Free Creeps by Darren Hynes

away she grabs him and holds on and her hair smells like the outdoors and her breath’s hot on his neck and she says, “Don’t ever drink.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œPromise.”
    â€œI promise.”
    She lets him go and it occurs to Wayne how tightly she’s been holding him. “Go on,” she says, “you’ll never wake up.”
    Wayne lingers a moment longer, then goes.

    Dear Mom,
    I can’t imagine what things would be like with just Wanda and Dad and me. We’d probably live on hot dogs and Kraft Dinner and the laundry would never get done and Wanda would drink even more Diet Coke and Dad wouldn’t stop drinking PERIOD . Then he’d lose his job and the heat and lights would get cutand someone would board up the windows and throw us out and we’d have to find an apartment on Fallow Crescent with the welfare crowd and the too-loud music and the fistfights and the crying babies and the cop cars, but seeing as you’re back I guess there’s no need to worry, although what happens if someday your leaving sticks? I’ll be like Marjorie then, except it’ll be you and not Dad.
    Why’d you marry him anyway? He’s always been a drinker, you’ve said, so did it not bother you before?
    I always thought people got more used to things over time. But maybe that’s only true with certain things … snoring or peeing on the toilet seat or chewing with your mouth full. Perhaps drinking and cursing and breaking perfectly good ornaments are another matter.
    Can you catch being an alcoholic? Is it in the genes like say … cancer or heart disease? And if so, would I get hooked after only one sip and forget to bring home the butter and start banging into things? Would you have to hit ME with the frying pan, too?
    It’s hard when you go. Wanda acts like she couldn’t care less but I know she does because she needs another girl to even things out. And Dad cares, too. You should hear some of what he says when he thinks no one is listening. Sometimes he sings that Irish song, you know the one, and it makes me wonder why that poor lassie pines away for her lover that never comes back and then she’s old, so it’s too late anyway.
    Sometimes he forgets the words and starts over. Other times he’ll fall asleep in the middle of a verse and drop his tumbler.
    Is it hard to see love through all the fighting?
    Your son who wonders if it’s hard to see love through
all the fighting,
Wayne Pumphrey

FEBRUARY
    As If It Couldn’t Get Any Worse

ONE
    Wayne’s running, but he’s not going nearly fast enough. It’s the big boots, he guesses, and the soft snow, the knapsack filled with books. Harvey’s laugh is in his ears. Kenny’s snowballs are striking his legs and back. Pete The Meat’s chanting: “You’re dead Wayne Pumphrey, you’re dead Wayne Pumphrey, you’re dead Wayne Pumphrey …”
    Where’s Bobby? No sign of Bobby.
    Wayne fakes left, but goes right.
    â€œSneaky fucker!” Harvey says.
    â€œWe got ’em!” Kenny says.
    Pete The Meat goes, “You’re dead Wayne Pumphrey, you’re dead Wayne Pumphrey …”
    Suddenly Bobby juts out between two houses and tackles him. Wayne lands hard on his back, biology and math digging into his lungs. No air. Bobby’s on top of him, grinning, saliva pooling andthen dangling from his lips. Wayne turns his face just as the spit lands on his right cheek. Twists his head to the other side and wipes the mess off in the snow.
    Bobby bears all his weight down. Presses his face so close to Wayne’s they’re touching noses. “You owe me a tooth, faggot.” Bobby grabs Wayne’s chin and says, “Open up.”
    Wayne squeezes his mouth shut.
    Pete The Meat appears then, staring down at him. “Thought you could fool us by taking a different route, eh, Pumphrey?”
    â€œHe thinks we’re