Suckerpunch by David Hernandez Read Free Book Online Page B

jewelry box, more framed photographs. There were quite a few of Mr. and Mrs. Thompson together, in different vacation spots. One looked like Europe, one looked like Hong Kong. In another they stood on abeach with sunlight on their faces, the photographer’s purple shadow stretched on the sand. I wondered who snapped the picture, if it was a stranger or someone they knew. There was a white sailboat in the background and the sails were full of wind, its bow pointed right at Mr. Thompson’s neck. Mrs. Thompson wore a red two-piece bathing suit, her hair all messed up from the breeze. She had sexy legs, a flat stomach and narrow waist. I wanted something that belonged to her, something close to her skin. I thought about her panties and as soon as I did I started opening drawers, beginning with the top left. Magazines, a date book, pens and pencils, loose change. Three rows of empty drawers and two rows of stacked sweaters. A drawer with nothing but balled-up socks. Finally, I found her underwear drawer.
    Yo, Digit, Oliver shouted. Did you fall in?
    Stop polishing your sword, Britt yelled.
    I grabbed a neglected pair bunched up in the back of the drawer, lacy and black, and shoved them down the front of my jeans. I closed the drawer and checked myself in the mirror above the dresser and hurried out, remembering to keep the bedroomdoor like it was, half closed.
    In the hallway I stood a moment watching Oliver. He curled his fingers around imaginary drumsticks and smacked the air around him and I thought: I’m a boy without a father, watching a boy without a father banging on invisible drums.
    What took you so long? Oliver asked when I sat back down at the table.
    Britt moved his fist up and down, making that mosquito sound with his mouth.
    I pissed on the floor and had to clean it up, I said.
    You mean you jizzed on the floor, Britt said.
    At least I have meat to beat, I said. How do you stroke your cashew, like this? I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together in the air.
    Oliver laughed. Britt laughed harder, doubling over. I was confused until I realized he was pointing at my stub. Oh shit, oh shit, he said, teary-eyed. Look at his nub , he said.
    Fuck you, I said.
    Oliver’s laughter trailed off. He looked down at the puzzle. Okay, shut up, Bongoloid, he said. Let’s try to find at least one that fits.
    We studied the puzzle again, all those freckled gold pieces, our heads bowed over the table. We didn’t move. From the outside it might’ve looked like we were saying grace.
    An hour later we had destroyed a bag of potato chips and pretzels and washed it down with glass after glass of orange juice. We watched music videos and Celebrity Deathmatch and eventually my head stopped feeling synthetic.
    Mom’s here, Oliver said when we heard the garage door growl open. Hide your toy gun, Stonehenge.
    It’s not a toy.
    Whatever, just hide it.
    Britt lifted the front of his shirt and stretched it over the handle of the starter pistol.
    Mrs. Thompson walked in holding her purse. She’d been at the salon and her hair now looked inflated and shiny. Well, guys, what do you think? she asked. She turned around slowly to show us every angle.
    Why is it so fluffy? Oliver asked.
    It is kind of big, Britt added, looking mildly comatose on the couch.
    Mrs. Thompson had walked in the house glowing,but now her face slouched.
    I think it looks good, I said, immediately embarrassed. I could feel Oliver’s eyes on me.
    Why, thank you, Marcus, she said. So what have you guys been up to?
    We were working on the puzzle, Oliver said.
    Mrs. Thompson walked over to the dinner table. It doesn’t look like you made any progress.
    We found a few, I said.
    Yeah, Oliver said. We did.
    Uh-huh, Britt mumbled.
    Mrs. Thompson gave Oliver an accusatory look before heading to her bedroom.
    What? Oliver shouted.
    Don’t play innocent with me, she shouted back.
    It was time for us to leave. Oliver had to get ready for his