Free Little Deadly Things by Harry Steinman Page A

diminished by his father’s insult, “Little Man.”
Something’s got to give,
he thought,
or I’m going to go crazy.
    When he regained his composure he walked into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and removed a box of toothpicks. He placed two of the wooden slivers in his breast pocket and slipped into the night, blind to the world around him, operating on habit alone.
    Had Jim looked up, he could have traced the forms of the constellations. It was early evening and he might have looked for Libra. But eyes were cloaked in anger and his vision fixed into a narrow spot on the sidewalk just in front of him. On another evening, he would have delighted in the scents of Southern California’s abundant flora, but tonight, even the night-blooming jasmine smelled cloying. He heard neither the whisper of the evening breeze, nor any sound except blood pounding in his ears.
    Dad’s workplace was two miles away, thirty minutes at a schoolboy’s angry pace. He approached the front door of the storefront office and removed one of the toothpicks, broke it in half, and inserted a piece into the tumbler mechanism of the door’s lock. He used the other toothpick to push the broken piece in as far as possible. Tomorrow Dad would be locked out of his office and the entire lock would have to be removed and replaced.
    A security camera recorded every move.
    The next day, the last school day before Easter vacation, a pulse still twitched in Jim’s neck. He ignored greetings from teachers and students. He ignored the bells that signaled the change in classes, navigating by rote. He ignored his lunch and moved to his afternoon classes with all the focus of a man in a coma.
    The trance broke during math class. The teacher was administering a quiz. Jim sat unmoving.
    “Mr. Ecco, would you like to join the rest of us in the exercise?” She smiled.
    Jim did not reply.
    “Mr. Ecco? Jim? Are you all right?” Her voice was bright, but with a note of concern.
    The teacher walked down the aisle to Jim’s desk. When she reached out to touch the boy’s shoulder, he saw his father’s hand. He heard his father’s voice. Jim’s arm flew up and knocked aside the teacher’s hand. In the same motion, Jim stood, too quickly, and his desk tumbled over. The edge scraped down the woman’s shin. It was painful but not damaging. Still, it would cost Jim the rest of the school year.
    Jim looked at his teacher. “I’m sorry,” he said, and left the classroom. He walked home, into his bare room, ignored the cot and lay down on the floor with Ringer, unmoving, until the police arrived.
    On the following Tuesday, school principal Danny Sorenson sat in a tan club chair that was browned from use, the man’s form outlined in darkened leather. Sorenson was in that indeterminate middle age when his belly had begun a winning battle with his hair for prominence. He wore a red bow tie, a white shirt, and a forest-green cardigan sweater vest and rumpled khaki pants.
    Jim sat on a matching sofa, opposite the administrator. He’d been there before. Sorenson had asked about Jim’s home life, had reached out to Jim and tried to find some activity that would help Jim channel his frustrations. “You’re a smart kid,” Sorenson said. “Your aptitude tests say you’ve got a lot of potential.”
    But today the conversation would be about survival, not potential.
    “Jim, you’re in a pickle,” Sorenson said, not unkindly.
    “I’m sorry,” said Jim.
    “The incident with Ms. Rice was reported. She says that it was an accident that the desk struck her leg, but when you hit her arm, technically, you assaulted her. Can you tell me why you did that?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “The police are considering dropping the charges against you.”
    “Whatever.”
    “No, not
whatever.
Jim, this is serious. Your father is waiting outside. He needs to be part of this conversation but I wanted to talk to you first. Jim, what’s going on at home?”
    Jim said