like what was in the prophets, and that it was not male or female, not
old or young; a kind of worth that was inherent and unshakable.
But now, as I gazed at the shadow Shawn cast on my wall, aware of
my maturing body, of its evils and of my desire to do evil with it, the
meaning of that memory shifted. Suddenly that worth felt conditional,
like it could be taken or squandered. It was not inherent; it was
bestowed. What was of worth was not me, but the veneer of constraints
and observances that obscured me.
I looked at my brother. He seemed old in that moment, wise. He
knew about the world. He knew about worldly women, so I asked him
to keep me from becoming one.
“Okay, Fish Eyes,” he said. “I will.”—WHEN I AWOKE THE next morning, my neck was bruised and my wrist
swollen. I had a headache—not an ache in my brain but an actual
aching of my brain, as if the organ itself was tender. I went to work but
came home early and lay in a dark corner of the basement, waiting it
out. I was lying on the carpet, feeling the pounding in my brain, when
Tyler found me and folded himself onto the sofa near my head. I was
not pleased to see him. The only thing worse than being dragged
through the house by my hair was Tyler’s having seen it. Given the
choice between letting it play out, and having Tyler there to stop it, I’d
have chosen to let it play out. Obviously I would have chosen that. I’d
been close to passing out anyway, and then I could have forgotten
about it. In a day or two it wouldn’t even have been real. It would
become a bad dream, and in a month, a mere echo of a bad dream. But
Tyler had seen it, had made it real.
“Have you thought about leaving?” Tyler asked.
“And go where?”
“School,” he said.
I brightened. “I’m going to enroll in high school in September,” I
said. “Dad won’t like it, but I’m gonna go.” I thought Tyler would be
pleased; instead, he grimaced.
“You’ve said that before.”
“I’m going to.”