Billy's seat was empty the next day, and tell the truth, so was mine. In body I was there, sure. But upstairs my head was one big attic, dust on the floor and bats hanging from the rafters. The taste of grapes rested sourly on my tongue. I had siphoned off several glasses of wine before bed from the box on my aunt's kitchen counter. Some nights a little spinning helped me sleep. Last night had not been one of those nights.

Through Algebra I could feel Ash's eyes on the back of my neck. I did not turn around once. When the bell rang, I pushed up to the teacher's desk and had her explain one of the problems until Ash was gone.

I spent my lunch camped out in a handicap stall.

I did not go to English.

A kid in my position, a kid as inconspicuous as me, doesn't have many choices when it comes to cutting class. He can't climb fences, and he can't simply book it out of the front gates shouting "sayonara!" over his shoulders. And it wasn't like I could hop in a car and head for the hills either. I could have called my aunt, no doubt. She would have come to pick me up if I asked. She was there for me. But having someone there for you all the time is exhausting. It weighs on you, like water on the ocean floor.

So, what did I do?

I slipped out the back gate as sneaky as could be and headed down to the old football field to be alone.

But I was not alone for long.

Gravity was at work that day, and not the good kind. The bad kind. The kind that wants to see you bleed.

♫

I lay atop the bleachers, gray sky above and gray metal below, and watched the end of last night replay itself. Ash turned the radio off and the lights on, maneuvering around me on tiptoes. A little while later Nip announced, gratefully, that his mom was there to pick him up. And me still sitting there as he walked to the ladder, my body not my body, just this block of wood carved in my shape. So what, my brain going, so what if it hurts, so what, so what? . . . until finally Ash said she'd start the van and left me to make the climb down on my own. Cold rungs and wooden steps and smoky wind, followed by a long wait as she fetched my wheelchair. Then a quiet ride home, me in the backseat, the CD player back to being busted. My aching arms. My throbbing legs. My aunt with the punch line:

"Well. She's cute."

"Yeah," I replied, watching Ash drive off, "If you're a lesbo."

Which was a mean thing to say, since Aunt Sandy was totally a lesbo.

♫

"Well."

It took me awhile to process that the voice was not in my mind, that it sounded nothing at all like my aunt's. I turned my head. At the bottom of the bleachers beside my wheelchair (I had been forced to abandon it before dragging myself up the steps) stood Billy Rascoe, dressed in a pair of ripped denim jeans and the same How-to-Pick-Up-Chicks t-shirt, now featuring a brown stain on the stomach. That smile. If faces were real estate, his smile would have been Walmart.

"Here I am . . . here I am . . . wandering around without a clue in the world what to do, and who do I find?"

"I don't know," I said, sitting up on the bench. "Who?"

Billy laughed. In one smooth motion, he pulled a paper carton out of his pocket and thumbed out a cigarette. "Your name is Joel?"

I nodded.

"Joel." He lit his cigarette, breathed in long and slow, and exhaled smoke through his nose. "You know I'm going to kill you, right?"

"Yeah, I've been told. Can I bum one of those?"

"Sure." Billy stepped onto the bleachers. At the same time he reached out, almost lazily, and took hold of Bitchmaster with one hand. Its wheels bonged up the aluminum steps behind him. Wind tickled the football field. The grass was looking a little less green today, I noticed. Maybe the drought was finally getting to it.

Billy wedged the wheelchair between the second and third bench from the top. He held out the cigarette carton.

"Newports." I grimaced as I took one. "Menthols are shit. You going to give me a light, or should I find some sticks to rub together?"

He flicked the lid open on his Zippo. As I leaned over it, he moved his hand and the flame singed my chin.

"Whoops. Sorry."

"It's okay," I said. "Accidents happen."

His hand stayed steady on the second go. The smell of cheap beer clung to his shirt, noticeable even as I dragged minty smoke into my lungs. I wondered if he had a hangover, too. "What's your comic say there?" I squinted at the caption. "How to pick up . . . dicks. What? One's not enough for you?"

Billy smiled down at me, the cigarette dangling from his lips. "Least I got one."

"Is that a girl joke? Or a cripple joke? Because my dick works just fine. I know, it surprised me too. The first time I woke up with the old morning wood I about pissed myself." I cracked my neck. "And this mustache, it's only two weeks old. A football mustache, my dad would say. Eleven hairs on each side."

"Funny."

"Yeah. A real sports guy, my Dad."

"Bet he'll be real broken up when you don't come home."

He didn't know. Billy didn't know.

That was fine. That was great. That was the next best thing to being alone. "Not any more broken up than already."

Billy's gaze fell on my diamond ring and his eyes widened.

"Cute, huh?" I twiddled my fingers. "Swiped it off your mother. As payment."

His hand shot out and grabbed my hair. I heard a soft sound. Snick. The cold edge of a knife pressed against my windpipe."So, Mr. Here I Am, here we are."

Here I am? I thought. Then it struck me that those were the words I had shouted before crashing my wheelchair into him on the ramp. It was pretty impressive he remembered, considering.

"What do you think happens now?" he said softly.

"Depends on if you keep talking. If you keep talking, I might kill myself."

He yanked me off the bench, up to his face. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in puffy red skin.

The Newport fell from my mouth. "Billy . . . have you been crying?"

His smile didn't simply widen. It stretched, like someone had hold of his cheeks. "They're going to need mops to clean you up, the little faggot and his ghost girlfriend." He dragged me into the aisle by the hair. I could feel the roots pulling at my scalp, could hear his breath in my ear, thick and panting. Almost choked up.

"You have been crying," I said as I slid down the stairs on my chest. "You have!"

We came to a stop. Framed between his legs was a steep view of the world, aluminum steps dropping toward hard-packed dirt. Another yank on my hair, and hello there Bitchmaster, old friend, nice to see you again. He hoisted me up by the back of the shirt, like I was a suitcase and he was one of those guys loading bags onto an airplane. Those guys, they're never gentle with the goods.

I landed splayed across the wheelchair's armrests, my hands supermanning out in front of me, my legs who-knows-where. Billy must have tugged on my ankles then because my body flung itself around, magic, and my butt plopped down into Bitchmaster's seat.

"You like rolling downhill?" He walked behind me and grabbed the handles. "Let's see how much you like this."

With a jerk, Bitchmaster came un-wedged from the benches. I gripped the armrests to keep from spilling down the stairs. My heart was going berserk. My blood was one thousand burning degrees of gasoline pumping through my veins. I had a hard-on.

"Do it, bitch." Rocking the wheelchair. "Come on, motherfucker. Do it. Do it. Do it."

Billy did it.

A little while ago I mentioned loading up an airplane, and that's no coincidence. Airplanes are where my mind goes when I think of that day at the old football field. Crashing airplanes, to be specific. I hurtled down the steps like a pilot in a cockpit bearing straight for the ground, the bleachers filling Bitchmaster with turbulence, with explosive aluminum energy.

At least, for about five stairs.

The chair veered and one of its wheels locked against a bench. Then I was flying alone, face first, my arms outstretched. I had time for a single thought, which I can recall with perfect clarity:

Don't worry, Maxi-Pad. I'll keep it warm.

I do not remember hitting the dirt at the bottom of the bleachers, and I do not remember my nose bursting in a hot-wet gush, and I do not remember lifting my head and shouting, "Again, again, again," though all those things happened.

In my memory, I fly straight from daylight into darkness.

In my memory, the earth opens bottomless jaws and swallows me down.

♫

Unconsciousness is a teleporter.

When the low-rider struck me on that winding road outside of Honaw and sent me flipping up into the air like a coin, heads over tails over heads over tails, I landed on a cotton-white mattress under starched-white sheets, my aunt asleep in a nearby chair.

When the earth shat me out of its black asshole, I found myself propped against the bleachers, Ash on her knees in front of me.

"You dick," she said.

I reached out and felt her face the way a blind person does. "You're cute."

♫

"What were you thinking?" said Ash. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"

Her hands were on my throat, like she wanted to strangle me. I don't know all that much about people (what seventeen year old does?) but I do know one thing: if you find someone who'll murder you for almost dying, keep that person around.

Nip sat crouched behind her, half hidden, his lips rolled back into his mouth. He looked like he was trying to eat himself, so I told him.

"You look like you're trying to eat yourself."

My voice sounded strange, nasally, and my spit tasted salty and warm. I turned my head one way and the world spun the other way, and nothing moved at all. "Here I am," I said.

Ash gave Nip a shove. "Go grab his wheelchair."

Nip's feet went bangbangbang like a drumbeat as he ran up the bleachers behind me. "I like this song," I said. "We should listen to more Iron Maiden. And Ozzy. Are we going to listen to more Ozzy?"

"Shut up and relax."

"I am shut up. And I don't want to relaxed." My skull lolled forward and I saw blood dripping down my shirt.

Blood?

Ash lifted my head. She looked into my eyes. "Shit, your pupils. Shit."

"I am not a pupil. I am a student. Nerd."

"Yeah, well, this nerd is missing school right now because of your dumb ass."

That reminded me. "Do we have homework in English?"

"I waited for you," she said, so close to me I could see each straight line between her small white teeth. She had pretty teeth. "After lunch, I waited for you to come through the door, and then you didn't, and I knew—I just knew you were going to do something stupid—so I grabbed Nip on the way to sixth period, and what were you thinking, trying to ride down those stairs like that?"

"I wanted fast."

"Oh fuck a duck. Nip! Hurry up."

My head turned on its own, and I saw Nip leaning over on the bleachers. He shot up quick, like he'd gotten caught at something embarrassing, then he flipped Bitchmaster over by the handles and started down the steps with the chair bouncing behind him.

"Help me get him up," Ash said.

"Maybe we should call for an ambulance."

"We can get there faster ourselves."

"But . . . is it safe? Moving him?"

"He was moving on his own when we found him. It's not like his spine's fucked up—I mean. Damn it. You know what I mean. Come on, grab him."

They took an arm apiece and braced me over their shoulders. I felt myself lift. Puppet legs danced loosely beneath me. The sky dropped open like a trapdoor and night tumbled down through it. When things cleared up again, I was riding along in Bitchmaster. The football field coasted by on my right. "The grass isn't as green as yesterday," I said. "Not even close. Isn't that funny? Ash? Nip? Isn't that funny?"

"Very funny," came Ash's voice. "Run ahead. Warm up the van."

"Okay," I said, and started to push out of the wheelchair. Ash forced me back down into the seat as Nip darted off.

"Keys!"

He spun around and snatched them out of the air. Wide receiver, I thought. He zipped into the trees, going so quick beneath his massive backpack that my eyes could hardly keep up with him. "Ash. Ash. Ash!"

"What?" she said.

"You can be quarterback."

"Okay."

"I'll block for you. I won't let anybody tackle you."

"Thanks."

The path through the woods was all ups and downs and bumpy bumps, and by the time we came out the other side, my head wasn't just heavy, it was throbbing too. A giant egg rested on my shoulders and something was about to hatch out of it, and ick, what a mess that would be. "You'll need mops to clean me up," I muttered.

A blink later I was in the backseat of the van beside an out-of-breath Nip as Ash gunned the engine and blasted us off down the dirt road. It was pretty much a straight shot, that road, but right then it felt as curvy as the highway outside of town. Closing my eyes only made it worse. The dark was drunk, eight glasses of wine deep. It spun and spun and spun, and when I squinted back out if it, my body was swaying side to side.

Ash let out a clipped laugh and reached over to the passenger seat, one hand tight on the wheel. "I almost forgot."

Honaw's newspaper landed on my lap. The words on the front ran together, literally ran, doing laps around the page. I pushed the paper off my lap like a pouty child shoving his dinner plate onto the floor.

"Nip," said Ash. "Read it to him."

"Now?"

"Yes fucking now. He needs some good news. Well, not good news exactly but still. He'll want to know. And it might help keep him awake."

Nip picked the paper off my feet. "Missing miner declared suspect." He paused before continuing. "Blackstone officials reported late last night that an unspecified amount of explosives under the care of supervisor, Carl Rascoe, disappeared from a company safe. The explosives, believed to be responsible for the tragedy, are still unaccounted for—along with Mr. Rascoe himself."

Nip set down the paper and stared at me.

Understanding tugged at my brain. "What? So what?"

"At least Billy won't be bothering you," said Ash. "He's got bigger things to worry about now."

It connected finally. The name. The last name. Rascoe. The missing man was Billy's father. I heard myself shouting on the bleachers, ecstatic. You have been crying! You have!

"God. I really am a dick."

Then I leaned forward, head between my legs, and vomited onto the van's floor.

____ ____

Author's Note:

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