Bad Haircut. Tom Perrotta

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СКАЧАТЬ to come home. He's not going to get punished. We just want him back. You tell him his mother's worried sick.”

      “Okay,” I said.

      I got out, walked over to my bike, and slung the heavy canvas bag over my shoulder. The tow truck didn't move. Paul was slumped forward in the driver's seat, his forehead resting on the wheel.

      That afternoon I told Kevin about my encounter with Paul. He was only half finished with the sandwich I'd brought him, but he got mad and whipped it at a tree.

      “He's a liar! The second I walk through the door he's gonna kill me.”

      “I bet he won't.”

      “You don't know him.”

      We sat sullenly on the log. The woods weren't the least bit scary during the day. Birds were chirping; the air was cool and fresh. You could see through the trees to the houses on Center Street.

      “Can you camp out tonight?” Kevin asked.

      “Tonight's my birthday,” I said. “I promised my parents I'd spend it at home.”

      Kevin looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair matted down against his head. “But what about later? Think you can sneak out?”

      “I'll try.”

      Before I left, Kevin asked me to do him a favor. He unzipped the flap of his tent—not very well camouflaged during the day—and pulled out a wrinkled envelope, which he handed to me along with a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Angela's name was scrawled across the envelope in big childish letters.

      “I wrote it myself,” he said.

      People's houses have distinctive odors. Kevin's, for example, always reminded me of a doctor's office. Burnsy's smelled like cat food, even though he didn't have a cat. My grandmother's house gave off an odor of rancid orange peels. And the Far-rones’ house smelled like Angela. As soon as I stepped inside, I remembered that when I had kissed her, her mouth had tasted exactly like this.

      I followed her father down the hallway into the kitchen. On the way I caught a glimpse of the living room. It resembled a display in a furniture store, not a cushion dented or an ashtray out of place. An oil portrait of Angela, done before she bleached her hair, was hanging above the couch. In her tartan plaid dress with the lace collar, this brown-haired Angela looked innocent and full of wonder.

      Mr. Farrone tossed my bouquet carelessly on the kitchen table and headed for the refrigerator. It was the modern kind that dispensed ice water from a compartment on the freezer door. I had only seen them on commercials and game shows, never in someone's house.

      “What can I get you?” he asked.

      “Just water.”

      On my previous flower deliveries, I had managed to escape undetected. But that afternoon my timing was off. I was halfway up the front steps when a maroon Lincoln Continental pulled into the driveway. A dumpy man in a gray suit got out of the car and came to meet me.

      “I'm Pat Farrone,” he said, extending his hand. “You must be Kevin.”

      I started to say no, then caught myself and nodded. It seemed easier not to have to explain the situation.

      “Here,” I said, thrusting the roses into his arms. “These are for Angela.”

      Mr. Farrone cradled the roses like a baby. He had heavy jowls and a mustache that looked like a misplaced eyebrow. It seemed bizarre to me that such an odd-looking man could have a daughter as beautiful as Angela.

      “Kevin,” he said, “I think you and I need to have a talk.”

      Mr. Farrone sat at the head of the table, stroking his mustache. His voice was calm and professional, as though he were interviewing me for a job.

      “How old are you, Kevin?”

      “Thirteen,” I said.

      “Thirteen.” He nodded solemnly. “You know, Kevin, when I was thirteen I wasn't chasing girls. All I wanted to do was play baseball.”

      He lifted the flowers to his nose, sniffed them, and frowned. When he set them back down, he inadvertently rotated the bouquet, so the envelope with Angela's name was now facing up.

      “Roses are expensive, Kevin. Where do you get your money?”

      “My Dad owns a gas station. He lets me work there.”

      “Tell me, Kevin. What do you want to do with your life?”

      “I'm not sure. I think I'd like to be a park ranger. Either that or a truck driver.”

      “My daughter tells me you're quite the little poet.”

      “Thanks.”

      I was blushing with pride when he reached out and casually detached the envelope from the wrapping paper on the bouquet. He jammed his finger into the flap and began tearing it open, as though it were addressed to him. He stopped halfway through and glanced at me.

      “That was a helluva hickey you gave her the other night.”

      “A hickey?” I said.

      “Don't bullshit me, Kevin. I don't like bull-shitters.”

      I should have been alarmed, but I had this funny feeling that I wasn't really there, that all this was happening to Kevin, not to me. Mr. Farrone unfolded the sheet of loose-leaf paper and spread it flat on the table. He squinted at the words. A vertical fold appeared in his forehead.

      “You little bastard,” he whispered.

      For a heavy man he was nimble. Before I understood what was happening, he was out of his chair. He grabbed a handful of my T-shirt and yanked me to my feet. We danced awkwardly across the linoleum floor until my back slammed into the humming refrigerator.

      “I oughta knock your teeth out,” he said softly. “She's just a little girl.”

      His face was so close to mine I could feel hot bursts of air coming from his nostrils. A muscle in his cheek began to twitch. I watched his hand form itself into a fist. “What kind of rubbers did you buy, smart guy? Why don't you take them out of your wallet and show me?”

      This isn't happening to me, I told myself, but the formula had lost its magic. All at once I was terribly frightened, not just for me but for Kevin too.

      “Come on, big man. Show me your rubbers.”

      “I don't have any,” I told him. “I don't even know what they look like.”

      “I oughta knock your teeth out,” he said again, drawing back his fist until it was level with his ear. His knuckles were coated with thick black hair. “What do you say to that, big man?”

      I had spent the past several years learning not to cry, but I hadn't forgotten how. My bottom lip trembled. My eyes felt like they were growing inside my head. The first few sobs came from somewhere deep in my stomach. A jet of warm snot exploded from my nose.

      “I'm СКАЧАТЬ