teeth.
âRight?â Holt looked at the ceiling. âThorn?â
âWhat?â
âWhy do you do that?â Holtâs anger spilled out again. âWeâre friends, yes?â he said.
I shrugged. âI guess.â I opened the cut on my thumb, and it bled.
Holt watched as I stopped the bleeding with my T-shirt.
âThorn?â Holt bent forward in his chair. âDo you remember the story I told this morning?â
âYes.â
âWhat would you have done with the barber?â
I checked my thumb. âI wouldnâtâve walked away.â
Holt cleared his throat. âYes, thatâs probably true. But what would you have done?â
âWas it you?â I spoke to my bleeding thumb. âI wonât tell. I just want to know.â
Holt loosened his green knit tie and unbuttoned his collar. âDid you steal that money from John?â
âYes,â I lied. Strong. Who knows what happened to the dum-dumâs money? âI stole it.â
âYouââ
I interrupted him. âSo was it you in the story?â
âI swear Iâll have you thrown out of this school.â
âWhatever,â I said. âYou canât stand up to a man, and you canât stand up to a boy.â
Holt pushed his chair away and walked to the classroom door. He shook as he closed the door.
I knew what was coming. I wanted him to do it.
âIt was you. Just say it. It doesnât matter. A rude and stupid barber: so what? Like you said, we all have stories. Just say it.â
âShut up, Thorn, shut up.â
âJust say it, Mr. Holt.â I stood up. âJust say, âThe barber was rude to me, and I couldnât do anything about it.â Say it.â
âThorn.â
âSay it, Mr. Holt. I know itâs you. Tell the truth. Say itâs you. Say it. Say it, and we can go home.â
The slap, when it came, crumpled me against the desk. I must have cried out. But Holt wouldâve heard only a hum coming from his right hand. A hum surrounded by silence.
We are the Guardians. We speak. Listen to us.
Human beings.
Human beings. All of you. We know your kind.
nocourage notruth nocourage notruth nocourage notruth nocourage notruth nocourage notruth nocourage notruth nocourage notruth
no courage no truth
We know your kind. You donât want to think, you donât want to care, you donât want to have mercy, you donât want to show consideration. You want your comfort. You want your protection.
No truth. No courage.
Worthless.
A pigeon followed me. âGo away.â The bird kept coming. âGet away from me.â It went up the front steps of the apartment building, and as I went up in the elevator, I heard it walking up the façade, up the concrete walls, up and up, its talons clicking. Why didnât it fly?
The pigeon found my room. It started pecking a hole through the glass of my window. It stopped only to tell me one thing. âItâs no use,â it said. âIâll get to you.â I heard it as if it were on the inside of the glass, not on the outside.
How could a pigeon talk to me? And how could it kill me? Did Kulthat send it out of hell?
âThis is ridiculous,â I said. âYou canât kill me.â
âWatch me.â
âIâll kill you first.â This seemed like a good idea. âIâll kill you first. Iâll kill you first.â
âNo you wonât.â
I opened the window, and the pigeon swelled up. I grabbed it, and it pecked at my fingers. My knuckles. I got angry.
I crushed it in my hands. Once I saw a bus run over a pigeon, and the bird burst like a paper bag filled with air. POP!
Those hollow bones broke. POP!
This happened with the demon-bird. It popped. Then it disappeared from my hands. I stood at the window. Blood on my face, my shirt, my hands. The pigeon gone, gone like it was never there.
The pigeon had