PAUL G. TREMBLAY
“No. You’ve never been here before.” “Okay. Whatever.” The boy shook his head, like he’d just woken from an unsettling dream. He spotted the oversized candy bar in his hand, like he was seeing it for the first time. “I’m selling chocolate. For my high school drama club.” “I don’t eat candy.” Lying was a hard habit to give up. “How about some for your kids, then?” “I don’t have any children.” I wasn’t sure if that was a lie. Staring into a mirror was still easier than looking into another person’s eyes. And I could always smash a mirror. Or I could poke out my own eyes. I’d thought about it, but it scared me. Like torn muscle, they might grow back stronger. It was time for the green-haired boy to leave, but he lingered on the porch. His hand stayed up, displaying the candy, but his eyes narrowed like his mind had moved on to something else. His empty hand, tattooed like the other, rose to his face. Black-painted fingernails traced pocked skin, a Braille of acne, white fluid so near to breaking through. Inside, turning out. Touching his cheeks was an act of reassurance. Or a consolation. Who else would touch a face like that? “Look.” The boy’s fingers splayed across his forehead. “I’m just trying to sell some candy bars. We need money for costumes for this play we’re doing, and… you know, you look just like…” The center of the boy’s chest glowed. A pale yellow corona spread, its center burning brighter until strands of light streamed from his faded tee shirt. Like a hunk of the boy had given way, letting the sun behind him blaze through. But no wad of flesh had fallen, and no cinders piled at his feet. The light revealed a hole that was always there, covered in flesh. And more holes were coming. The boy flickered with pinpricks of light. For a moment, I mourned the pieces the boy had lost. But it was only the sun in my eyes, blinding me. When I could see better, I knew it was theft. The boy with the green hair was a patchwork quilt, threadbare. More gap than skin. Then the lights dimmed, and skin covered his holes again. The smallest ones healed quickly. They were only tiny things taken from the boy, barely missed. A slight, or a casual cruelty. The bigger holes took longer. The betrayals of trust, the harsh laughter that came after rejection. The largest, the one nearest his center, was the last hole to seal. That wound was deep, where the only hope for love had been stolen. 54