Dead Ends Read Online Free PDF Page A

by the time I realized it wasn’t
going
to change, I’d already made more enemies than friends.
    â€œI’ll give that tool a pass for now,” I said to Billy. “I already got a detention for fighting today.”
    We stepped out of the gardens and into the first streaks of sun breaking through the clouds. It was that strange sunlight that shows up only after a hard rain and washes everything in gold, so even our shit neighborhood shined.
    â€œYou got a detention?” Billy’s eyes widened until they were nearly popping out of his head.
    â€œIt’s no big deal.”
    â€œI almost got a detention once, at my last school. It was a
really
big deal. Mom got in a big fight with the teacher because he said I deserved it—”
    â€œLet me guess. For talking too much?”
    â€œNo, for going berserk.”
    â€œWhat?” I stopped and looked at him.
    â€œI have a really bad temper,” Billy said in a cheerful voice. “Iused to have fits—that’s what my doctor called them. Mom calls them tantrums, but I don’t really think—”
    â€œGet to the point.”
    â€œThe point
is
—I used to go all crazy when I got upset, and I got upset at the teacher.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    Billy thought for a moment. “Don’t remember. But I didn’t get detention. Mom still calls me her little berserker, even though I don’t go berserk anymore.”
    As we walked down the sidewalk in silence, I thought about the first time
I
went “berserk” on somebody.
    I couldn’t remember the kid’s name now, but he used to ride bikes down our street with Mark. I remembered how he shoved the kickstand of his crappy bike down into the icy sidewalk in front of my house. I was building a snow fort, and he started bragging about how his dad taught him to make an entire igloo out of snow. I ignored him at first, like I ignored all the loser kids on my block, but he kept talking. He went on and on about how his dad taught him to change the chain on his bike and was going to show him how to fix up a car when he got older.
    I felt the itch for the first time there, kneeling in the snow. It was like the icy clumps I was piling onto my fort were stabbing me right through my gloves. I kept making fists with my hands, trying to scratch my palms with my fingertips. Open. Close. Open. Close. The itch didn’t go away.
    And I still didn’t say anything, which seemed to irritate the kid. He went right on with his one-sided conversation, shuffling through the snow to lean over my fort and make sure Iheard every word. He told me all about how his dad took him camping and mini-golfing and swimming, and how I wouldn’t know anything about any of it, because I didn’t have a dad.
    I should have pummeled him right then, but all I could think to do was lie.
    I told him my dad was an astronaut and that he was never home because he was in outer space studying aliens. It was one of many stories I kept in my back pocket as a kid to pull out whenever anybody asked me about my dad. But this boy wasn’t buying it. I would never forget his response.
    â€œMy mom says your mom doesn’t even know who your dad is!”
    It happened so fast I wasn’t even aware that I had caused it, but all of a sudden the snow fort was flattened, and that punk was splayed out in the middle of it, with blood flowing from his nose. It spilled into the rubble of white below him, making it look like a giant cherry snow cone. The itch in my palms was gone.
    It wasn’t what he said about my dad that provoked the punch. It was more that—even as a kid—I had a good idea of what he was saying about my
mom
.
    I remembered running inside and crying in my room after that first fight. I was sure the kid would tell and that I’d be in big trouble. But the trouble never came. In fact, the kid never said a cruel word to me again. After that, I used my fists on a