were instructed by Vice Principal Mejerus to hold hands.
Krabbenhoff’s hand was cold and clammy. It was sort of like holding a dead frog, which I have done. I’ve held several, in fact. On canoe trips in Michigan. Frogs and salamanders and catfish, although you have to be careful with catfish because they’ll stick you with their whiskers.
Vice Principal Mejerus led us in prayer, during which he asked God to look after everyone in the Lugo community and bring us safe skies and bless us with his countenance. I think Vice Principal Mejerus used to be some kind of priest-in-training, or maybe he was a high-ranking official in the Boy Scouts. He’s pretty good at leading prayers. He stores a lot of emotions in his voice and makes this pained expression, like his heart is aching or he has love cramps, which I can relate to. . . . By the way, Dave, I just looked up the word countenance, and according to the dictionary app on my Android, it means “face,” so I’m not exactly sure what Vice Principal Mejerus was asking God to do. I imagine God taking his face off and rubbing it all over the Lugo Memorial parking lot or something. Or like we have to all line up and take our clothes off and then there’s this little room with God in it, and, one by one, we enter the room and he speaks in code and takes his face off and rubs it all over our bodies, like on our armpits and over our hearts and where our junk resides. In that scenario, I imagine God wearing skintight jeans and Google glasses, and every time he speaks, he speaks in code, and when he takes his face off, he has to remove his Google glasses and set them on this little desk where he keeps his iPhone, and he has one that’s from the future, like an iPhone 47, and maybe he also uses a little Bluetooth earpiece that looks like a miniature spaceship. I also imagine him not wearing a shirt and his bare chest is old and saggy, with little clear moles all over it, and each mole, if you look really close, contains the face of Jesus Christ, who sort of looks like that actor Jared Leto. That’s what I imagine, Dave, and I know this is really specific, but that’s what my freshman composition teacher, Mrs. Plano, encourages: specificity. Like if you’re going to describe something, then really describe it in painstaking detail. She actually used the word “painstaking,” which means thorough. And that’s what I’m attempting to do for you, Dave. I’m really trying to be painstaking and not hold anything back, just like Mr. Smock advised at my last counseling session.
After the prayer, Ben Krabbenhoff took his hand back and wiped it on his pants like I had some kind of infection. I used to feel bad for him. I would see him carrying his clarinet around and think about how lonely that must be — practicing an instrument in your basement or your bathroom or your garage all the time — but after he wiped his hand like that, I’m tempted to put Krabbenhoff on The List. And I want to also add that it’s NOT because he might be stuffing his clarinet with Bumble Bee tuna and having sex with it. I’m tempted to put him on The List strictly because of the way he looked at me when he wiped his hand on his pants. Should I give him another chance, Dave? Once a person goes on The List, it’s a permanent situation.
Speaking of The List, during the entire ass
embly, I was looking around for Lars Silence and Mark Maestro. Part of me was hoping that they’d been killed by the tornadoes. I kept seeing their bodies flying through the air, hurtling end-over-end, like when you throw a cat off a roof. I saw Cinthia Hauk right away, who was sitting exactly one row in front of me. She was wearing her hair up, and I couldn’t stop looking at her neck, where I could see this little vein throbbing. She has these wispy blond hairs. I have a plan to get some of those hairs.
A plan, a plan, a plan. I’m a man with a plan . . .
You see, Dave, I have recently purchased a pair of scissors from Target. They’re small ones. I think they’re supposed to be used for eyebrows and nostril and mole hairs. When the time is right, I will sneak up behind Cinthia Hauk, quiet as a warrior from the Nez Percé tribe. The members of this particular tribe were especially good at hunting and killing because they were so quiet. I will go straight-up Nez Percé on Cinthia Hauk, Dave. She won’t even know, because I’ll do it without feeling. It’ll be as easy as putting your hand on a window.
And when I get my feet good and quiet, I’ll sneak up behind Lars Silence and Mark Maestro and get their hair, too. It won’t be easy with Lars Silence, because his hair’s cut in a flattop. I might have to use some sort of razor on him. My dad used to use this old-school straight razor. His shaving kit is still in the cupboard under the sink. I’ll probably have to sharpen it, but I learned how to sharpen knives in Cub Scouts. What you do is, you use this thing called a whetstone, Dave. It makes a pretty mysterious sound when you sharpen a blade on it, too, like the world is whispering a secret to you, like it has plans that you’re suddenly a part of.
Plans, plans, plans . . .
That’s what we’re all looking for, right, Dave? A plan?
This is what I’m thinking:
Everyone who winds up on The List will have to part with a little hair. I’ll keep it all in that shoe box under my bed, the one that contains my mom’s hair and my arrowhead collection. I’ll be sure to separate all the hair samples with rubber bands. The Mohicans were really into hair, Dave. They would scalp their enemies, meaning if someone threw shade at them or committed a crime on their particular tribe, they would cut the tops of their heads off and keep the scalp flap containing the hair as a trophy. The Mohicans were quite eccentric.
After the Crow Creek Massacre, which dates all the way back to 1325 AD, 90 percent of the skulls that were found showed evidence of scalping. Dave, couldn’t you just imagine the Lugo Memorial trophy case being full of scalps instead of championship trophies?
There is one more person that I’m adding to The List, but I’m not going to talk about that right now, Dave. Let’s just say that there’s this very tall girl in school, and her name is Corinthia Bledsoe. I think she might be some kind of prophet. Anyway, she stood up during the assembly and told Principal Ticonderoga that all these birds were coming, and while she was standing, this individual who I am adding to The List pointed their finger at her like it was a gun and shot her three times. This person was sitting behind Corinthia Bledsoe and I think I might’ve been the only one who saw this unjust business. This person’s name is Ward Newbury, and he is a junior with an intimidating muscular build, and I will be keeping a close eye on him. I’ve seen him in the cafeteria, drinking protein shakes. He brings little packets from home and mixes them into his milk, and he makes sure everyone is watching him when he does it.
Dave, the thing about Corinthia Bledsoe is she’s the one who predicted the tornadoes, but everyone just thought she was trying to get attention. But they came, Dave! The three tornadoes came, and she tried to warn us! She is someone I want to get to know. I heard she got suspended from school for her outburst about the birds. I do not want to cut any of Corinthia Bledsoe’s hair off and put it in that box under my bed. Someday I would like to be her friend and have her tell me things.
They brought, like, twelve of these huge mobile homes to serve as temporary classrooms, and after the assembly, Principal Ticonderoga let us go home so the silent criminals in the blue jumpsuits could finish cleaning the school and get the mobile homes ready.
One of those men in the blue jumpsuits was really pale and had a face like a melting snowman. He might have been burned in a fire. Or maybe he’d had acid thrown in his face or something like that. Criminals deal with a lot of shade, Dave. Anyway, we met eyes! We met eyes, Dave! His were really clear and pale blue. That happened during the Pledge of Allegiance, and during that part about the Republic for which it stands, our eyes met. He was squatting on one of the lower parts of the scaffolding, and he looked at me, and I looked back at him, and I felt a wobble inside like a little slippery animal was running in my stomach, and then I urinated a little, Dave, just a tiny little bit like when you squeeze a grape, and then the very pale man with the face like a melting snowman in the blue jumpsuit nodded at me twice. It was like we both knew something really, really, really extremely important at exactly the same time, and his two nods confirmed this, Dave.
Can you understand what I’m saying, Dave? It was spooky.
Lucky for me, there’s been no gym class yet. But I was prepared anyway. I got up extra early and used some superglue to attach a select portion of my mom’s hair that I collected from off the bathroom floor to my junk area. I have to say, it looks pretty good. Like sort of bushy and unbushy at the same time. I’m not sure if unbushy is a word, but you get the idea.
Dave, I should also tell you, and this is embarrassing . . . When I saw myself in the mirror with my bush wig, I got an erection. It was very stiff and curved upward like a bratwurst. And then I masturbated. I’m still at this place in my sexual development where nothing comes out, but I do have an orgasm. It’s like this little shudder of pleasure that feels like I’m falling backward through a bright, warm sky and getting tickled with a thousand feathers at the same time. And then my muscles go all weak and I get still and sleepy and I start sighing like an animal that has felt all the pleasure that is possible to feel.
My mom just called for me, so I have to go, Dave.
I can’t wait to start using those little scissors, Dave.
I will get my feet quiet.
I will become a human whisper with scissors.
They won’t know I’m there.
They’ll be like, Whoa, was someone just behind me? but then they’ll look and I won’t be there, and they won’t even know I have their hair.
I can’t wait, I can’t wait, I can’t wait.
Two days later, Corinthia enters her brother’s bedroom, whose paneled walls are covered with posters of various NFL wide receivers: the Dallas Cowboys’ Terrance Williams; the Indianapolis Colts’ T.Y. Hilton; and Antonio Brown of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Corinthia hasn’t ventured into her brother’s room in what seems like years. The two other bedrooms in the Bledsoe home feel like the interior of a dollhouse. Cornelia’s furniture is custom-made to accommodate her size, after all. Even her parents’ king-size bed seems far away from her, smaller than it truly is, almost like from a fable, as if it’s more suited for a sick child than two standard-size adults.
The faint smell of Channing’s sweat socks and his Irish Spring deodorant taints the air. The smells of an athlete seem to always prevail, no matter how neat and hygienic he might be. His desk is so organized, it could be mistaken for an art installation, an exhibit of young American male achievement in a museum. His textbooks are perfectly stacked, largest to smallest, his writing utensils vertically aligned, the pencils meticulously sharpened. Several trophies line his windowsill, including his two Lugo Memorial Most Valuable Player varsity football plaques. His laptop is centered on his desk, but when Corinthia powers it on, it’s of no use because she doesn’t know his password. She can’t even get to the computer’s desktop, so she lowers the lid and puts it to sleep.
She looks under his bed. . . . Nothing, not even a dust bunny. She opens his closet. . . . Only clothes and sneakers, a few cotton-blend suits handed down from their father, a pair of football c
leats, and a pair of penny loafers. On the long shelf above the closet’s hanging rod are several pairs of neatly folded gray workout sweats. Beside them are his circular push-up mounts, a can of athlete’s foot spray, and a stack of V-necked sweaters. Wherever he might be, it doesn’t appear that he’s taken anything with him. Even his gym bag is in the corner, unzipped, revealing his leather weight-lifting belt and a towel.
Corinthia sits on the edge of his bed, which has been impeccably made. Channing has always been the consummate neat freak, putting his dirty clothes in the hamper in a timely fashion, keeping his room picked up, making his bed before breakfast, and he’s downright obsessive about smoothing the wrinkles out of his “Big Ben” Roethlisberger Pittsburgh Steelers quilt that he’s had since the fifth grade. But the current attention to detail — the crispness of the top sheet, the glasslike smoothness of his quilt, the stiff squared corners — is even more noticeable than usual, almost military-like in its execution. Corinthia wonders if her mother came up here and made everything more presentable for Detective Moon.
She feels under Channing’s pillow. . . . Again, nothing. She pulls his quilt and top sheet down to see if he left some clue tucked between the sheets, but it reveals only a cool expanse of linen, so she remakes the bed, doing her best to duplicate its perfection.
She can hear her mother working out to one of her DVDs in the living room. Marlene Bledsoe’s squeals of failure periodically spike over the dance music.
Corinthia closes her eyes for a moment and simply breathes, half expecting to see all those geese again, or another family of tornadoes, or whatever else might be out there in the world beyond Lugo. Killer bees? Locusts? Giant worms? A scourge of Midwestern crocodiles? Flying monkeys circling, gathering force, homing in?
Instead she sees her tall, cool, slate-colored wall. As she learned from Dr. Flung, once the wall is successfully conjured, it’s important to keep it there as long as possible and to expect nothing else, to simply suspend all expectations, anxieties, and desires. The wall is so vivid, Corinthia can see its tiny pits and fissures, the moisture starting to gather on its dense surface, the sun reflecting off it, its sheer vertical power, a ladybug descending . . .