watching me like I was somehow so bad, and there were all these answers that he wasn’t looking for.
I’m here because this is where my mom’s family is from and after my parents got divorced, she kept the house. Because I was conceived and born and grew up. I’m breathing and my heart is beating and as much as it hurts—as much searing, monumental pain as it causes me—I have to exist.
But there was a wall in my throat that kept the words in. I had a sudden uncomfortable image of something closing up inside me, slamming shut like a lid, and a memory of how last semester they explained diaphragms to us in health class, and I couldn’t help it. The frantic, breathless feeling was coming up again and just like with Angelie, I started to laugh.
“Are you trying to be difficult?” Mr. Harmon said with his arms crossed over his chest, his Cracker Jack badge winking in the rain.
And that was a bad question, the kind adults only ask when they’ve already decided, but at least I knew the answer.
“No,” I said, and my voice came out impudent and loud. I hadn’t sounded loud in months. I was beginning to think I’d never sounded loud at all.
For a second, we just stood there. The rain was thin and constant.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Harmon said, but he didn’t say enough of what. He put his hand on my arm and I didn’t pull away.
The sky was so gray it was almost colorless.
And that is the story of how I got my first and only detention.
If something like that had happened even three months earlier, I would have been horrified, but by then, I just wanted to go someplace warm where I didn’t have to talk or feel or think.
Detention was in the Language Arts wing, with a social studies teacher who never taught any of the college-track classes, some boys from the wrestling team, two ninth-grade girls with glam-rock haircuts, and Finny Boone.
I showed up late because I couldn’t remember where Mr. Harmon had said to go, so I had to ask the ladies in the front office. My jacket was covered in a crust of ice and my hair was wet and sticking to my forehead.
The teacher was this short, stocky guy with an awkward beard. He sat at the front of the room looking bored, and let us sit wherever we wanted.
I picked the seat next to Finny because it was about as far from the wrestling boys as I could get, and also he was pretty much the only one in the room who was sitting still. I kept waiting for Lillian to show up so at least I’d have some company. But she didn’t.
Finny was exactly the kind of boy I was just not allowed to look at. But I couldn’t help myself. Even though I already knew, I was kind of surprised by how tall he was. Even squeezed into a desk, he was so clearly over six feet. It was the first time I’d been in the same room with him in a while, maybe since elementary school. I’d known his name and his face for pretty much my whole life, but it was different seeing him up close.
The thing about Finny was, we’d been at the same school since kindergarten, but we never really knew each other, and once they started sorting us into fast and slow classes, he was pretty much always in the slow ones. I kept being distracted by all these random details—all the things about him that were exactly the same as when we were little. The way the cuffs of his shirt were fraying away from the seams, and the tiny triangular scar on his chin. How his eyes were too light for his tan, but mostly how he was missing the pinkie finger on his left hand.
His expression didn’t change, but I was sure he could feel me watching him, so after a minute or two, I slumped forward and put my head on the desk. With my jacket on and my hood up, I could peer out like someone in a cave.
Beside me, Finny was hunched on his elbows, digging at his cuticles with a safety pin, and I studied the missing finger. It was ugly and shocking, and I couldn’t make myself stop staring. The skin around the joint and down the outside of his
I’m here because this is where my mom’s family is from and after my parents got divorced, she kept the house. Because I was conceived and born and grew up. I’m breathing and my heart is beating and as much as it hurts—as much searing, monumental pain as it causes me—I have to exist.
But there was a wall in my throat that kept the words in. I had a sudden uncomfortable image of something closing up inside me, slamming shut like a lid, and a memory of how last semester they explained diaphragms to us in health class, and I couldn’t help it. The frantic, breathless feeling was coming up again and just like with Angelie, I started to laugh.
“Are you trying to be difficult?” Mr. Harmon said with his arms crossed over his chest, his Cracker Jack badge winking in the rain.
And that was a bad question, the kind adults only ask when they’ve already decided, but at least I knew the answer.
“No,” I said, and my voice came out impudent and loud. I hadn’t sounded loud in months. I was beginning to think I’d never sounded loud at all.
For a second, we just stood there. The rain was thin and constant.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Harmon said, but he didn’t say enough of what. He put his hand on my arm and I didn’t pull away.
The sky was so gray it was almost colorless.
And that is the story of how I got my first and only detention.
If something like that had happened even three months earlier, I would have been horrified, but by then, I just wanted to go someplace warm where I didn’t have to talk or feel or think.
Detention was in the Language Arts wing, with a social studies teacher who never taught any of the college-track classes, some boys from the wrestling team, two ninth-grade girls with glam-rock haircuts, and Finny Boone.
I showed up late because I couldn’t remember where Mr. Harmon had said to go, so I had to ask the ladies in the front office. My jacket was covered in a crust of ice and my hair was wet and sticking to my forehead.
The teacher was this short, stocky guy with an awkward beard. He sat at the front of the room looking bored, and let us sit wherever we wanted.
I picked the seat next to Finny because it was about as far from the wrestling boys as I could get, and also he was pretty much the only one in the room who was sitting still. I kept waiting for Lillian to show up so at least I’d have some company. But she didn’t.
Finny was exactly the kind of boy I was just not allowed to look at. But I couldn’t help myself. Even though I already knew, I was kind of surprised by how tall he was. Even squeezed into a desk, he was so clearly over six feet. It was the first time I’d been in the same room with him in a while, maybe since elementary school. I’d known his name and his face for pretty much my whole life, but it was different seeing him up close.
The thing about Finny was, we’d been at the same school since kindergarten, but we never really knew each other, and once they started sorting us into fast and slow classes, he was pretty much always in the slow ones. I kept being distracted by all these random details—all the things about him that were exactly the same as when we were little. The way the cuffs of his shirt were fraying away from the seams, and the tiny triangular scar on his chin. How his eyes were too light for his tan, but mostly how he was missing the pinkie finger on his left hand.
His expression didn’t change, but I was sure he could feel me watching him, so after a minute or two, I slumped forward and put my head on the desk. With my jacket on and my hood up, I could peer out like someone in a cave.
Beside me, Finny was hunched on his elbows, digging at his cuticles with a safety pin, and I studied the missing finger. It was ugly and shocking, and I couldn’t make myself stop staring. The skin around the joint and down the outside of his
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