That afternoon, still in his school uniform of khakis and a blue button-down, Andy ran to the three-mile mark before slowing from a sprint to a jog to a trot to a walk, the sound of his shoes on the pavement softening from slaps to pats. Usually, he would be able to hang on to some of that sensation of rightness, that place past thought. For at least another hour, sometimes for the rest of the afternoon, he would feel good in his body, at home in his skin.
He and his mother lived on the first floor of a row house in Kensington that had been split into three apartments, one on each floor. Andy armed sweat off his forehead and pulled out the house key that hung on a cord around his neck, unlocking the door and stepping inside, releasing the gentle sigh he always gave when he realized that he was alone. A single woman, a widow, lived on the second floor, but Andy hardly saw her, and the landlord kept the third floor mostly empty, using it for cousins and grandchildren when they came to visit. Andy Landis didn’t spend much time at other kids’ houses when their parents were home, but he was starting to get the idea that not every kid had to be as careful to avoid the lightning flashes of a parent’s temper, that other moms were different from his. It wasn’t like Lori hit him or ignored him for the few hours between dinner and bedtime when they were together, but sometimes he thought that his mother just didn’t like him very much, that if some genie or fairy godmother showed up and promised to take Andy somewhere else, to give him to other parents, Lori would agree without hesitation. But then he would tell himself that Lori worked hard, sometimes six days a week, on her feet for nine, sometimes ten hours, and that he always had enough to eat, and clothes to wear, even if the clothes came from thrift shops or the church donation table, and he was the one who cooked the food and did the dishes afterward.
Three weeks ago he’d been doing his math homework at the kitchen table when his mom had handed him a gray-and-white ski jacket that she’d picked up at church. “It’s still got a lot of wear in it,” she’d said, sounding proud. Andy had seen the tag with Ryan Peterman’s name sewn on the back of the collar right away, but when he’d pointed it out, he’d kept his voice quiet, not wanting to hurt her feelings, not wanting to make her mad.
Lori had sighed, then had looked at him, looked right in his eyes, holding his gaze with her own so that he couldn’t turn away. “I can’t buy you a new one, and you’re too tall for last year’s,” she’d said. “This one’s almost good as new.”
You can buy me a new one, Andy thought. You can, but you won’t. He knew about what she called her “mad money,” how there was a chipped mug all the way in the back of the kitchen cabinet that was full of quarters and bills, ones and fives and tens and twenties. Every few months she’d ask the Strattons if Andy could sleep over and she’d take a bus to Atlantic City with her girlfriends. Sometimes she’d come back laughing, her wallet full of crisp new bills, but mostly she’d walk right past him into her bedroom and shut the door without a word.
Andy had stuffed the jacket in the darkest corner of the coat closet, but that morning, finally, it had started to snow, and Lori had insisted that he wear it, had even walked with him to school to make sure he didn’t take it off.
Ryan Peterman hadn’t wasted a second. “Hey, asswipe, that’s my old jacket!” he’d shouted, loud enough for the rest of the fifth grade to hear.
“Fuck off,” said Andy—that being, of course, the only acceptable response. Ryan had yanked down the collar to show the other kids his name. Andy felt the world narrowing, the way it did when he ran, only this time, instead of just the street or the grass or the sidewalk, all he could see was Ryan Peterman’s big, stupid pale face as he drew his arm back and started pounding Ryan, on his cheek, his head, his shoulders and chest and sides, hitting and hitting until Ryan’s nose was dripping blood and he was crouching down with his arms over his head, screeching “Get him off me! Get him off me!” and the Sisters had come with their habits belling out behind them, rulers at the ready.
Andy went to the kitchen, cracked ice cubes out of their battered metal tray, wrapped them in a dish towel, and held them against his knuckles. When the ice melted, he helped himself to a bowl of Cheerios with cut-up banana while he watched cartoons. They didn’t have cable like the Strattons, who lived down the street in a row house that looked just like theirs, except it wasn’t apartments and the family rented the whole thing, all three floors just for them. Miles Stratton was in his class at Holy Innocents, not exactly a friend, but friendly. Sometimes Andy would go over in the afternoons and they’d watch The Dukes of Hazzard and Three’s Company. Here, he was stuck with a choice between Looney Tunes and soap operas. He watched the Road Runner chase Wile E. Coyote off cliffs and under trucks filled with dynamite while he slurped the last of the milk, rinsed the bowl and spoon, and put them in the dishwasher. He made sure he returned the milk to the fridge and the cereal to the cupboard, checked to see that the tiny square of their table was wiped off and the rickety wooden chair was pushed in, before he went back outside.