Fell of Dark by Patrick Downes Read Free Book Online Page A

nothing comes.
    Sometimes, like this morning, I feel like I’m going to throw up. That passes.

    My fifth-grade teacher hit me.
    I drove him to it.

    â€œThorn, for the last time, I know you stole the money. I know it, John knows it, the class knows it. Simple as that.” Mr. Holt loosened his tie. The blue tie with a yellow fish, dreaming of itself with legs. “Thorn, are you listening?”
    I slouched in my chair and picked at a scab of glue in the palm of my hand. I looked at him: “What?”
    â€œWhat are you listening to, Thorn, if you’re not listening to me?” Holt crossed his arms. “Why am I talking to you when I could be on my way home? It’s Friday. It’s three fifteen. Why am I here?”
    I sighed.
    This made Holt furious. What was it? My rudeness and carelessness and boredom? That’s what he said. He wanted to slap me. I could tell. I’ve seen the look a thousand times. Kulthat. Kulthat hit me and hit me and hit me. I remember the narrow fire-eyes.
    Holt clenched his teeth and combed his hair with his fingers. Then he smiled. A smile without the smile. “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry, Thorn. I got carried away.”
    Silence.
    â€œThorn,” Holt said, soft as soft can be. “Where’s John’s money?”
    â€œI don’t know. Really, Mr. Holt, I don’t know.”
    Holt squatted in front of me. He put down his fists like two stones on my desk. “Thorn?”
    â€œI didn’t take it,” I said.
    What could Holt do? He had no solid proof either way, so he dismissed me. He asked me to close the door.
    I watched him through the window.
    Mr. Holt sat at his desk with his head in hands. He must’ve wondered what in the end kept him from hitting me. I’m sure of it. I could hear him thinking:
He can’t be allowed to get away with it. One good, hard smack—.

    The very next Monday, Holt described an incident between a boy and a barber to my homeroom. “This boy, Jimmy, needed a haircut. The boy, about your age, walked by a barbershop. He asked the barber how much for a haircut, and the barber told him to get lost.”
    The class couldn’t believe it. “He didn’t tell the kid?”
    â€œNo,” Holt said.
    â€œThat’s just wrong,” the class said. “What’d the kid do?”
    â€œWhat could he do?” Holt said. “He walked away.”
    â€œHe walked away?” At this point, the class blew apart into a dozen small discussions.
    Holt watched us. I watched Holt.
    â€œEnough,” Holt said. He went to his desk. “We have other things to do.”
    My class discussed strategies for dealing with a barber. A rude barber. Holt went through his handouts.
    â€œMr. Holt?”
    Holt answered without looking up: “Yes?”
    â€œThat happened to you, didn’t it?”
    Silence.
    â€œWho said that?”
    â€œYou went to the barber,” I said. “Not some kid. Right?”
    â€œNo, Thorn.” Holt tried not to explode. He kept on pretending to look over his papers. “Though every one of us has a story like that.”
    â€œA story like what, Mr. Holt?” Not me this time. Candace Ingram. All curls and teeth.
    â€œLike the one I just told.” Holt turned red. “Sometimes strangers are rude to us.”
    â€œOh,” Candace said. “The way the barber was rude to you?”
    â€œNo,” Holt said, but we all knew. His tone of voice and his redness. His eyes swirling like soup. “Now, let’s get back to work. And Thorn? See me at the end of the day.”

    â€œThorn, we’ve had our run-ins.” Holt leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and locked his fingers on top of his head. “But I thought we came away from those times as friends. I was prepared to forget last Friday because we’re friends. Right, Thorn?”
    I peeled a Band-Aid off my thumb. With my