Suckerpunch by David Hernandez Read Free Book Online Page A

above the fireplace, a row of framed photographs in between: Oliver at three, at six, at ten. Oliver dressed for Halloween and Oliver in a Little League baseball uniform. Oliver fishing with his father. Mrs. Thompson holding a piece of wedding cake for Mr. Thompson, his mouth wide open and ready to bite.
    Oliver was crouched by the stereo. Check this out, he said, and pushed the PLAY button. The room exploded with drums and bass, a guitar riff drenched in feedback.
    That sounds good, I said. Who’s that?
    Trigger Cut, Oliver said. They’re local.
    I like it.
    I knew you would. I’ll burn you a copy.
    You guys heard about Darren, right? Britt asked.
    What about him? Oliver said.
    He moved to Alaska.
    Shut up.
    I’m serious.
    What the hell for?
    To live with his mom, Britt said. Pops wasn’t too happy about him getting that room at theTravelodge. It was the last straw, I guess.
    I pictured Darren in the coldest region of Alaska, wearing a heavy jacket and ski cap, bits of ice crusted in his brows and eyelashes. I pictured him lifting a frozen beer bottle to his lips, then turning it upside down and smacking the bottom as if it were a bottle of ketchup.
    When’s your mom coming back? I asked.
    In a couple hours. If you want to smoke a bowl, do it now, he said. And do it outside. Mom’s got a nose like a bloodhound.
    Twenty minutes later and the three of us were sitting at the dinner table, bent over a half-finished puzzle. At the top of the box it said The Kiss by Gustav Klimt . Some guy in a checkered gold robe was kissing some girl on her cheek, a redhead kneeling on a cliff, her bare feet hanging over the edge. The whole thing shimmered like the scales of a fish. I looked at the puzzle and picked up a piece and turned it inches from my face. Wow, I whispered.
    I know, Britt said.
    I can’t believe you guys did half of this already.
    My mom did, Oliver said. We haven’t done shit.
    My face was numb. Britt said he’d gotten some potent weed from Hawaii, gourmet marijuana, he’d called it, but now I wondered if it was laced. It felt like someone shot me point-blank with novocaine. When I rubbed my hand over my face, my nose and cheeks felt rubbery. Hey, guys, I said. Do this.
    Do what? Britt asked.
    This, I said, and rubbed my hand over my face again. It feels strange.
    Oliver slid his hand over his face. You’re right, he said.
    Britt was next, sliding from his forehead all the way down to his chin. Oh man, he said. My head is made of Nerf.
    We all started laughing uncontrollably.
    Excuse me, gentlemen, I said, but it’s time for me to drain the main vein.
    In the bathroom I held on to the towel rack above the toilet and aimed, still chuckling. I sprayed the floor a little and when I finished I grabbed some toilet paper and kneeled to wipe the tile. Something small rattled across the floor. It was a piece of plastic from a disposable razor, the transparent strip that covered theblade. Oliver’s face was as smooth as mine, so I knew it must’ve been his father’s. I wondered if he’d shaved on the day he walked down to the basement and looped the extension cord over the I-beam, or if he’d looked at his face in the mirror that morning, dragged his fingers across the bristles, and left the razor where it was, knowing what he planned to do later. I picked up the strip of plastic, wrapped it in toilet paper, and tossed it into the wastebasket.
    When I stepped out of the bathroom I could hear Britt and Oliver still laughing. I looked down the hallway, the half-open door of the master bedroom, and suddenly I was floating there. Whatever hang-ups I had about snooping in my best friend’s mother’s bedroom a five-leafed plant from Hawaii put them to rest.
    The bed was king-size, the flower-printed bedcover sunk slightly over two faint dimples on the mattress where Mr. and Mrs. Thompson slept together for two decades. On top of the dresser was a hairbrush, a