“You know what, Craig? I think you will.”

* * *

When my dad got there, he looked me over and complimented Ms. Hargensen on her work.

“I was a prizefight cut-man in my last life,” she said. That made him laugh. Neither of them suggested a trip to the emergency room, which was a relief.

Dad took the four of us home, so we missed the second half of the dance, but none of us minded. Billy, Margie, and Regina had had an experience more interesting than waving their hands in the air to Beyoncé and Jay-Z. As for me, I kept reliving the satisfying shock that had gone up my arm when my fist connected with Kenny Yanko’s eye. It was going to leave a splendid shiner, and I wondered how he’d explain it. Duh, I ran into a door. Duh, I ran into a wall. Duh, I was jerking off and my hand slipped.

When we were back at the house, Dad asked me again if I knew who had done it. I said I didn’t.

“Not sure I believe that, son.”

I said nothing.

“You just want to let this go? Is that what I’m hearing?”

I nodded.

“All right.” He sighed. “I guess I get it. I was young once myself. That’s a thing parents always tell their kids sooner or later, but I doubt if any of them believe it.”

“I believe it,” I said, and I did, although it was amusing to visualize my father as a five-foot-five shrimpsqueak back in the age of landlines.

“Tell me one thing, at least. Your mother would be mad at me for even asking, but since she’s not here . . . did you hit him back?”

“Yes. Only once, but it was a good one.”

That made him grin. “Okay. But you need to understand that if he comes after you again, it’s going to be a police matter. Are we clear?”

I said we were.

“Your teacher—I like her—said I should keep you up at least an hour and make sure you don’t go all woozy. Want a piece of pie?”

“Sure.”

“Cup of tea to go with it?”

“Absolutely.”

So we had pie and big mugs of tea and Dad told me stories that weren’t about party telephone lines, or going to a one-room school where there was just a woodstove for heat, or TVs that only got the three stations (and none at all if the wind blew down the roof antenna). He told me about how he and Roy DeWitt found some fireworks in Roy’s cellar and when they shot them off one went into Frank Driscoll’s kindling box and set it on fire and Frank Driscoll said if they didn’t cut him a cord of wood, he’d tell their parents. He told me about how his mother overheard him call old Philly Loubird from Shiloh Church Big Chief Wampum and washed his mouth out with soap, ignoring his promises to never say anything like that again. He told me about fights at the Auburn Rollodrome—rumbles, he called them—where the kids from Lisbon High and those from Edward Little, Dad’s school, got into it just about every Friday night. He told me about getting his bathing suit pulled off by a couple of big kids at White’s Beach (“I walked home with my towel wrapped around me”), and the time some kid chased him down Carbine Street in Castle Rock with a baseball bat (“He said I put a hickey on his sister, which I never did”).

He really had been young once.

* * *

I went upstairs to my room feeling good, but the Aleve Ms. Hargensen had given me was wearing off, and by the time I got undressed, the good feeling was wearing off with it. I was pretty sure Kenny Yanko wouldn’t come back on me, but not positive. What if his friends started getting on his case about the shiner? Teasing him about it? Laughing about it, even? What if he got pissed and decided Round 2 was in order? If that happened, I would most likely not even get in one good blow; the shot to his eye had been kind of a sucker punch, after all. He could put me in the hospital, or worse.

I washed my face (very gently), brushed my teeth, got into bed, turned off the light, and then just lay there, reliving what had happened. The shock of being grabbed from behind and shoved down the hallway. Being punched in the chest. Being punched in the mouth. Telling my legs to hold me up and my legs saying maybe later.

Once I was in the dark, it seemed more and more likely that Kenny wasn’t done with me. Logical, even, the way things lots crazier than that can seem logical when it’s dark and you’re alone.

So I turned on the light again and called Mr. Harrigan.

I never expected to hear his voice, I only wanted to pretend I was talking to him. What I expected was silence, or a recorded message telling me the number I’d called was no longer in service. I’d slipped his phone into the pocket of his burial suit three months previous, and those first iPhones had a battery life of only 250 hours, even in standby mode. Which meant that phone had to be as dead as he was.

But it rang. It had no business ringing, reality was totally against the idea, but beneath the ground of Elm Cemetery, three miles away, Tammy Wynette was singing “Stand By Your Man.”

Halfway through the fifth ring, his slightly scratchy old man’s voice was in my ear. The same as always, straight to business, not even inviting his caller to leave a number or a message. “I’m not answering my phone now. I will call you back if it seems appropriate.”

The beep came, and I heard myself talking. I don’t remember thinking about the words; my mouth seemed to be operating completely on its own.

“I got beat up tonight, Mr. Harrigan. By a big stupid kid named Kenny Yanko. He wanted me to shine his shoes and I wouldn’t. I didn’t snitch on him because I thought that would end it, I was trying to think like you, but I’m still worried. I wish I could talk to you.”

I paused.

“I’m glad your phone is still working, even though I don’t know how it can be.”

I paused.

“I miss you. Goodbye.”

I ended the call. I looked in Recents to make sure I had called. His number was there, along with the time—11:02 P.M. I turned off my phone and put it on the night table. I turned off my lamp and was asleep almost at once. That was on a Friday night. The next night—or maybe early on Sunday morning—Kenny Yanko died. He hung himself, although I didn’t know that, or any of the details, for another year.

* * *

The obituary for Kenneth James Yanko wasn’t in the Lewiston Sun until Tuesday, and all it said was “passed away suddenly, as the result of a tragic accident,” but the news was all over the school on Monday and of course the rumor mill was in full operation.

He was huffing glue and died of a stroke.

He was cleaning one of his daddy’s shotguns (Mr. Yanko was said to have a regular arsenal in his house) and it went off.

He was playing Russian roulette with one of his daddy’s pistols and blew his head off.

He got drunk, fell down the stairs, and broke his neck.

None of these stories was true.

Billy Bogan was the one who told me, as soon as he got on the Short Bus. He was all but bursting with the news. He said one of his ma’s friends from Gates Falls had called and told her. The friend lived across the street and had seen the body coming out on a stretcher with a passel of Yankos surrounding it, crying and screaming. Even expelled bullies had people who loved them, it seemed. As a Bible reader I could even imagine them rending their clothes.