Free The Best Kind of People by Zoe Whittall Page A

slapping his hand on the top of the car for emphasis. Andrew’s pulse sped up, but he knew immediately how the interaction would play out.
    “How you been? Got any kids?” It was the standard thing to say. Andrew wished he could just press the gas pedal, speed away. He imagined reaching through the passenger window and punching him in the face, his tobacco-stained teeth reduced to rubble against his fist. Once he was on the ground, he’d grab for his gun and press it against his temple and wait for him to cry.
    “Yup, three girls. Beautiful angels.” He took off his cap and showed him a laminated photo of three kids under a Christmas tree pinned to the underside of the hat’s brim.
    “Yes, angels,” Andrew deadpanned. “That’s great.”
    “Yes, the best thing I ever did in my whole life, you know. The best thing,” he repeated, as though saying it twice made it more true, while putting his hat back on his head.
    Andrew was never asked the same question in return. “Anyway, it was nice to see you again,” he said, carefully turning to look ahead. The thickness of their dishonesty seemed to contribute to the front window fogging up. Ahead, two cops leaned against a cruiser, sipping coffees and watching them.
    “Andrew, look, your father is in a lot of trouble, and they’ve upped security here, of course. I don’t want to see you back here, okay?”
    Andrew nodded but couldn’t hide a sneer. “It’s ironic, isn’t it, Alan? You telling me that I’m a potential danger?”
    Alan looked away. “I dunno know what you mean, Andy.”
    It bothered Andrew that Alan still didn’t pronounce words separately. I dunnowhatchomeanAndy. He still spoke as though trying to outrun his childhood stutter.
    “Yes, you do. I’m not the threatening one, am I?”
    Alan picked up his radio and said something coded into it before turning back to Andrew, who was tapping the wheel, rage surging in his chest.
    “That was a long time ago, man. High school, kids’ stuff. You’re not still upset, are ya?” Andrew could hear the whispered slur Alan might as well have said after that, and his laugh, the same as in high school, after he’d said fucking pansy ass faggot under his breath when he walked by him on the street.
    Andrew didn’t respond, just stared at him, willing Alan’s heart to stop.
    “Look, look, sorry about that. You know, I was a shit. I’ve changed now, right? People should be free to be anything they want to be, right?”
    Andrew eyed the gun on Alan’s holster. Which people, asshole?
    “Right,” he said, “very astute, Alan.”
    “Anyway,” Alan said, looking at the row of cars gathered up behind them, “please don’t come back round here until they get this thing settled, okay?”
    Andrew sped off without answering, shaking with an electrified anger he hadn’t felt in years. It was like the time he was in California during an earthquake, one the locals thought was insignificant but he interpreted as the end of the world, the way everything solid around him became fragile and movable. Everything outside the car wasn’t real, and his body was aflame, hot and awful.
    At the light, a group of Avalon Hills girls stood at a bus stop. The uniform was the same timeless kilt and white blouse, and were it not for their hairstyles, cellphones, and array of designer handbags, it could have been the late 1990s. He remembered how the kids wore toques over their flattened, messy hair when he was in high school, plaid shirts that clashed with their kilts tied around their waists. The girls used to carry canvas army bags that cost five dollars at the surplus store in Woodbridge. At the stop, a girl with long blond hair was looking through her purse, a Louis Vuitton that must have cost more than his monthly rent in New York. She wore very high heels, also designer. She didn’t look like she was actually a kid until she pulled a plastic bag of jujubes out of her purse and threw one at her friend, then emptied the