Free Bad Haircut by Tom Perrotta Page A

on. Chucky should be home any minute. I want him to apologize.”
    There couldn't have been any blood left, but she kept caressing my face with the washcloth, letting me see her nipples.
    “Poor baby,” she said again, touching thewashcloth to my ear. I imagined myself in a tub of warm water, Chucky's mother washing me everywhere, her robe open to the waist, whispering as she scrubbed.
    Zirko wandered over to the refrigerator and helped himself to some orange juice. He chugged noisily from the carton, letting the yellow liquid dribble down his chin. He was just showing off, trying to get her attention, but she didn't give him the satisfaction.
    He put down the OJ and walked over to the sink. There was a nearly empty bottle of vodka right next to the toaster. Zirko unscrewed the cap and took a long swig, grimacing as he swallowed.
    Chucky's mother spun to face him, clutching her robe shut with one hand. With her back to me, she no longer looked like a woman to have fantasies about. She was a grown-up, a mother who drank vodka and watched cartoons in her bathrobe on Saturday morning.
    “Put that down,” she snapped. “What the hell's wrong with you, anyhow?”
    Zirko leered at her, tapping the crowbar against his thigh.
    “What the hell's wrong with Chucky?”
    The woman didn't answer right away. The question seemed to have stunned her. She was a little unsteady on her feet.
    “You gedout,” she said, indignantly slurring her words, suddenly sounding drunk. “You andyour little friend here. Who the hell do you think you are?”
    Zirko grinned. He was having fun now. He took another swig of the vodka. “Maybe we don't want to.” “Come on,” I said. “Let's get going.” Zirko shook his head. She threw the washcloth down on the table. It landed with a wet slap. “I said get out.”
    Zirko shrugged. “I don't feel like it.” The phone was on the wall by the refrigerator. She took ästep in that direction. So did he.
    “No,” he said in a soft, scary voice. “I don't think so.”
    I can't say how long we remained frozen in place, waiting for someone to make the next move. It was probably only a couple of seconds, but it felt longer. I do know that it was the sound of the opening door that broke our stalemate. All three of us turned at once.
    Chucky whimpered in the archway, hugging a grocery bag tight to his chest. He was a big kid in a sheepskin coat, but he wasn't the lifeguard. Not even close.
    “Holy shit,” said Zirko.
    Something was wrong with Chucky. “Water on the brain” was the phrase I'd heard people use. His head was bigger than it was supposed to be, and it swayed like a pendulum as he stood there,as though his neck weren't quite strong enough to hold it steady. He had very little hair and thick glasses that made his eyes seem tiny and faraway.
    “Chucky,” his mother demanded, “did you hit this boy?”
    She pointed at me and shame filled my body like a dense hot liquid. Chucky moved his lips, struggling to form the words. His voice was high and reedlike.
    “My snowman,” he said. The bag slipped through his arms and burst open at his feet. Lots of soup cans went rolling across the floor.
    “Chucky,” she said sternly. “Please answer the question.”
    “My snowman,” he repeated, choking back a sob.
    I dropped to my knees and began gathering up the cans. Every one of them was exactly the same: Campbell's Chicken and Stars, Chicken and Stars, Chicken and Stars.
    “Did you use foul language?”
    Zirko knelt beside me to help out. We traded a quick glance, and his eyes were wild with remorse. A horn sounded in the street outside.
    We burst out of the house and sprinted across the lawn to the Monte Carlo. Zirko got there first and pulled open the door. We froze in unison.
    The lifeguard was in the back seat. He had a rectangle of silver duct tape pressed over his mouthand a hunting knife resting against his throat.
    “Look what we found,” said Danny. He was holding the knife and