pzb.lostsouls-第5部分

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　on　the　walls　and　pictures　cut　out　of　obscure　music　magazines　and　secret　lists　in　notebooks；　wove　a　web　of　power　around　him。
　　He　pulled　his　quilt　around　his　legs　and　touched　his　ribs　and　hipbones；　liking　how　thin　he　was。　Then　the　bedroom　door　opened；　and　painfully　bright　light　spilled　in　from　the　hallway。　He　jerked　his　hand　away　and　pulled　up　his　quilt。
　　〃Jason？　Are　you　asleep？　It's　only　nine。　Too　much　sleep　is　bad　for　you。〃
　　It　might　block　my　channels；　he　thought。
　　His　parents　stepped　into　the　room　and　he　felt　the　web　of　power　collapse　and　drift　down；　broken　strands　brushing　his　face。　Mother；　fresh　from　her　crystal　healing　class　at　the　Arts　Center；　looked　exalted。　Her　eyes　sparkled；　there　was　too　much　blush　on　her　cheeks。　Father；　behind　her；　only　looked　glad　to　be　home。　〃Did　you　do　your　homework？〃　Mother　asked。　〃I　don't　want　you　going　to　sleep　this　early　if　you　haven't　done　your　homework。　You　know　what　your　father　and　I　thought　of　a　smart　boy　like　you　getting　those　grades　last　quarter。　A　C　in　algebra！〃
　　Nothing　looked　at　the　pile　of　schoolbooks　near　his　closet。　One　of　the　covers　was　a　vomitous　shade　of　turquoise。　One　was　bright　orange。　The　black　T…shirt　he'd　thrown　over　them　blotted　them　out。　He　thought　that　if　he　stacked　them　all　up；　he　might　be　able　to　build　an　altar。
　　〃Jason；　I　want　to　talk　to　you。〃　Mother　came　all　the　way　into　the　room　and　squatted　next　to　the　mattress。　Her　sweater　was　woven　of　soft　iridescent　wool；　pink　and　blue。　In　fascination　Nothing　watched　a　smudge　of　ash　from　the　carpet　transfer　itself　before　his　eyes　onto　the　knee　of　her　cream…colored　cotton　pants。　He　raised　his　head　and　checked　the　quilt；　it　was　covering　him　decently。　He　thought　he　saw　the　two　small　ridges　of　his　hipbones　poking　up　under　it。
　　〃My　support　circle　meditated　with　our　rose　crystals　tonight；〃　Mother　said。　〃I　thought　of　you。　I　don't　want　to　keep　you　from　fulfilling　yourself。　I　certainly　don't　want　to　decrease　your　potential。〃　She　paused　to　glance　at　Father　glowering　in　the　background；　then　let　the　great　revelation　fly。　〃You　can　get　your　ear　pierced　after　all；　if　you　still　want　to。　Your　father　or　I　will　go　with　you。〃
　　Nothing　turned　his　head　to　hide　the　two　tiny　holes　in　his　left　earlobe；　made　with　a　thumbtack　and　several　swigs　of　vodka　one　day　at　school。　The　Jewelry　Box　at　the　mall　would　not　pierce　the　ears　of　anyone　under　eighteen　without　a　parent's　permission；　especially　not　the　ears　of　a　boy　in　black　who　looked　younger　than　his　fifteen　years；　who　forged　signatures　on　endless　homemade　permission　slips。　And　no　wonder　Father　was　pissed　off。　This　was　the　final　indignity：　a　son　who　wanted　to　wear　earrings。
　　〃Wait　a　minute。　Wait　one　minute。　Just　what　the　hell　is　this？〃　Father　crossed　the　room　in　two　strides　and　pulled　the　bottle　of　Johnnie　Walker　from　under　the　desk。　The　last　gossamer　strands　of　the　web　whispered　past　Nothing's　face　and　dissolved　in　the　air。　He　smelled　the　ghost　of　incense。　〃Young　man；　I　think　I　would　like　an　explan…　〃
　　〃Just　a　minute；　Rodger。〃　Mother　radiated　benevolence；　spiritual　wholeness。　〃Jason　is　not　a　bad　child。　If　he's　drinking；　we　should　spend　more　quality　time…〃
　　〃Quality　time；　my　ass。〃　Nothing　decided　he　liked　Father　better　than　Mother　these　days；　not　that　he　liked　either　of　them　much。　〃Jason　is　not　a　child　at　all。　He　is　fifteen　and　runs　with　a　gang　of　punkers　who　give　him　a　liquor　habit　and　God　knows　what　else。　He　dyes　his　hair　that　phony　black　that　rubs　off　on　the　pillowcases　and　stains　my　good　shirts　in　the　wash。　He　smokes　Cigarettes…Lucky　Strikes；〃　Father　said　with　distaste。　Nothing　saw　the　pack　of　Vantages　poking　out　of　Father's　breast　pocket。　〃He　throws　away　the　clothing　we　buy　him　or　rips　it　to　rags　before　he'll　wear　it。　Now　he's　stealing　from　us。　Things　are　going　to　CHANGE…〃
　　〃Rodger。　We'll　talk　about　it；　among　ourselves。　Don't　worry；　Jason；　you're　not　in　trouble。〃　Mother　positively　floated　from　the　room；　pulling　Father　after　her。　Father　slammed　the　door。　A　stack　of　books　fell　over；　spilling　Plath　and　Bradbury　and　William　Burroughs　across　the　floor　in　an　unlikely　orgy　of　paper　and　dust。
　　In　the　hall　Father's　voice　rose。　〃What　the　hell　was　that　supposed　to　mean；　he's　not　in　trouble　。　。　。　he　goddamn　well　is　in　trouble　。。。。　〃
　　Nothing　closed　his　eyes　for　a　moment　and　watched　red　spangles　swirl　away　behind　his　lids。　Then　he　got　up　and　stretched　his　lithe　naked　body；　shaking　his　hair　and　his　hands　to　cleanse　himself　of　Mother's　touch。　Father　had　taken　away　the　good　whiskey；　but　Nothing　had　his　own　bottle　of　brainrot　hidden　in　the　closet。　A　flask　of　something　called　White　Horse。　He'd　gotten　his　friend　Jack　to　buy　it　for　him　because　of　the　name：　Dylan　Thomas　had　drunk　his　last　eighteen　whiskeys　at　a　pub　called　the　White　Horse　in　New　York　City。
　　Nothing　lay　in　the　dark　and　sipped　from　the　neck　of　the　bottle；　blinking　up　at　the　stars　on　his　ceiling。　After　a　while　the　constellations　began　to　swim。　I've　got　to　get　out　of　this　place；　he　thought　just　before　dawn；　and　the　ghosts　of　all　the　decades　of　middle…class　American　children　afraid　of　placency　and　stagnation　and　fortable　death　drifted　before　his　face；　whispering　their　agreement。
　　
　　In　Nothing's　English　class　the　next　day；　Mrs。　Margaret　Peebles　plunged　her　hypodermic　of　higher　learning　into　Lord　of　the　Flies　and　sucked　out　every　drop　of　its　primal　magic；　every　trace　of　its　adolescent　wonder。　Nothing　knew　haft　the　class　hadn't　even　read　the　book。　If　they　were　judging　it　by　what　the　teacher　said；　he　could　hardly　blame　them。　But　he'd　read　it　three　years　ago；　one　summer　afternoon　in　bed　with　a　fever；　and　when　he　had　put　the　book　down；　his　hands　had　been　shaking。　Those　wild　salty…skinned　little　boys　had　tumbled　through　his　head；　and　he　had　cried　for　them；　so　young；　grown　old　so　fast。
　　He　looked　at　the　blank　page　of　notebook　paper　in　front　of　him。　Pink　and　blue　lines；　neatly　ruled。　He　began　to　count　them　but　lost　track　of　the　number。　The　clock　said　9：10。　Twenty　more　minutes　left　of　class。　His　head　ached　from　last　night's　whiskey；　and　he　wanted　to　sleep。　He　began　drawing　in　his　notebook。　Swirls。　The　first　vestiges　of　a　face。　An　eye；　green　because　his　pen　was　green。　A　tooth。
　　〃Jason〃
　　Outside；　far　away　across　the　wide　green　front　lawn；　past　the　pink　granite　sign　that　looked　like　a　gravestone　except　for　the　snarling　tiger　carved　on　top　（Gift　of　the　Senior　Class；　1972）；　a　black　van　sped　by。　The　road　past　the　school　was　long　and　straight；　and　the　van　was　going　too　fast　for　Nothing　to　catch　more　than　a　snatch　of　the　singing　that　blew　back　on　the　wind　out　the　open　windows　of　the　van；　borne　on　the　wings　of　the　sweet　September　day。　But　he　was　sure　it　was　Bowie。　Someone　in　that　van　was　singing　a　song　by　David　Bowie。　The　voices　were　clear　and　loud　and　drunken。　Nothing　watched　the　van　disappear　and　wished　more　than　anything　else　in　the　world　that　he　were　going　with　it；　going　with　those　happy　singers；　drinking　and　singing　and　going　away　on　the
　　open　road。
　　〃Jason。〃
　　He　sighed。　Peebles　was　staring　at　him。　The　rest　of　the　class　paid　no　attention；　they　were　elsewhere　too；　in　their　own　worlds；　driving　away　on　their　own　roads。　〃What？〃　he　said。
　　〃We　were　discussing　William　Golding's　Lord　of　the　Flies。　You　have　read　the　book？〃
　　〃I　have。〃
　　〃Then　perhaps　you　can　tell　me　about　the　rivalry　between　Jack　and　Ralph。　What　allows　it　to　grow　so　bitter？〃
　　〃Their　attraction　for　each　other；〃　Nothing　said。　'Their　love　for　each　other。　They　had　this　fierce　love；　they　wanted　to　be　each　other。　And　only　when　you　love　someone　that　much　can　you　hate　them　too…〃
　　A　ripple　of　laughter　went　through　the　class。　A　couple　of　boys　rolled　their　eyes　at　one　another…what　a　fag！
　　Peebles　pressed　her　thin　lips　together。　〃If　you　had　been　paying　attention；　instead　of　doodling　and　staring　out　the　window…〃
　　Suddenly　he　was　too　tired　to　care　what　happened　to　him。　This　was　empty；　all　empty　useless　crap。　〃Oh　fuck　you；〃　he　said；　and　felt　the　class　suck　in　its　breath　and　silently　cheer　him　on。
　　Half　an　hour　later；　sitting　in　the　principal's　office　waiting　for　the　hand　of　petty　academic　fate　to　descend　upon　him；　he　thought　again　of　the　ghosts　that　had　visited　him　last　night。　Visions；　or　whiskey　vapors？　It　didn't　matter。　You've　got　to　get　out　of　here；　they'd　told　him。　You've　got　to　get　out　of　here。
　　
　　After　school；　a　bunch　of　kids　met　in　the　parking　lot　and　went　over　to　Laine　Petersen's　house　to　get　stoned。　Laine's　older　brother　had　gone　off　to　college　and　left　behind　his　water…bong；　an　elaborate　ceramic　affair　shaped　like　a　skull　with　worms　twining　in　and　out　of　the　empty　eye　sockets。　You　put　your　finger　over　one　of　the　nostrils　to　hold　the　smoke　in。
　　Laine's　girlfriend　Julie　had　a　bag　of　pot；　real　ragweed；　the　kind　of　stuff　that　scoured　your　throat　and　made　your　lungs　feel　like　parchment　if　you　held　the　smoke　in　too　long。　Still；　it　was　all　these　kids　knew；　and　within　fifteen　minutes　they　were　stoned　out　of　their　minds；　Someone　put　a　Bauhaus　tape　on　and　turned　it　all　the　way　up。　Laine　and　Julie　rolled　around　on　the　bed；　pretending　to　make　out。
　　Nothing　had　his　doubts　about　how　much　Laine　really　liked　girls。　The　walls　of　his　room　were　plastered　with　posters　of　the　Cure；　he　had　seen　them　in　concert　three　times；　and　once　he　had　sneaked　backstage　to　present　Robert　Smith；　the　singer；　with　a　bouquet　of　blood…red　roses　into　which　he　had　tucked　two　hits　of　blotter　acid。　Julie　wore　her　hair　wildly　teased　in　all　directions；　and　she　favored　lots　of　black　eyeliner　and　smudged　red　lipstick。　Nothing　suspected　that　Laine　liked　her　mainly　because　of　her　superficial　resemblance　to　Robert　Smith。
　　He　looked　around　the　room。　Several　of　the　kids　were　groping　each　other　ineptly；　kissing　each　other　with　sloppy　wet　mouths。　Veronica　Aston　had　pulled　Lily　Hartung's　skirt　up　and　had　two　fingers　inside　the　elastic　of　Lily's　panties。　Nothing　stared　at　this　for　several　minutes；　dully　interested。　Bisexuality　was　much　in　vogue　among　this　crowd。　It　was　one　of　the　few　ways　they　could　feel　daring。　Nothing　himself　had　made　out　with　several　of　these　kids；　but　though　he　had　tasted　theft　mouths　and　touched　their　most　tender　parts；　none　of　them　really　interested　him。　The　thought　made　him　sad；　though　he　wasn't　sure　why。
　　He　lay　back　on　the　flo