Gravestone by Travis Thrasher

terrorize you. Most students would have backed off, but I get this feeling that you’re not a ‘back off’ sort of guy.”
    “No. Sir.” I emphasize sir in a way that I might spit out tobacco. My fear is settling in and turning over into something else.
    It’s the same man I heard that night of Jocelyn’s death. I’m certain.
    “Gus doesn’t realize that you don’t mess around with desperation. You can’t. Eyes are watching him, and so far, he’s been quite stupid, haven’t you, boy?”
    “Yes, sir,” Gus says.
    There.
    The way he said boy.
    That’s it.
    My skin itches with bumps, and I feel the back of my neck. It’s wet with sweat.
    “I still have a reputation to keep up. If Gus is out of line then that means I’m out of line, and I can’t have that. But you, Chris, Christopher, whatever and whoever you claim to be—you need to understand that you can’t wave a red flag at a bull. Do you understand?”
    I glance at him and shake my head.
    “My son—my wonderful if sometimes extremely arrogant and ignorant only son—is a bull. God bless him. I love that about him. He is so much his mother, though he will never know because she’s no longer alive. But she was a bull, and he takes after her. And what do you not do with bulls?”
    “Wave red flags at them?” I say.
    “You don’t taunt them in any way. You stay away from them.”
    “That’s always been my plan.”
    “Keep it your plan, Chris. And you’ll just make it to the end of the school year.”
    We’re not far away from school. The roads are a little better closer to downtown Solitary, but not much.
    Nothing else is said for the rest of the drive. The SUV pulls up to the stairs leading into the school, and Gus gets out without saying good-bye to his father. If it really is his father. I’m about ready to get out when I feel a strong grip on my wrist.
    “Chris, hold on for a moment.”
    I wince even though I really try not to. I don’t want to show fear or hurt or pain in front of this guy.
    “Remember this, Chris. Remember my words. And remember that when I tell somebody something, I mean it. You do not want to mess with me.”
    I nod.
    “I meant every word I said to you. You’re on very shaky ground right now.”
    He lets go, and I take a breath as the world darkens a bit. It’s hazy, and my head is dizzy.
    “Have a wonderful day at school,” he tells me with a salesman’s smile. The phony smile of someone who wants to eat your soul.

23. Some Kind of Misery
     
    “Come on, Chicago! My grandmother can run faster than you, and she’s dead!”
    Good to know that the track coach is keeping with the Solitary theme of Abuse Chris at Whatever Cost.
    I’m finishing up a two-mile jog on a track that is still icy and that rests on the other side of the hill that Harrington High sleeps on. This is the first football field I’ve ever seen with a line of bleachers dug into the incline. Right now it’s loaded with crystal land mines, the kind that’ll make you slip and break your neck—not that Coach Brinks seems to care anything about that.
    That’s one reason I’m at the back of the pack today. The other is that sleep deprivation does not help when you’re running a timed two-mile for the first time in a long time. I never was good at long distances, and I told Ray that. Of course, he’s leading this group of ten students, most who I’ve never met during my brief time in Solitary.
    When I finally cross the finish line, the man standing there with a timer glares at me. He resembles a ruler, tall and thin and ready to whack you on the back of your butt.
    “Chicago, get over here,” he yells.
    It’s still cold, and I’m wondering why we’re running outside.
    “What do you run again?”
    “The hurdles.”
    “That was not the most impressive two-mile I’ve ever seen.”
    “Sorry—I haven’t been running much.”
    If you don’t include running away from ghosts and evil people.
    “Your time makes me wonder if you’ve