Free The Twelve-Fingered Boy by John Hornor Jacobs Page B

the tea, there’d be some cheesy tea up in Casimir. That’s for damned sure.
    He’s from the Episcopal camp, which means he wants to be hip and young and accessible to our special situations. But he still reads from a Bible or liturgy or the inspirational tracts and self-help books he always brings with him.
    I’m fine with a little proselytizing because I’m quite partial to enchiladas. And Mrs. Glick makes some mean ones, she does. Were she not such a fantastic cook, I might not be as open to the ferv.
    Jack follows me to the tucker. Another couple kids from A Wing are there already, with paper plates full of chips and cheese dip and Dixie cups of sweet tea.
    â€œHelp yourselves to the food. Please, if you have any allergies, read the sheet there”—he points to a computer printout—“and make sure that you’ll be okay eating this offering.”
    We pile our Dixie plates high with the goods, grab plastic cutlery and sweet tea, and take seats near the back of the classroom, where we can keep our backs to the wall and face the door. Back here the light comes in through the big barred windows, and you can see out over the razor wire and into the trees and the neighborhood beyond where cars drive by and kids play in yards and have parents who give a shit about them.
    We dig in. Jack’s a weird kid, all right—fingers everywhere, thin as a whip, and somber as a mortician. But it looks like he enjoys Mexican food.
    We eat and watch the kids wander in and out of the classroom. Some glance at us. Father Glick stands at the front of the class and begins to sermonize. I don’t listen. I look right at him as he stands up there and speaks of Jesus, and I don’t let a single thing he says enter my perception. I smile and eat and drink. I watch the kids coming in and out of the classroom. Some stop and listen to Father G. Some stop and get food.
    When the sermonizing comes to an end, Father G walks back and gives us pamphlets and says, “I hope you’ll come to St. Mark’s when your stay here is over. We always welcome new members to the church.” I smile and thank him. This guy is the real deal, a believer. He wants the best for his fellow man, and he includes both me and Jack in that number. Part of me wishes I could buy into his wonderful little dream full of martyrs and enchiladas and tortilla chips with queso. But Vig is still gone and Moms is still drunk and Jack still has too many fingers on his hands and there are still monsters in human skin out in the world wanting to eat kids like me. So, Father Glick is a nice guy. But a blind one.
    He starts putting aluminum foil back on the dishes and gets a cart and loads all the remains of the food. No more kids come walking in and out of the classroom. Jack and I sit in the spill of light from the window.
    The sky is a watery blue, and thin, wispy clouds obscure the autumn sun.
    â€œYou think we’re in for it, Shreve?” Jack’s looking at me straight. Not looking at his hands, not mumbling. Just asking an unvarnished question. “The guys in Commons seemed like they wanted to kill me.”
    I sigh. It’s a hard truth I have to tell.
    â€œYeah. We’re in for it, one way or another. We’re all in for it, eventually.”
    The sun comes out from behind the slight clouds, the light grows, and I turn my face up to it and close my eyes.
    â€œThing is, Jack, it isn’t any different in here than it is out there, beyond the fence. They find out you’re different, they want to know how different you are.”
    I open my eyes. He stares at me, unblinking, quiet and motionless in that way he has. Then he nods.
    We sit in the spill of light. Motes hang suspended in the air, swirling lazily, and it’s easy to drift off with our stomachs full, looking at the bright sky.
    â€œWhat do you want with your life, Shreve?”
    That’s out of left field, as the saying goes.
    â€œI