Mom’s mouth open and then shut. I went for the door.
“You better watch that smart mouth of yours, son,” Chet called after me, his voice chasing me into the early morning fog. “Yes, indeed. Better watch it.”
I usually took the bus to school, but I walked through the gray morning, letting the chilly air cool my skin. The sun was out by the time I made it to the front entry of Santa Cruz Central, the bell ringing as I hit the first step.
Vice Principal Chouder stood in front of the administration building, hands in the pockets of his gray suit. “Hustle, hustle, Mr. Stratton. You’ll be late.”
I kept my head down and continued down the walk, past banks of lockers and classroom doors. My first class, English, was at the end of the open campus on a grassy hill overlooking the band and science rooms.
r /> Class had already begun. Ms. Sanders gave me a stern look but didn’t cease her lecture on The Great Gatsby, which we’d been expected to read over the summer. The only available desk was next to Frankie Dowd.
Because of course it is.
The lanky guy had his legs stretched out, scabbed knees visible from under his long shorts that were perpetually halfway down his ass. He flipped his head to get a lock of russet hair out of his eyes and smirked at me.
“Why’re you late, Stratton?” he whispered. “Car wouldn’t start?”
“Fuck off.”
He laughed with his tongue poking out, like a deranged hyena. I made an easy fist, no pain or bruises. I figured by the end of this shitty fucking day, that wouldn’t be possible.
“Frankie,” Ms. Sanders called. “Since you’re so chatty, perhaps you can answer something for me. Fitzgerald makes numerous references to dust in this novel. ‘Ash-grey’ men and dust coating everything from cars to actual characters. What do you think it symbolizes?”
“Uh…I think it means stuff is old or…whatever.”
A few students laughed, and Frankie triumphantly fist-bumped a friend.
Ms. Sanders pursed her lips. “Let’s try a little bit harder next time, eh?” She looked to me. “Miller? Care to give it a shot?”
Some heads in the class turned to look at me with curiosity. Frankie with derision. I’ve never fit in here. Not in four years. I was still the kid who’d lived in a car and nearly died after pissing his pants in the McNamara’s backyard.
“He writes that dust settles over everything,” I said. “Because it does. It settles over the whole fucking town. The school. It even gets in your home. You can’t get rid of it.”
Ms. Sanders nodded, ignoring my f-bomb and the snickers that had followed it. “And what do you think it means?”
“That there’s no hope.”
They cornered me during P.E., on the way to my locker.
Despite all my calculations and precautions, my numbers were low after running laps. I was still wearing my gym clothes—white t-shirt and yellow shorts, like a dork. My locker was ten feet away when Frankie and two of his buddies rounded the corner.
“Goddamn everything,” I muttered, my hands shaking and my watch beeping furiously.
“Well, what do we have here? Does Coach Mason know you’re ditching P.E. to go shoot up, Stratton?” Frankie asked, moving in front of me to block the path. His two friends, Mikey Grimaldi and Tad Brenner, hung behind me.
“Fuck off, Dowd,” I said and started to push past him.
He shoved me back, and I stumbled.
“Your mom still turning tricks?” Frankie asked, and snickering laughter came at me from all sides.
“I don’t know,” I seethed, my heart now crashing and my hands shaking so badly I had to tuck them into my arms. “Why don’t you ask your dad?”
Frankie’s eyes flared for a moment, then he laughed. “You’re right. He’d know, since part of his job is to get hookers off the street.”
My vision clouded red but now I was swaying on my feet.
“You don’t look so good, Stratton. Gonna piss yourself again?”