“School, you know? I went to Pulaski Heights. The Panthers. Rah rah. You?”
“Home.”
“Home? Whatdya mean?”
“Home schooling. I never went to school.”
“You mean you just stayed at home? Didn’t go to school?”
After that he stops talking, even when I prod. When I peek over the edge at the bottom bunk, he’s facing the wall, curled up. Maybe he’s asleep.
Whatever.
I read comics until I hear Booth’s voice calling lights-out and the door, my cell door, swings shut as though pushed by an invisible hand. There’s the click that indicates we’re locked down for the night.
I feel more than hear the new kid shift, look around the darkened room, and then settle.
I remember my first night. Hard to forget something like that.
“Hey, Jack.”
Silence.
“It isn’t that bad. Okay? Might look bad now. But it’s not.”
Hell, I don’t know how to soothe a titty-baby.
More silence. Which skeeves me a little. Why can’t the kid react like a normal person, especially when someone’s trying to help him out?
He might have fallen asleep. Could be. Maybe not.
Hell, I don’t know.
I wait, breathing slow. The trick is to make him think from my breathing that I’m asleep, but to stay awake and not let the deep breathing lull me down into the mattress. Into the pillow.
When I’m sure Jack’s asleep, I sit up, tilt my head toward the air vent where the wall meets the ceiling, and put my mouth at the grate.
“Ox. You there, hoss?”
I hear a little echo, maybe Ox adjusting the vent.
“Yeah. I told you not to call me that.”
“What? Ox?”
“Naw. Hoss. It’s like you’re saying I’m stupid or something.”
“It’s just a turn of phrase, bigun. But fine. I’ll stick to Ox. You know, like a farm animal. That cool? How’s that for you?”
“Shreve, one of these days…”
“What? When you get sick of candy? When you get tired of stuffing chocolate bars down your hole? One of these days what?”
“Man, you don’t have to be so uncool.” He pauses. “Uncool, man.”
He’s thicker than a cinder block, but he’s got a point. He’s a hoss, a farm animal, and I shouldn’t whip him so hard.
“Listen, Ox.” I like the lug. I do. I like what he does for me. I try to put that into my voice. I hope it’ll carry through the vent. “I’m sorry, pard. Look. I scored a load of Heath bars. I know you love that toffee stuff. I got a couple with your name on it.” There’s a scratching and then an exhalation of air. Hard to tell if it’s the AC kicking on or if Ox is just mouth-breathing again.
“I like toffee.”
“That’s good, bro. Real good. I’ll hit you up tomorrow. But I need you to run interference at midday Commons. And work escort right before lights out. Can you handle that? Two Heaths and a couple of Blow Pops?”
There’s a gurgle at the other end of the vent. The blockhead is probably drooling on his chest like some Russian dog.
Before Ox can answer there’s a chuff, and the air kicks on. I lie back on the bed and wait, hands cradled behind my head, working out the deals for tomorrow.
On the inside, some folks don’t know what they want. Some folks have to be convinced they want what you got. Some folks have to be convinced they don’t want what you got. You have to scare them bad enough that they don’t think they can take it from you. It’s only been six months since I first came here, but now I can’t remember if the inside differs from the way it is outside. I doubt it really matters. I’m on the inside, and I’ll remain incarcerado for the next eighteen months.
And the new kid? That Jack? How’s he going to figure into my plans?
I’m fading to black, the air blowing above me, through the vent, out into the room, like darkness.
It’s morning. There’s a buzz, and the door clicks and swings open. I hear boys whooping, cawing like crows, rapping homespun lyrics, mumbling, cursing as they roll out of their cells, getting ready for headcount. You can be a blind man in Casimir Juvie and still be able to function fine on scent and sound.
I figured Booth would be here to give Jack the lowdown as to Casimir operations, but no dice. I’ve got to hold the little bugger’s hand.
I hop down and grab the least stinky jumpsuit from the dresser. Bright orange, baby. Nothing rhymes with it. Nothing matches it.
The kid doesn’t look like he’s slept at all. I wonder.
He sits on his bed, looking like he doesn’t want to stand. I’m tugging on the jumpsuit, pulling the sleeves over my arms.
“Look, they gave you the suit. So suit up. I’ll show you the mess hall. The food ain’t that bad.” I zip. “They’ve got to feed us pretty well—otherwise, lawsuits. You know. Kids.”
Jack looks at me, tries to smile, fails, and then moves over to his dresser and takes out … guess what? … an orange jumper. I move on to the can and scrubbing the teeth. I might sample my own product, but I make sure the pearly whites get clean. Nothing inspires confidence like a toothless candy man.
I come back in the room, and Jack’s standing there, trying to zip up his jumper, hands tugging at the tab.
“They stick, the zippers, until they’ve been washed a couple times. You got to grab the belly fabric and rip up.” I’m moving to help the kid when I see his fingers. Something’s weird there. Jack struggles to zip his jumper, and I’m standing there looking at his hands.
I pull on my own jumper, over the greys of underwear and T-shirt, and then look back at Jack still struggling.
“You’ve really got to pull up hard…” I say. Looking again at his hands. He notices me looking at him, and he quickly turns his back. But not before I can get a count.
“Holy crow,” I breathe. There’s not much else to say. The kid’s got extra fingers. They’re not stumpy or anything. His hands look normal. Just extra fingers. “Your hands.”
Jack stops trying to zip and puts his hands behind his back.
“Jack. Holy crap. Your hands. You got like a gajillion fingers. What’s up with—”
He says nothing. Big surprise there. I move closer, wanting to see.
“Jack, it’s cool. I just want to look. At the fingers, man. You could be in the circus or something. Let me see.”
Then something weird happens. The air in front of Jack wavers—like heat fumes on the highway in summer, when you’re riding in a car and looking far ahead—and I feel a slight draft. I can feel a pressure on my chest, my arms, my thighs, and my face. It’s a wind, but it’s not a wind either. It’s slower and more concentrated, and I’m slowly, slowly pushed backward into the wall between the door to the bathroom and our beds. With the wall at my back, the pressure on my chest builds and builds. I can feel something like my ribs cracking, and I’m having a hard time breathing now. Jack looks scared, like he knows what’s happening. Then he barks out a word, “No!” The pressure eases, and I’m on my knees, gasping for breath.
Jack rushes over and grabs me. He takes my hand and pulls me up—he’s stronger than he looks, the little dude— and drags me over to his bunk. I flop on my back, gasping, feeling at my ribs to make sure nothing’s gone crunchy. They feel okay.
“I’m sorry, Shreve. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Jack keeps repeating this, and I don’t even know what’s going on. I’m going to get pissed off if he starts to cry. Which might happen. It looks like the waterworks are primed.
“Nothing, man. It’s nothing. Asthma attack, I guess. Used to get ’em when I was younger. You know. Moms is a smoker.”
Jack’s shaking his head, looking down at me. But he doesn’t argue. I don’t know what the hell just happened. I looked at his hands; then things got crazy.
His fingers. I can see his hands clearly now. He has twelve fingers, six to a hand. They look so normal you’d never notice unless you were
looking directly at them. Weird.
Jack sees me looking, sees me counting.
He swallows. Starts to say something. Stops. Starts again.
“It’s cool, Jack. You got fingers. Big deal. Ox is freakish large.” Jack winces at the word freakish. I have a way with words, you know? Words are my thing. That’s how you sell. How you survive in a world full of people like Ox, people wanting to take from you everything you have. But I probably shouldn’t say stuff like that to Jack.
“I was born this way. It’s not like I chose to have twelve fingers. Please don’t tell. People will get hurt.”
I think about this. Jack didn’t ask for the extra fingers. I didn’t ask for a sloppy-drunk mother or a ghost for a father. But we got them, didn’t we? We got them. Ox, on the other hand, could try not to look so damned ugly and beat on folks. However, if he did that, he wouldn’t be any use to me. So there’s that.
But the kid is different. You can find guys as large and as tough as Ox in every block. Ringo from E Wing is as stout, and Ponty from D is as tall. But twelve fingers … that goes beyond the population of Casimir Pulaski Juvenile Detention Center for Boys. It goes beyond my experience.
He’s a rare bird, this Jack. But what does it mean?
“Yeah.” Might as well be honest with him. He seems like a cool guy if you can get past the silences. “It’s a monster of a world, always giving us gifts we don’t want. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
Jack smiles then. He’s obviously not used to doing it, and the smile is an uneasy one. But it changes the whole configuration of his face, the smile.
“Thanks, Shreve.” He exhales. “Thank you. You don’t know how bad it can get—”
“I got an idea, pard.” I cough and stand up. My stomach grumbles a bit, and I’m reminded breakfast is waiting. “I’ve lived with a clown for a mother since I was little. I know how it feels to be in the circus.”
Jack nods. He looks at his hands and then back up to me.
“I didn’t know my parents.” He’s not shooting for sympathy; he’s not angry, not anything. It’s just plain fact.
I clap him on the shoulder. “Hell, Jack, you’re not missing anything there. Trust me on this one.”
He tries to laugh and fails.
I guess I do, too. Not as funny as I thought it was.
Then Sloe-Eyed Norman calls for headcount, and we take position outside our door.
THREE
On the inside, where all the wards wear orange, everyone tries to be different. Some with crazy dos, some wearing earrings, the more desperate scratching tats on their hands with black pen ink and needles. Kids talk big, walk big, kick out their chests, tell jokes in overloud voices, laugh hard at unfunny jokes. They try to put a stamp down on themselves. They want to define who they are, and who they aren’t, by drawing lines in an ever-changing sandbox.
But the ones who are different, the ones who really would stand out if their differences were known to the general pop, well … they don’t want to be different at all. They want to be just like everybody else. The boys so desperately trying to be different, well, if they get a whiff of something truly foreign, they’ll destroy it. Nothing that different can be allowed to exist, to prove that they’re all alike.
Jack is scared. It doesn’t take a mind reader to know he’s worried about the integrity of his skin.
We walk down B Wing’s center, through the bull gates. Sloe-Eyed Norman checks off the headcount. The sweetheart, he grins and waves us through, raising a sleepy eyebrow at Jack. Once we’re in the Commons, the ruckus starts. Big Paulie from A Wing is arguing with Ernie from D about dominoes. They’ve got M&M’s on the table, so it’s a serious conversation.
“That ain’t the play, Ernie! Ain’t your play. It’s my play.”
“Stow that, you damned tool. It ain’t your play just because you say it’s your play. Prove it.”
Paulie states his first argument, a brilliant little piece of logic. He punches Ernie right in the maw, pushing Ernie back onto another table and sending plastic chairs scattering and tumbling, like, well … dominoes.
But Ernie pops right back up, wiping the blood streaming from his lip and nose with the back of his hand, like a prizefighter. His eyes bright, he begins his retort. There’s a jab, a jab, a hook, pretty much by the book, with Paulie making little weaving motions with his head, trying to reach in there. Ernie’s hunched up, getting low, and delivering blows to Paulie’s gut.
I back up. It’s about to get ugly.
Paulie hits Ernie hard, right on the cheekbone. Ernie’s eyes roll back in his head—not as a prelude to unconsciousness, but as a harbinger of pure berserker rage. The nicey-nice fistfight is over. Ernie’s eyes snap forward. He throws himself on top of Paulie, biting, grabbing hair, gouging eyes, bearing the larger boy to the ground. Paulie howls, inventing curses, throwing elbows, kicking out with his feet, swinging his head around like a rhino looking for something to butt.
I peek at Jack. He remains motionless. He’s got his hands in his pockets, so it gives him this casual appearance that contradicts the expression on his face. He’s hiding his hands. How often do you look, really look, at someone’s hands? I see them because I know, but despite the extra fingers, they’re perfectly formed and it takes a moment to even come to grips with the number. You have to be paying attention, looking at them. He can cough, or grab something, and you’d never even notice … but once you do, you’ll never not notice.
“These knuckleheads will be at it for a while. Don’t worry, the bulls will break them up before any permanent damage. And maybe, who knows? Maybe one of them will end up at the Farm. C’mon, I’m hungry.”
Jack blinks and falls in beside me, hands still in pockets.
In the mess hall we get our trays, fill our plates with powdered eggs, grits, bacon, and biscuits with little packages of grape jelly. There are tiny tubs of strawberry jam with peel-off tops, too. I’ve never been able to figure out what’s the difference between jelly and jam. It puzzles me.
Ox sits next to some of his C-Wing compadres. I wander over, motion to Jack to sit down, and I put myself between him and Ox.
Reasoner pops in, slings his tray halfway across the table, and sits down. “It’s like Clash of the Titans out there, boys. Ernie and Big P have gotten into a tussle. Ernie’s eating Paulie’s lunch.” Reasoner speaks mostly in reference to movies.
Another kid, I don’t know his name, pipes up: “Had a couple of bags of M&M’s out there on the table. The pot looked pretty rich.”
“There’ll be big trouble in little China if the bulls get wind of the candy whereabouts.” Reasoner looks at me. Why doesn’t he just announce it?
His prices just went up.
“What? They can talk all they want, but I’m just a bystander, Greasy. I have nothing to do with that fight.”
Reasoner snorts. It makes me want to choke the sound out of him. But he’s wiry and mean, and I might get the bad end of that deal.
Ox eats. He uses both hands—one clutching a biscuit, the other sprouting a fork. He’s got big, ungainly fists. Even with six fingers per, Jack’s got more articulate mitts. Ox makes short work of the grub. Swipe: two tons of eggs down the hatch. Swipe: a shovelful of grits. He peers over my head at Jack.
“Who’s the fish, Shreve?”
“New roommate. Everybody, meet Jack. Jack, meet everybody.”
The boys murmur hellos over one another, and Ox says, “Niceta. He gonna mess up our deal?”
“No, he’s cool, Ox. He’s cool.”
Jack’s doing his possum routine. Whenever anyone speaks to him, he hides his hands in his lap and goes still. Like a rock. Which isn’t going to cut it. The more he does that, the more the boys will pay attention.
I whisper, “Hey. You gotta talk, or they’ll get curious. And you don’t want that.”
Jack looks at me, mouth open, eyes wide. He’s like the poster child for the Big Surprise Foundation. I bark a little laugh around a s
poonful of grits, and flecks of white fly from my mouth, out over the table.
“Hey!” Reasoner yanks his tray back. “What is this, Animal House or something?”
Kent, from down the table, says, “Hey, Greasoner, you seen any movies from this century?”
“Yeah. And they all suck.”
Jack clears his throat. “Hey. Um. You guys seen Demon Down?”
Reasoner guffaws. “Sure, guy, sure. They had a special screening with the director and all the stars right in Commons.”
Jack flushes so deep I can feel the heat from his skin like a radiator.
Ox mumbles, “You seen it, Jack?”
“Yeah. It’s good.”
“That chick in it? The one with the bumps.” Ox holds his hands in front of his chest like he’s cradling a watermelon.
“Yes.” Jack shifts in his seat. “Temple Wrath. She’s amazing.”
Other boys start craning their heads to get a load of Jack. He puts his hands on the table. He’s curling the extra fingers into his palm.
“What about the demon things? They ugly?”
“Yeah. But there’s very little CGI in this movie. So…” Jack gestures at Reasoner. “It’s more like an older movie. Like one from the eighties. Or before.”
“Sounds like The Thing. Buckets of goo and prosthetics.”
Jack nods. He’s doing his best to act excited. “It’s awesome. They take on any form they touch. They eat people from the feet up. The head down. It’s crazy.”
“Heard there’s some ugly bumping, you know, between Temple and Brad.”
Jack nods. “Shower scene. It’s … it’s really steamy. You can’t see much, but what you can see…”
I don’t know Jack. No truer words have ever been spoken. But I know Jack better than these lunkheads, and I can hear the deadness in his voice. He might have seen the movie, he might have appreciated it in some fashion, but he didn’t like it. I don’t know if our boy Jack is even able to like anything. His voice is dead.
But he does a passable imitation of a real boy.
I have to wonder, what’s his story? He’s been hurt, hurt bad, over and over again, seems like. You just don’t have that hard a time smiling, or that hard a time describing some movie star’s knockers, unless you’ve been hurt bad. It doesn’t take a mind reader to see it.
The Twelve-Fingered Boy Page 2