Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“You heard from him?” I ask, trying to sound casual. I’m definitely last on Daniel’s to-call list.
“Nope.” Brian fiddles with the remote. “Do you think—I mean, did you know he was going to move?”
“He certainly didn’t fucking discuss it with me, no.”
No, Daniel hasn’t discussed anything with me since he was about twelve—hell, he’s barely spoken to me since the day he told me he was gay. It’s like there are two different Daniels. There’s gay Daniel who couldn’t be bothered to hang around with us, who thought he was too good to let anyone know he was related to mechanics, who thought we were stupid because we didn’t walk around with our noses shoved in books the way he did. Then there’s normal Daniel, which is how I remember him from when he was a kid. Normal Daniel used to follow me around and dress like me. Hang out with us, watching Pop fix cars and running around the garage playing our brutal version of Marco Polo that usually ended in one of us walking, eyes closed, into some sharp car part or piece of machinery and Pop cursing us out as he poured alcohol on our cuts and slapped Band-Aids over them.
“It’s just weird,” Brian’s saying. “Like, I know he was busy with school and stuff, but I never thought he’d just… not be here anymore.” Brian starts biting at his cuticles, which is truly disgusting because he always has grease on his hands. “I guess he wouldn’t’ve been happy working with us anyway, though, huh? But remember how good he used to be with the cars?”
I remember. He was a natural, quickly sorting out what information was relevant to diagnosing a problem and what was secondary or unrelated.
“Remember the time that old buddy of Pop’s brought his truck in and was trying to explain some complicated problem about a fuel line? Daniel wandered in from school and looked at it and was like, ‘Hey, Mr. McShea, you got a loose gas cap, huh?’”
I snort. Daniel had been about ten, a skinny pale kid with jet-black hair that was always in his face. He wore our old hand-me-down clothes, so they hung on him, making him look even smaller. Mr. McShea had turned bright red and Pop had pulled Daniel close to his side and rubbed his head. Daniel kept a straight face until Mr. McShea turned around. Then he grinned up at Pop and over at me and ran inside to do his homework.
That memory is immediately followed by one from six years later when I came home from getting high at Xavier’s house to find Daniel on his knees in the alley outside the garage with that fuckwad Buddy McKenzie holding him down and—
My expression must be hostile because Brian changes the subject and starts talking about the Michigan marching band and how hot he thinks the girls in uniform are. I swear to god, my brother really needs to get laid.
As usual, Brian leaves a mess of beer cans, shredded napkins, and crumbs on the coffee table and between the couch cushions. They stand out, white against the dark blue fabric, and make my head buzz with the need to make them disappear. I slide the nozzle attachment onto the vacuum cleaner and go to work on the crumbs, then take the cushions off and vacuum underneath them for good measure.
When I shut the vacuum off, an unholy noise comes from outside. At first I ignore it, assuming it’s a neighbor’s TV. But it sounds like someone screaming, and unless they’re watching the horror movie I had on earlier….
If I had an ounce of sense, that’d be reason enough to keep my door shut and locked. But the noise is horrific. It sounds like a baby or something. I look out the small window in my front door and don’t see anyone outside, so I turn the doorknob slowly. As I push the door open, something streaks inside.
“What the—”
From the porch comes a scuffle and the high-pitched sound of a cat in heat. Jesus, I thought that was over for the year. Then, from just inside the door, comes an answering whimper. I shut the door and look around. Shaking under the recliner is a tiny, filthy cat—kitten, whatever. It mews and backs away from me, but its claws get stuck in the worn blue-and-white-striped fabric of the chair.
Oh man. Animals do not like me—not even the ones people say like everyone. And this is just a baby; I’ll probably squish it. I reach under the chair slowly and, in what I hope is a nonthreatening gesture, try to unstick it from the chair.
Not good. The kitten chomps down on my hand with teeth that are much sharper than I expected and starts scrabbling at my wrist with its back paws.