Burn Scars by Eddie Generous (best novels for beginners TXT) 📕

to be neutral. He pretended he was Christine and said something she might say. “Yeah, yeah. Got it, whenever you get a chance, hand over the workload and I’ll pencil it in.”

“How about you shut up, scar face,” said one of the farm boys.

Mrs. Betts made a pained expression, but had nothing new to add and turned to the chalkboard.

Rusty kept his eyes steady on Mrs. Betts until she got into her lesson plan. He then turned in his seat and said, “Bet you jerk off fifteen times a night, you pudgy, virgin, fuck.”

A few girls tittered behind palms and one greaser in the back laughed outright with big, hearty guffaws, almost honking. The farm boy only sneered as his cheeks went pink.

 14

Christine sat crossed-legged on Rusty’s bedding, still in her work clothes, and forked yellowy noodles into her mouth. Her father had brought home a huge trey of pasta in red meat sauce from a day conference he’d attended concerning online safety and using the internet to its full potential when it came to building cases and sharing information with other departments around the country.

Christine had taken the trey with her when she left the house without asking; her father only ever brought food like that home to lighten her duty load anyway. Rusty sat on the chair with a plate on his pinched together knees. A cigarette he’d stubbed out as she fixed him a plate remained smoldering in an ashtray. On the TV was The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air; one from the second season with the original Vivian.

Christine swallowed a mouthful and then said, “Jim didn’t show up to work this morning, but he rolled up in a Cadillac around lunch. Not a new one, though. But not so old either. He told Dwayne to shove his job up his ass because he didn’t need it anymore.”

Rusty paused, his fork of noodles floating just below his chin like a hummingbird considering all the items on the feeder’s sugar menu. “Man, that’s…that can’t be good.”

“He called Dwayne Fat Bastard, like from the Austin Powers movies, and told him to eat another mystery fish sandwich and have a heart attack. He looked high.”

“How?”

“Not like weed high. His eyes were bugged and he kept licking his teeth. He looked like a junkie, just not all sick yet.”

“Christ, most of us call Dwayne Fat Bastard, but never where he might hear it.” Rusty took the bite and chewed. “Linda’s not going to be happy.”

“She didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at Jim after he said what he said.”

“What did Dwayne say?”

“He screamed like a girl. It was weird. His voice went high and he started chasing Jim, but Dwayne’s too fat to catch anybody.”

“Jim’s lucky Dwayne wasn’t driving, ever hear about what’s his name?”

Christine nodded. “Yeah, everybody knows that story. It was a little bit funny, with Jim, I mean.”

An image came to Rusty’s mind and he shivered: Dwayne chasing him in a company van, thumping over him like he was a stick in the road. “This is all bad for the plan.”

Christine laughed then and dropped her fork to cover her mouth. “Dwayne’s shirt opened and his tit was hanging out and he was huffing and oh my god.”

Rusty wished he could share in the humor.

—

Rusty was alone and halfway watching the Canucks against the Coyotes and halfway thinking about what kind of bullshit homework he might have to do in order to graduate. Mrs. Betts was a complicated woman and it really did Rusty no favors. He then thought about Mr. Beaman and the envelope.

The game was close, but Rusty didn’t care enough to see it through and hit the button on the remote. He rolled and kicked, brain too busy for sleep. “Shit,” he whispered, thinking he ought to take a look at what Mr. Beaman dropped off, but a banging against his window rattled the thought away. Rusty sat upright and rigid. He popped to his feet and drew back the curtain. Dark as it ever got in town under the block’s streetlights—nothing but shadows.

“Hey,” a deep voice said.

Years earlier, he’d had friends knocking on the glass at all hours, usually in need of booze or somewhere to chill until the weed wore off so mothers and fathers wouldn’t freak out about their deflowered offspring. But that was before everyone left for college or had kids of their own or just drifted into different worlds where everyone already had high school diplomas and didn’t live in crummy boarding houses.

Christine had left around nine. Rusty squinted against the dark. The figure was standing with only his legs in view, which was strange, even meter readers looked in the window when they walked by—one woman got a full view of Rusty fresh out of the shower, which was the same day he splurged on used curtains to hang on the vacant rod.

Rusty slid the window open and hissed, “Yeah?” He was trying to shout and be quiet at the same time.

“It’s Cary, you have to let me in.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay.”

Rusty closed the window and started across the room, stepping on a corner of his overlarge ashtray, sending ashes and stubbed-crooked butts onto his foot and then the carpet. He reached the light switch, and once his eyes settled, he hurried out and up the stairs; taking the steps quickly, but silently.

The second the door opened, Cary said, “Sorry, sorry,” his voice sounded off.

“Shh, talk in my room.”

Cary followed Rusty downstairs. Cary’s footfalls were booted and thusly much louder than Rusty’s bare feet.

“Close the door,” Rusty said and sat on his bedding. He started scooping ashes and butts from the floor, back to where they belonged. “What happened?”

“You got a beer or something?”

“Not cold,” Rusty said and pointed to the skinny closet door.