“What’re you fishing for?”
“Fish,” Flynn says.
Blinky laughs — to himself, I think. “Okay.”
So I take both the poles and the tackle, and Blinky rides on Flynn’s foot pegs. It takes a while, but we park the bikes on a dead log and trek down the pebble bank. We bait hooks with grubby worms and cast into the middle of a tired but clear stream.
We talk shit and our lines bob, fish swimming right past our lines. Flynn breaks out a single stolen cigarette and a paper book of matches. We pass the Camel back and forth, cough with every gasp of nicotine, and feel cool and adult as the creek burbles at our feet.
“Okay,” Flynn says as he coughs out a cloud. “If you had to do it with a teacher. Which one?”
“Gross,” I say.
“Come on. You know you’ve thought about it.”
“They’re too old.”
“Not too old for boning. Bet their skin’s all soft and papery.”
“Fine. If you’ll stop talking about this, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“That is gross,” he says. “You’re disgusting.”
“You started this.”
“Emmett. No one made you say Mrs. Fletcher. You did that yourself.” After a moment, “You gross bastard.”
“Okay, ass. Who’d you do it with?”
Flynn just shakes his head. “I would never do that. It’s gross. You know in Mrs. Fletcher’s house, they’re not granny panties, they’re just panties.”
I’m still fuming when Blinky chimes in. “Mr. Glass isn’t too old. He doesn’t even have gray hairs.”
I look at Flynn and we laugh so hard the cigarette falls out and dies at the water’s edge. “You’re a fucking gem, Blinky,” he says through the tears. “A fucking gem.”
We bike back at dusk, the world turned soft and smooth by gray shadowed light.
Blinky hops off in front of Heaven’s Acres. “That was a nice place. Thanks. Nicest place I ever been.” He says it so earnestly, not even Flynn laughs.
I start walking Max to her classes. I don’t know why. We just get to talking and I like that our steps match so easily. I like a lot of things about her. The late bell sounds for fourth period; the halls empty.
We stand alone and still outside her class. “You’re gonna be late,” she says, but with a smile.
“Totally worth it,” I say, smiling with all my teeth.
A door opens behind us. Mr. Glass and Blinky come around the corner, whispering harshly to each other. Mr. Glass is stooped down, hand on Blinky’s shoulder, his mouth close to Blinky’s ear.
Mr. Glass straightens, pulls his hand away and squeezes it into a fist, then puts it behind his back. It’s wrong somehow, intimate almost. I can’t help but stare.
Then he’s back on. “Emmett. Maxine. You’re late for class.”
Max ducks into her class.
Mr. Glass looks me right in the eye. “Something else, Emmett? Something else I can help you with?”
“Nope.” To Blinky I say, “See you after school, Blink,” but he doesn’t even look up. My mind is weirdly full and my stomach hurts and my footsteps sound loud on the tile.
The feeling follows me as we walk home, and I spend the whole time looking at Blinky. He looks different or is different. Something. Maybe I’ve seen him wrong this whole time.
The others talk about class and Mrs. Charles’s receding hairline and winter break. I make all the right noises in the right places but don’t participate.
The others trail off and Max stops in front of her house, pushes loose strands of blond hair behind her ears. “Thanks for walking me to class. It’s nice.”
“Did you see Glass and Blinky today?”
“Yeah. I thought we were going to get detention.”
“Did they seem weird to you?”
“I don’t know. I guess.” She bites her bottom lip. “Weird how?” The front door opens and her father steps out. She turns. “See you Monday.”
Home is familiar and normal and I find a dead bantam chicken on the back porch, its black-and-white feathers mottled with drops of red now. “Shit.”
I find Roxy shamed under the porch, feathers still sticking to her bloody maw. It takes a while, but I coax her out and clean her mouth with a garage rag. Then I bury the chicken in the back field, tap the fresh earth down with the shovel blade. I put everything back, clean the dirt and red from under my nails. And pretend like it didn’t happen.
I’m on the floor watching TV when Mr. Speakman’s car pulls into the drive. My dad greets him on the porch. After a few moments, my dad comes in. “Emmett. You seen any bantam chickens on the property?”
I try to make my face blank. “Nope.”
“’Cause something got into Gary Speakman’s coop, killed six of his hens. He’s still missing three.”
I just shrug, turn my head back to Cheers, but my hearing strains for the muffled sounds on the porch.
It is the dead of night when something yanks me by the hair and throws me to the floor. “Oof,” and the wind goes out of me. The bedroom light is snapped on and it seems bright and stark and pierces my bleary vision.
My father’s imposing frame lords over me. “You’re a dipshit.” My father’s voice is even and calm and his black clover tattoo is so dark it must drink the light.
“Yessir,” I wheeze.
“Good. I’m glad we’re starting off on the right tone. Get your boots and coat.”
I dress as instructed and find him in the kitchen. There’s a pot of coffee going and the earthy aroma permeates the air. The dead chicken sits on the kitchen table. A ring of dirt and feathers forms a brown halo. The back door is open and Roxy sits on the other side of the screen, tongue out, tail thumping. Her muzzle is brown with dirt and feathers.
My father pours himself a cup, takes a long sip. “So Roxy musta killed the Speakman chickens, felt bad about it, got my shovel, dug a perfectly round hole, buried said chicken, then put my shovel back with freshly turned soil on it. But later she decided she didn’t feel that bad and wanted to eat the chicken anyway, so she dug it up and fought a coon for it on the back porch. You tracking, Emmett?”
“Yessir.”
“I understand you don’t want your dog to be in trouble. I don’t know why you would lie to me. And you are horrible at it. I knew soon as I asked, saw your whole face go white.”
“Yessir.”
“Hey. Look at me. Whatever else you think of me, I’m not gonna punish your dog for being a dog. And I can’t help you with any problems if I don’t know about them. Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Good. Get a box of matches and some lighter fluid. We’re gonna fix this one together.”
So we put the dead bird, some paper, and two logs of oak into our burn barrel, then I squeeze a half-bottle of lighter fluid into the can. It all goes up in a whoosh of flame. The flames flicker, play light across my father’s face. “See. Fire cleanses all. Should take care of it. If there’s a skeleton left, you can break it up with my framing hammer. Not the finish hammer, though. The framing one.”
“Okay.”
“Emmett... what are the two things that can solve any problem?”
I say my dad’s mantra. “A bottle of Scotch and a sharp Buck knife.”
“Who’s the Scotch for?”
“Me.”
“Good. And the knife?”
“Whoever is the problem.”
“That’s right. Sometimes you need both.” He messes my hair. “Got an early overtime shift at the mill. Enjoy your Saturday. Stay with the fire till it dies down.” He tromps through the grass, never spilling a drop of coffee.
The fire is plenty hot, turns everything to ash.
After some sleep I wake and shower and feel hunger stirring me. Mom’s in the kitchen, sipping steamy coffee, reading a romance novel at the table. “Long night?” she says.