Pins: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

resist looking in, seeing the living rooms with pictures on the wall, old ladies sitting in chairs. He breathed in the smell of dying leaves, of peace. He wondered how people could be so calm, like they were pretending they couldn’t hear the hum of New York just over the hill.   He liked this new town, but it was so quiet, as if they were all hiding something. Did anyone see him, see the big letters on his back, COLTS in black on orange, their school colors, how he walked so fast, knowing he was going to his friend’s house? Did anyone see how he felt, as if he were walking in golden armor?
    He rang the doorbell, ran his hands over his short curls once more.
    “Well, hello, Joe. Come on in.”
    Mrs. Khors’ hair was long, blond, but not real blond, more three or four blondes. She had a different sort of look than Joey’s mom, less grounded. She kind of whisked in ahead of him as if she might be hosting a show.
    “Lemme take your coat. Do you want something to drink? We’ve got some chips, stuff in the kitchen. You’ll have to excuse the mess.”
    Joey wasn’t sure what she meant. The house was spotless; no piles of Legos or stray coloring books. All the furniture looked new, sharp. He couldn’t help but envy how Dink’s house felt less stuffy, as if they should be living somewhere more sophisticated. He couldn’t see why a man would want to divorce Dink’s mom. He noticed the way she held herself, relaxed yet self-assured. She’d been one of the realtors to help his parents find their new home, seemed to be making a good living at it.
    “C’mon,” Dink said as he plucked his friend from the kitchen, led Joey to his room. The back of Dink’s T-shirt, one he’d worn before, read, in thick red and black letters:
     
    I EAT WRESTLING
    I SLEEP WRESTLING
    I BREATHE WRESTLING
    I AM WRESTLING
     
    When Dink reached up for the banister, his T-shirt rode up. Joey had seen Dink naked every school day in the showers, had tumbled with him for hours more. That was a given. But seeing the small of his back, just that peek, teased him.
    A muscle chart ruled Dink’s far bedroom wall.   “Hey, you got one, too!”
    Dink dug in a drawer for videos. “Yeah, you got one? Makes it easier to figure out what muscle I broke.”
    “Ya can’t break a muscle. It’s either a sprain or a strain. . .”
    “I know. I’m joking.” Dink plopped down on his bed. Joey stood, looking at the other wall stuff; a poster of Nirvana hung over Dink’s dresser, framed newspaper clippings of Dink wrestling, posters of wrestlers, included one with a drawing in black with white pencil, of a white guy giving a black guy a tight Nelson: Below the picture it read:   BO DON’T KNOW GRAPPLIN’.
    Above a pile of clothes spilling from the closet onto the floor, a full-length mirror hung on the inside door. Above that hung a poster of Marky Mark, shirtless, with several inches of underwear showing. Joey wanted a closer look, but didn’t want to go nosing around in Dink’s stuff, at least not with him there.  
    There weren’t any chairs. He wanted to lay down next to Dink. He didn’t.   It was in front of his thoughts but he never mentioned it and didn’t know where or how he could. He wanted to be in Dink’s room all night. It smelled almost like him.
    He looked at Dink’s CD collection. “Man, that’s a lot.”
    “Not so much. How many you got?”
    “Zip.”
    “Ya kiddin’.”
    “Got a Walkman, about a dozen tapes.”
    “We gotta get you into the ‘90s, my boy.” Dink stood close to Joey as he thumbed through the stack.
    “Soundgarden,” Joey said. “I heard them on the radio.”
    “Yeah. Bring me some tapes. I’ll make dubs for you.”
    “Really? Cool. Hey,” Joey held the CD. “This guy looks like you, if you didn’t have your buzz cut.” He pointed to a cute blond guy standing in a purple shirt, jeans.
    “Who, him?” Dink smiled. “He’s the drummer.”
    “Hmm.” He looked at one of the song titles.