Free Inside Out by Terry Trueman Page B

Curt hears what I’m saying over the speakerphone and asks, “What about the guns?”
    I start to answer, “Do you know about the bullets and—”
    Alan interrupts me. “We’ll tell him everything in a few minutes, okay, Zach?” While he’s talking he puts the pointer finger of his good hand up to his lips in a signal for me to be quiet.
    You know how people always do that, put that finger up in front of their lips like they could stop the words from coming out of their mouths? This never makes any sense to me, because it’s always the other person they want to stop from talking, so how does putting their own finger in front of their own mouth do that? Still, since I know what the signal means, I shut up. I glance at Alan’s other hand, the one wrapped in the bloody towel. It’s lying on his lap, and now his jeans are bloody, too.
    Alan turns back toward the phone speaker. “Call us when you’re ready, okay, Dr. Curtis?”
    â€œOkay,” Dr. Curt says, and the phone goes dead.
    â€œJeez, Zach!” Joey immediately snaps at me. “What were you gonna do, tell ’em we didn’t have any ammunition?”
    I answer, “Just Dr. Curt.”
    â€œDamn!” Joey says, rushing over to me. He grabs the front of my shirt and pushes my face, hard, with the side of his gun. He doesn’t really hit me with the gun, but the metal bumps hard against my lip and it hurts. He screams, “You idiot, don’t you think the cops are listening?”
    â€œAre they?” I ask. I mean it. I never thought of it.
    â€œYou’re so stupid!” he yells, spit flying out of his mouth and into my face. He pulls his hand back to hit me, the hand with the gun in it, and starts to swing at my head.
    I close my eyes and wait for the gun to smack me. After a few long seconds of waiting to get hit, it doesn’t happen. I open my eyes and see Alan pulling Joey away.
    Joey yells, “I’m sick of this retard! All day he’s messed us up. He should have killed himself back when he had the chance.”
    Alan says, “Shut up, Joey, just shut your goddamned mouth!”
    The two brothers stand frozen, staring at each other. After a few seconds Joey lowers his arm and Alan lets go of Joey’s wrist.
    The towel around Alan’s hand slips down suddenly, almost falling off. Alan winces as he grabs it, cradling his hurt hand in his good one. I can see, for just a second, the place where the bullet has gone through Alan’s palm. It looks terrible. The hole looks red and sore and like hamburger before it’s cooked.
    Alan looks at me and says, his voice tired, “It’s okay, Zach.” He glances at my lip. “Are you hurt?”
    I reach up and touch my mouth with my finger. It’s bleeding a little. I answer, “My lip hurts.”
    Joey yells, “If you’d learn to shut your stupid mouth …” His face is almost as red as Alan’s hand. He turns away and just stares at the wall.
    Alan looks at me and says, “Joey’s right about the cops listening when we talk to Dr. Curtis. You need to just be quiet when we’re talking, okay?”
    I nod.
    Alan is still looking at me. “Zach, who are Dirtbag and Rat?”
    I don’t answer.
    â€œNo one was here before except us.”
    I say nothing.
    Alan doesn’t say anything for a second either. Then he asks, “You can’t tell what’s real, can you, Zach?”
    I ask Alan, “But you’re real, right?”
    Joey yells, “Look at his hand, moron! He got that saving you!” Joey makes a mumbled, angry sound and says, “I’d have let ’em blow your head off!”
    Alan ignores Joey and says to me, “Yeah, Zach, I’m real.” As he talks, he carefully rewraps the bloody towel around his hand, squinching his face each time the towel goes across the wound. When he’s done, he looks over at me.