Everybody Pays Read Online Free PDF

your real name, right? Percy?”
    “I—”
    “Look, punk, we know this isn’t about being a Nazi, all right?”
    “Right! I mean, I just wanted to—”
    “—leave a mark, right?”
    “Yeah! That’s all it is. You leave your mark on a place, people know you’re . . .”
    “You ever think about the people who bought those houses? How much it costs them to fix every time you fuck them up with your ‘art’? How bad it makes them feel that they try and keep their places so nice and you and your boys keep coming back? Over and over again?”
    “We . . . I mean, I wasn’t—”
    “You think it’s okay, don’t you? Leave your mark on other people’s property.”
    “Not . . . really. I mean, it’s just—”
    “That’s okay, punk. We understand. You just want to leave your mark.”
    “I . . . Hey! What’s that he’s holding?”
    “That? Ah, that’s a tattoo needle. It’s not gonna hurt much, but you gotta hold real still. You jerk your face and the needle slips, it won’t be your forehead, it’ll be your eyes. Then you wouldn’t be able to run around leaving your mark no more.”
    for Alan and Sue

DRESS-UP DAY
    I am an only child. When I was real small, I thought I was the only child there ever was, because I didn’t know there were any others. When I finally started going to school, some kids from big families would tell me how lucky I was. To be the only child. They would have so many kids in their families that it was hard for them to get any attention, or have any privacy. I never told them the truth. I would just nod, like I understood what they were saying.
    A lot of kids thought I was stupid at first, because I nodded a lot when they talked. But the teachers knew different, because I could read and write faster—I mean, I
learned
to read and write faster—before the other kids did. Math too, I was quicker.
    I
did
understand what the other kids were saying. About being an only child. By then, I knew I wasn’t the only child. And I listened to other children, so I knew that we weren’t all alike. But even the ones who were wrong about me were half right. I
did
have a lot of privacy. Even when I was very, very small. I remember the privacy. I used to cry and cry for my mother, but she never came. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood she wouldn’t come. She wasn’t even in the house. When she
was
in the house, she usually had a man with her. They didn’t want to see me. If I kept them from seeing me, I would be okay. If they saw me, one of them would hurt me, usually her. One time, this man—all I remember about him was he had red hair—he told my mother not to slap me. He said I was just a baby and I wanted my mother. That was a natural thing, he said. My mother told him to mind his own business. She said I wasn’t
his
kid, so shut the fuck up. The red-haired man slapped her then. Real hard—she went flying. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back and slapped her again. He asked her, did that feel good? Did
she
like that? My mother licked her lips where they were bloody and said something to the man I didn’t understand. She was on her knees. The man turned around and went out the door. He never came back. I remember that night especially well. It was the first time my mother ever burned me with a cigarette.
    It was always like that until I stopped being stupid. I had to live in the house with her. That was the law. But I stayed away from her. And she never came in my room in the basement as long as I didn’t make any noise. I got pretty good grades and I read a lot. I knew the only answer was to be very strong. I tried a lot of things to be strong, but none of them worked. I asked the school nurse once: How come I never got any bigger when I lifted weights and all? She looked very sad. She was very nice. I don’t remember what she said, not much of it. But I remembered one of the words, and I looked it up. Malnutrition. From when I was real small. Before I