Personal Effects Read Online Free PDF

lips. Glass on the table.
    “And I lost it.”
    “What did his shirt say?”
    Shit.
    Dad cracks his neck. “Pendergrast. He said something about if the kid was saying crap, maybe even his usual crap . . . but that this time it was something about his shirt?” The hand wave makes it clear Pendergrast tried to explain, but Dad was beyond caring then.
    It’ll sound lame. And if I say it wrong, or he thinks I’m messing with him, or even for just saying T.J.’s name, Dad could go ape-shit. But if I lie, and he catches me in it, I’m screwed.
    I can see Pinscher’s shirt in my head. Not the bloodied and ripped-up version from after the fight. How it looked before, when I closed my hand over the black words and yanked.
    Dad’s hand flexes.
    I close my eyes, trying to breathe and to figure out how to say it.
    “Today, please.” Only Dad can make “please” sound scary.
    “He was just there, like always, in my face.” I open my eyes and look at him. The words won’t come. They’re here, in my mouth, or throat, maybe even my stomach. I have to force something out. “I hit him. He was saying all this stuff. And, I hit him, and then . . . I just couldn’t stop.”
    “The shirt?” Dad asks again.
    “It had . . .” I stumble, catch my tongue, see it in my head: the red words on the front,
OUR
Troops,
and on the back,
Pieces,
and then the black words, in my fist. I make myself say, “His name on it.”
    “So what if the little shit had his name —?”
    “Not
his
name.”
    Dad stares, not getting it. The vein in his temple pulses. He rolls his shoulders. “Then —”
    “T.J.’s.”
    All the air gets sucked out of the room.
    “What?” Dad’s hands clench into tight fists on the table.
    “It was a list, of troops. And . . .” Acid climbs up around the knot in my gut.
    “Troops?” His hands unclench and clench again. Tighter. He shifts and leans closer, swelling in his chair. “This kid. His shirt. Had a list of troops —”
    “Yes.” Stupid. Never get in the way of Dad exploding. “It said,
Support
OUR
Troops.
OUR,
like, from around here. And on the back . . .” I can still see it in my head — and my hand, covering T.J.’s name, like I could make it go away.
    His jaw locks like a spring trap. His fists go white-knuckled with rage. I’m not sure how long we sit there, but he doesn’t reach for his drink once. My legs fall asleep. I float out the top of my head, wait for the explosion.
    “This kid.” His voice makes me shiver. “He had your brother’s name on his shirt?”
    “Yes.” Everything’s far away, except for Dad’s hands.
    “And he knew you’d seen it?”
    His focus could shift fast. I nod.
    “How?” he asks.
    “I could see some of it from across the hall, the
Support
OUR
Troops: Bring Them Home
part, and on the back . . .”
    He focuses hard on me.
    Burning sour creeps up my throat.
“Not in . . . pieces.”
Then all the names on back. And T.J.’s name. I gag.
    Dad pushes the soda closer. I take a gulp, then another. I have to say the rest.
    “I made him turn around, so I could see the names, and . . . I covered . . . I . . . grabbed . . . it.” I swallow. “He knew. Michael told him to put his sweatshirt back on, but . . .”
    Dad’s eyes go distant. His hands are palm down and calm on the table. I wait.
    Finally, he blinks and looks at me again, in a way he hasn’t looked at me in forever. His neck relaxes and his head bobs for a few beats. I mimic his nod of recognition. Amazing. We’re cool. I press the ice against my eye to hide my relief.
    Dad lifts his glass. Two sips. He rolls the glass between his hands, the ice and golden liquid swirling back and forth. Another long sip.
    My stomach growls. Dad grunts a laugh. Not a bad sign, all things considered.
    He waves the ice away from my eye. It takes everything not to flinch when his hands come near my face. He presses his thumbs along the bones under my eyes and across my jaw, runs his hands over my shoulders,