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his middle fingers to reach even greater heights of outrageousness: Fuck yoooouuuuuu!!!!!!!
    This could go on all day. Hutch finally led Casey to a dark corner of the studio.
    “It still works, dude,” Casey beamed.
    “Look—”
    “Hey, I saw Dr. Poon flippin’ off his crew on ‘Rap Slap’ last night. Tell the nigger—”
    “ Hey. ” Hutch almost never took a harsh tone with the talent. “How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t call them ‘niggers’? I can’t, and you can’t. That’s their thing.”
    “Whatever. Tell the man that the flippin’ off is mine . Grabbin’ his dick, that works for him. He can grab all he wants, the fuck do I care? But I got to the finger first.”
    “Do you mind? We’re on the clock here.” Hutch softened his tone, knowing there were several mucky layers to penetrate here. “Look, you have to go over what’s on the PrompTer before the tape rolls. That’s your job.”
    “Dude, I did! It said—”
    “I know, I know. So you thought you were supposed to say ‘being on the rammer’? What does that mean?”
    “The fuck do I know? I don’t know what half this shit you have me saying means. I see ‘rammer,’ I think ‘fucking,’ I figure: Rock and roll, bro!”
    Hutch sighed. “Okay. From now on, I’ll have an intern with you when you go over the scripts, in case you have any questions.”
    “Make it Roxanne. With the tits.”
    Neal’s voice cut in from the studio. “We’re ready, Hutch. We’re backing up. We’d better keep moving.”
    Hutch offered Casey a fatherly pat on the back, then sent him back before the cameras. Upon seeing their hero again, the rabble outside started flipping him off to a fare-thee-well.
    Casey, too dim to know much but savvy enough to not milk his signature, offered a weak, non-committal bird which, Hutch noted with some concern, was less of a “We’re havin’ a party here” fuck you and more of a, well, fuck you.
    “Five.
    “Four.
    “Three.
    “Two.
    “One.”
    “Hey! What-up? Casey Lattimer, rockin’ on through the night, bringing down the hammer for the third. . .” He squinted at the PrompTer and grinned stupidly. “Ahh, I get it. . .”
    “Cut!”
    Hutch grimaced and headed back to his office.

The Trajectory of Boys
    O n the fall day Joel’s wires were to be cut, his mother had a staff meeting she couldn’t miss.
    His father’s current girlfriend offered to take him to the doctor’s office (his father was himself laid up, having water skied himself into a pontoon boat while attempting courtship with his 27-year-old lady love). But Joel had put her off in the hopes that her mother’s second ex-boyfriend, whom Joel had actually come to like during the eight months he diddled his mother on the other side of his bedroom wall, would come through.
    But by the time the ex-boyfriend reluctantly had to beg off due to “relationship concerns” (the woman he was hoping to move in with once her divorce went through found it troubling he was still seeing the children of a prior affair, especially when he seemed to be so miserable to her own kids), Joel’s father’s current girlfriend had made other plans.
    “Fuck it,” Joel had thought. He had his own wheels, he was practically out of the house and on his own anyway. And there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to reschedule the appointment, just so one of his parents and/or their respective sex partners could tag along to play all parent-like.
    The X-rays were positive—the jaw had healed completely. It was time.
    Still, he was glad to have Todd along that day. More than he would ever probably admit—although he had been thinking he might try, once he got the use of his mouth back—Joel had been grateful for all the help Todd had offered the past twelve weeks.
    It had been the most surprising part of this whole experience, the way his perception of his friendships had shifted while waiting to undo the damage Kyle Hoffstetler had done.

    When