Free The Less-Dead by April Lurie

Dumontstrolls up behind me and whips the book out of my pocket. I jump up and try to grab it, but it’s too late.
    “‘Dear Noah …’” He reads the inscription aloud. The moron pronounces
facets
like
faucets
. “‘Your friend,
Will.’”
A grin spreads across his face. “Whoa! Guys! Get a load of this! Nordstrom’s a queer! Some
dude
is writing him poetry!”
    “Shut up, Dumont. Give me the book.”
    He holds up a limp wrist, grabs his crotch with his other hand, and makes an obscene gesture. “What were you two faggots doing behind the wall, Nordstrom? Sticking it where the sun don’t shine?”
    Without even thinking I punch Dumont in the stomach. He falls to the ground. I grab the book.
    “Nordstrom!” Coach calls. “All right, that’s it! Get your ass to the office! Now!”
    While the class looks on in amusement, some clapping, some whistling, I shove the book into my pocket and head toward the door. As I’m walking through the hallway to the main office, I stop in front of a trash can. I hesitate for a moment, then pop the lid, drop in the book, and listen to the quiet thud.

{nine}
    MY PUNISHMENT for punching TJ Dumont in the gut is one week of ISS—In-School Suspension, a term the Rock uses to mean torturing students until they succumb to a mental breakdown. Basically you go to a room filled with other offenders and do your work silently, and if you speak one word—even during lunch, when you’re trying to gag down a prison soy burger—they give you an extra day of ISS. I’ve heard that some kids never get out.
    Anyway, it’s my first day. I’m halfway through my math assignment when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around. It’s Hawk. He slips into the seat behind me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the police handcuffed him in the hallway, since he leaned over and whispered, “Noah, take care of Will.”
    Beneath the desk he hands me a crumpled, dirtstained sheet of paper, folded in half. I open it and read:

    I look at Hawk and mouth,
Where is he? Have you seen him?
    Hawk shakes his head and motions to the front of the room. Slowly, I turn around.
    Mr. Briggs is glaring at me. “Is there a problem, Mr. Nordstrom?”
    “No, sir. No problem.”
    “And, Mr. Smith,” he says to Hawk, “what are you doing here? I don’t have you on the ISS list.”
    Hawk stands, walks to the front of the room, and hands Briggs a referral paper. Briggs studies it. “Fine, have a seat. You know the rules.”
    Hawk looks straight ahead when he passes my desk. He takes a seat. I try to concentrate on my math, but I can’t. I look at the clock on the wall, ticking away the minutes. I wait for Mr. Briggs to answer a phone call, pour a cup of coffee, scratch an itch—anything. Finally he reaches into his bag and shuffles through some papers. I turn around.
    Hawk is gone.

    After school, while Carson and I are waiting for the bus, I show him the note.
    “I don’t know, man,” he says. “I mean, I definitely want to rock out at the Red Room and all, but this is weird. Hawk delivers the note, and then he disappears? Briggs has security search for him and he doesn’t show up. I mean, what’s going on?”
    “I don’t know. I wish Will had told me where he’d be hiding. I just want to talk to him, make sure he’s all right.”
    “Hey, Noah?” Carson says. “Are you going to show that note to your father? Let him know Will’s been in touch?”
    I think this over. “No. Why should I? What good would it do?”
    After Will left our house Monday night, my father called Child Protective Services. They told him they would contact Will’s social worker and, after twenty-four hours, file a missing persons report. Whether they did, I don’t know; I haven’t spoken a word to my dad since Will left.
    A minute later our bus pulls in. “Hey, Carson, I have an idea about how we might find Will. Do you still have the spare key to the DPCP’s old Lexus?”
    Carson’s got his driver’s