patches cut so close the scalp shone. Other areas sprouted like potted plants. There was nothing I could do but keep my head down, though even that stance posed a problem—my father had carved a bald spot right into the top of my head.
Foley continued. “All those ass-hats are just prejudiced because you’re not from around here. This whole place is so unfucking-believably prejudiced. You’re fat, you’re gay, you’re skin’s a little darker, you got a weird name. They’ll go after anything. And it’s not just the kids, either; it’s the teachers. It’s everyone. Look, this is exactly what I’m talking about!”
Foley pointed at a standard offering of the Bloughton High cafeteria menu, the Meat Po’boy.
“Po’ boy is racist?” I asked.
“Goddamn straight it’s racist,” Foley said. He lifted his head to the cook behind the counter. “One Racism Sandwich, please.”
The woman glared but served it up. Foley smiled at her. “And a Racism Sandwich for my friend here, too.”
My friend. I blinked and moved my feet and lifted my tray for the food and tried to keep breathing. Foley pulled out a black wallet affixed with a metal skull and crossbones, yanked out a few bills, and stuffed the change into black jeans. Black underwear showed through a few premeditated holes, while a black Judas Priest patch dominated the right buttock. Everything Foley wore was black, every day, which I now suspected aided his power of invisibility. Slightly embarrassed by my teal polo and blue jeans, I followed with just a nod to the cashier; I was still on Simmons’s free-lunch list.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Where you going?”
I had automatically assumed abandonment and had veered away to search for a seat. But Foley was gesturing me over. My heart thumped and my stomach roiled. I sat down and stared at food I was now totally incapable of eating. Across from me, Foley was already smacking his lips.
“See that kid?” Foley chewed his food and jutted his chin. “Another Racism Sandwich. They used to rail on that kid and call him a homo pretty much constantly.”
Being branded as gay was the worst thing that could happen to anyone at Bloughton High. During past lunches, I had witnessed members of Woody’s gang casually pause beside this kid and ask with fake earnestness how much he liked the taste of dick on a scale of one to ten. You heard this stuff ten times a day in any high school, so by itself it didn’t faze me. What gave me nightmares was the kid’s shell-shocked shudders.
Foley moved on, pointing in another direction. “That tall girl there, they’ve done crazy sexual shit to her just because she’s retarded, which is hardly her fault—she’s another Racism Sandwich. And that girl over there, Steffie Vick? She’s a Racism Sandwich, too. Too fat.” Foley shrugged, gauging Steffie’s weight. “Guess she’s more like a Racism Buffet. But that doesn’t excuse what they do to her.”
“Me,” I suggested.
“Racism Big Mac,” Foley agreed, nodding at me earnestly. “Goddamn Racism Happy Meal.” We looked at each other for a moment and started laughing. I picked up my po’boy.
“ ‘Why Civil Liberties Matter to Me, by Feces Foley,’ ” I said.
“Dick,” he muttered. But he was smiling.
We ate in silence for ten minutes, the best ten minutes since a bus hit my mother.
“I’m glad you quit band,” he said at last, picking at his teeth with a pinkie.
Trying to quit had felt to me like kicking nicotine must feel to smokers. It also had the same conclusion: it didn’t work. The weather had not improved since homecoming night, and by the time I had walked into Ted’s rehearsal room earlier that morning, I was cold and wet and shivering. Ted had been there, early as usual, deep in his supply closet.
“I quit,” I had told him.
It had been dark in there, yet light had caught his round glasses.
“You’ve got heaps of talent,” he said.
Of course you’d say that, I thought.
“You’re a good performer.”
So are you.
“I hope your father didn’t put you up to this.”
You wish it were that easy.
“This saddens me, Joey.”
You don’t know sadness, I thought, remembering what the trumpet had meant to my mother. It was a sentiment worthy of someone ancient and weary. Yet my outward reactions were those of a child: I shrugged and tried to flee.
“Don’t take another step.”
Ted’s voice had deepened considerably. I turned around at the entryway.
“You don’t want to be in Ted’s Army, fine,” he said. “You might have your reasons, and I suppose it’s