“Tark’s been doing pretty well at home, considering,” the man says. “He stays in his room a lot, but he doesn’t listen to death metal or write about suicide or anything of that sort, thank God. Your cousin’s a good kid. I don’t want to pressure him into doing anything he’s not comfortable with yet. And for the record—he wasn’t abused by his mother. Not in the way you…He wasn’t abused. It’s a little complicated.”
He tries to smile again. “Thank you for being concerned, Callie. I was worried you wanted to talk because his teachers told you Tark was being disruptive in class or getting into fights with the other students. He’s been seeing a therapist, and he’s still a little moody around other people, but he’s improving.”
The young woman nods. “Okay. I just—I just wanted to be sure.” “I would appreciate it if you could keep an eye on him whenever you can, though. Moving here was a little tough on Tark, and he could use a friend.”“Or an overbearingly fastidious older cousin to boss him into having a social life,” the young woman finishes. The man laughs at this, but as he walks away after one last hug, I can see that his brows are drawn together and his eyes are tired.
After he leaves, the young woman stands there for a few more minutes until a bell rings and rouses her from her trance. She wraps both arms around herself and shivers before turning to enter, pulling the large doors closed behind her.
I spend the rest of the day counting. There are two janitors roaming the school grounds. There are sixteen rooms in the building. There are thirty students in the tattooed boy’s class, and most ignore Tarquin in the same way Tarquin ignores them. Once, a girl beside him asks for notes from Mr. Spengler’s history class from the day before, and he looks at her in a way that makes her uneasy. Still, she persists.
“Your name’s Tarquin, right? That’s an odd name.”“It’s the name of some Roman emperor everyone’s pretty much forgotten,” the boy says, hoping she will take the hint.
She does not. “My name’s Susan. Where are you from?”“I’m from Texas,” the boy lies. “Home to beloved exports like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, mad cow disease, and bullets. I collect mannequin legs and spider bites. A race of super-ferrets live inside my hair. They hate water so I shower with an umbrella. I eat bugs because I’m allergic to fruit. I wash my hands in the toilet because sinks are too mainstream. Anything else you want to know about me?”
The girl gapes at him. Her friend nudges her away. “Just ignore him, Nat,” the girl whispers. “He’s weird.”
Nobody else bothers him for the rest of his classes. The boy prefers it this way.
There are thirty-two students in one of the elementary-school classrooms next door. Of these thirty-two, one giggles when she spots me.
“Is there something funny you would like to share with the class, Sandra?” The teacher does not sound happy.
“There’s a pretty girl at the back of the room, just standing there,” the girl objects, pointing straight at me. It is the other students’ turn to laugh.
“Don’t make up stories, Sandra. Pay attention,” the teacher says, and the girl obeys, though she cranes her head to look in my direction whenever the woman doesn’t see, still grinning at me.
Soon the teacher leaves, and the yellow-haired, eighteen-year-old girl from before takes her place. As part of the lesson, she wheels in a large cart.
“Mrs. Donahue’s still out on maternity leave, so it looks like you guys will be stuck with me for another week,” she says with a grin. “I promised last time we’ll be conducting our own experiments in static electricity, right?” The students sit up, interested.
The tattooed boy is done with his own classes for the day, and at that moment he is passing through the hallway, where he stops to watch his cousin at work. The young woman sees him and smiles, and the boy lifts a hand in greeting. She gestures at him to enter the classroom.
The little girl, Sandra, is the first to see the tattooed boy. The smile slowly slides off her face.
“This is my cousin, Tarquin Halloway. Say hi to Tarquin.” A chorus of “Hi, Tarquin’s” echoes around the classroom. “He’ll be assisting me in this experiment.” Tarquin shakes his head, waving his hands to show just how terrible he thinks the idea is. “Don’t be shy, Tarquin. Class, would you like Tarquin to help out today?”
Another choruses of yeses from the class, and a whimpered “no” from the girl called Sandra, whom no one hears.
The boy does not know which is worse: social activity, however brief, or turning his cousin down and losing face in a classroom full of ten-year-olds. In the end, he sighs and opts for the former.
The young teacher brings out several light bulbs and dozens of combs. The boy places his backpack on her desk.
“I’ve wrapped all the bulbs in transparent tape because I know some of you are all fingers and thumbs—yes, Bradley, that means you.” More students laugh. “I don’t have enough light bulbs for everyone, but I do have enough combs, so I’ll be dividing you all into groups of four.”
The students troop up to take the light bulbs from the cart, until only one remains on the teacher’s table. The teacher’s assistant gives each student a plain silver comb. “Now, we’re going to need absolute darkness. Shut all the windows while I turn off the lights.” This is done promptly, and from inside the dark there are whispers and giggles, until a flashlight switches on. The young teacher sets it at the edge of the table, light trained up at the ceiling. I begin to count. One bulb, two.“This is the best part. Bend your head my way, Tark.” She picks up a comb and runs it briskly through Tarquin’s hair. The boy looks resigned to his fate. The students giggle again.
“You can rub the comb against your sweater or anything fuzzy if you’d like, but make sure to do it for as long as you can and let it charge up.” Some of the students copy her movements; others all
but scrub their combs against their shirts, switching hands when the first one grows tired. Three, four.
“Ta-da!” the young woman says, and taps her comb against the light bulb. There is a faint sputter, and inside the bulb, little lights begin to dance briefly at its center before winking out, like small handmade fireflies. Five, six.
There are several oohs and aahs, and more bulbs begin to spark and twitch around the room as students press their combs closer. Seven, eight.
Nine.
Nine bulbs, all bearing strange little fireflies.“That’s how normal electricity works, too, but to a much greater effect, of course. Otherwise, you’ll have to keep brushing your hair thousands of times just to watch a half-hour episode of your favorite show.”
No nines.
Not-nine,Nevernine. The girl named Sandra eyes me strangely.“Whenever you do things like comb through dry hair, or wear socks and shuffle your feet along a really fuzzy carpet, you generate what’s called static. Remember what we talked about last time,
about electrons? One way to move electrons from one location to another is by—”
NO NINES!The teacher’s table rattles, like something has taken hold of its legs and is knocking them hard against the floor.