First Chapter of Untitled Book

Just minutes to go on the last day of school and Jonah was out in the hallway with Mrs. Dingle for about the hundredth time this year.
"Jonah," she said, wiping her chalky hands on her navy blue jumper, leaving ghost-like white marks, "I'm just so disappointed with the way things have gone this year. You're not a bad boy by any means, but I can't let you behave the way you do. You can't be so disrespectful. Asking me in front of the class if I wear a jumper when my family goes to a nudist colony. That's just mean for the sake of a laugh."
"I'm trying to be funny for the sake of a laugh, actually."
"Right there. That's what I mean. I'm trying to talk to you person to person, and you have to turn it into a joke."
He had been serious, but either being serious and having kids and teachers think he was joking or kidding around and being taken seriously had caused most of his trouble in life. Either way, he spent a lot of time in hallways talking with teachers or in offices talking with the principal.
"You've got a lot of potential, Jonah, but you're not living up to it. The future is a big place, but you have to do something to get where you want to be."
"I know, Mrs. Dingle. I'll try harder next year."
"It's not just your effort, it's your goals. Trying harder to be the class clown and to avoid doing your work won't result in success. It'll just be more of the same."
Whenever teachers talked like this, they got a soft, wet look in their eyes, like they were saying something new, something Jonah hadn't heard every day of life. That's the problem with having "potential," whatever that is, it's just another way of adults saying they're disappointed. Sometimes he wished he were retarded, so people would be happy he didn't drool or grab his crotch. Instead, he heard words like dismayed or baffled or chagrined or dissatisfied.
Luckily, the bell rang and he could leave school and shut the door on sixth grade. He'd set a record for days suspended by a 12-year-old, eight days altogether. Mr. Levine, the principal, had informed him of his accomplishment, but he did so with sorrow rather than pride.
He waited by the back door for his friends, so they could walk home together. Unfortunately, before Scott and Gary got there, Bradley Hocker showed up.
"Hi, Jonah," he said in his soft, almost whispery voice. His hand reached up toward his bright red helmet with the Ranger Rick sticker and he scratched his head through one of the holes. "You wanna walk home with me?"
"I was waiting on some other guys, actually."
"Scott and Gary, I suppose," Bradley said with a sniff, like maybe somebody had farted. "Can I walk with you guys?"
"Sure. I guess."
"Jonah, can I ask you a question?"
"I guess."
"How come you don't like me any more?"
That was the kind of question that contained its own answer. Guys don’t ask that question. Guys don't talk about that stuff. Guys do stuff; they don't have conversations about feelings.
"I like you okay, Bradley. You just don't like the same stuff as me."
"I know. I just wish things could go back to the way they used to be."
Jonah thought that sentence would fit in on "As The World Turns" or "General Hospital." In response, he hocked up the biggest lugey he could muster and spat at Bradley's left foot. Missed by an inch.
"Ewww, gross," Bradley said, which was just the wrong thing to say.
Bradley wore a helmet all the time. He had been in a car accident about a year before, with his mom and dad talking in the front seat, right before they drove off the road. Nobody was hurt. Even their car didn’t need to be fixed. But from that point on, Bradley’s mom made him wear a helmet, even watching TV.
Before the Cilleys moved in, Bradley had been his best friend, even though Jonah didn’t really like him much. Oh, he had a cool tree house that his dad built using some fancy architectural plans from a magazine, but he wasn't allowed to go up in it. He also had a canoe docked down behind his house on Beard’s Creek, and his mom didn’t mind if Jonah went out in it, but Bradley had to stay on dry land. He even had a mountain bike, but he was only allowed to ride up and down their long driveway, back and forth, like a guinea pig trapped in a cage. And wearing a helmet.
"Hey, Jonah," said Gary. "I knew I recognized that smell. Hey, Bradley.
"With that schnozola of yours, you can probably smell a Chinaman's farts," Jonah said. "And you probably get off on it."
"Hi," was all Bradley could muster.
"I got all A's except for a D in math, a C in English and a couple of C pluses," said Scott. "I'll leave off that last part when I tell people, though."
The boys walked down Drag Hill behind the junior high. All summer long early in the morning, like one or two, beer-drunk high school boys would line their cars up at the bottom, kill their lights to avoid detection and race to the top, the driver in the left-hand lane knowing that if, perchance, a car came down the hill, this would be the last ten seconds of his life. Jonah couldn't wait to be old enough to distill that much fear and excitement into the flash of an eye.
"Hey, Jonah, did you ask your mom about going camping?" said Gary, the wind blowing back his Army fatigue shirt, purchased at the head shop downtown, and carrying the ludicrous name Zybitzky on the nametag. Gary was both big and fat, almost six feet and 250 pounds, while Scott was even shorter than Jonah, probably five feet flat, and maybe 120.
They didn't look anything like brothers, what with Gary being dark-skinned and hairy, even on his chest and back and Scott being redheaded and fair-skinned. Jonah looked more like a brother to either of them than they did to each other. Gary and Scott were both 14, but they were what are called Irish twins, because their mother got pregnant with Scott about a month or two after Gary was born. Jonah would picture her nursing Gary while Dr. Cilley was banging her from behind, and then get kind of sick to his stomach. Much of his free time was spent envisioning what his friends' parents looked like when they were doing it, or what he would look like if he were doing his friends' moms. It was his hobby.
"She said she'd have to talk to my dad, which I think means yes."
"You guys are going camping?" asked Bradley. "Where?"
"Out on the Lamprey River," Gary said. "By the railroad trestle."
"I've heard it's dangerous in those woods," said Bradley. "My dad said he thinks there's somebody living out there. He was with his forestry students, and one of them thought she saw a man following them."
"Well," said Scott, "We'll be the men living out there for the next three days. We'll head out after dinner tonight and spend two nights out there, being free men. Jumping off the trestle and dropping forty feet into the river."
"That sounds dangerous and kind of scary," said Bradley, further demonstrating his inarticulateness in the language of boys. "Cool," "bitching" or "a blast" were the appropriate response to an adventure. Not scary. Never scary.
"It'll put some hair on our balls," said Jonah. "That's for sure."
"Or in your case on your pussy," said Scott, punching Jonah's arms.
"Fuck you," Jonah said in a singsong voice.
"See what I mean?" said Scott. "It takes a guy and a girl to fuck, not two guys."
"Oh, I know, you're the real fuckmaster, aren't you?"
Scott was older on paper, but way younger than Jonah inside. Scott still thought girls were gross, but Jonah was interested in getting to know a few.
His first suspension had been because of a girl. In October in science class he’d begged Carol Tillock to go to the fall dance with him. Before that, he'd never said anything to her other than, “What page are we on?” She turned him down, with a sneer and a laugh. Instead of accepting defeat, though, he went over to the aquarium in the corner of the room and used the little net to nab a sea minnow. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he walked up to Carol.
“Do you like animals?” he demanded.
“Go away, you creep!”
“Because if you won’t go to that dance with me, this little fish is gonna get it.”
“Gross!”
“Last chance, Carol,” he taunted. "What’s it gonna be?”
She turned and walked away. He lifted the flopping fish over his mouth, opened up and dropped it in. Without biting, he swallowed it.
Two day’s suspension for disrupting the classroom environment and cruelty to animals. It was the second part that pissed him off. Mrs. Andrews, the science teacher, had tuna fish for lunch every day. Jonah knew. He'd had to smell her breath from 12:18 to 1:04 all year. All Jonah had done was eliminate the can. He had been environmentally friendly.
"Stop arguing," said Bradley. "It's the first day of summer vacation. We should be happy."
"Okay, Mommy," said Jonah, with a sneer. "Ya know, even Mister Rogers farts sometimes, and probably swears."
"I just don't like fighting," said Bradley.
Bradley was an only child, which Jonah's mom said makes all the difference. Jonah had fought tooth and nail with his older brother Sean, before Sean joined the Army and went to Vietnam. Fighting with a brother or a friend was one of the best things a kid had going for him.
President Nixon had gotten elected a year ago, promising “peace with dignity,” whatever that means. Well, what it meant to Jonah was that Sean was now carrying a radio with the signal corps in Vietnam, and he was stuck here in New Hampshire. At least he had the Cilleys to bicker with.
"Why don't we each say one thing we're happy about?" said Bradley, suggesting the kind of solution girls the world over enjoy.
“I’m just glad I can’t get suspended from summer vacation,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Scott. “I know what you mean.”
“What kind of dumb-ass thing is that to say?” I demanded. “You’ve never once been suspended from school, but now you’re trying to jump onto my delinquent image by saying, ‘Yeah.’ You couldn’t get suspended, Scott, on account of everyone knows you’re one step short of retarded. They don’t suspend mouth breathers like you. For chrissake, you move your lips when you watch TV.”
“Shut up,” said Scott.
“Ooooh,” I mocked. “'Shut up.’ Good one.”
“At least I don’t get suspended.”
“Then don’t freaking say, ‘Yeah.’”
"Shut up, you guys," rumbled Gary. "You're getting on my nerves. I just want to go fishing."
Gary was going to be an ichthyologist, so he knew a lot about fish. Jonah figured he just wanted to sit around all day fishing. He also talked about becoming a priest, another job that doesn’t involve any heavy lifting. He and Scott and their parents went to church once a week, usually Saturday afternoons to get it out of the way.
Jonah's father’ was Jewish and his mother was nothing, so Jonah thought of God like a wooden farm cart, something that used to be important to people, but had long since been replaced by newer and better technology.
Still, religion was the reason for his second suspension.
At Christmas, his mom made a couple dozen sugar cookies in the shapes of crosses. On the way to school, he brushed the sugar off them and got out the can of Cheez Whiz he’d snuck out of the house. By the time the party started at nine o’clock, he had created a new taste sensation—Cheezit Christs.
Two day’s suspension.
"Bradley," Gary said, "Do you wanna join us? Go camping with us?"
While Jonah felt contempt for his former, friend, both Scott and Gary would periodically reach out to Bradley, who always seemed to view the offers as candy from strangers.
"I don't think my mom would let me," he said. "I know she'd never let me jump off the trestle. Anyway, it sounds dangerous, sleeping in the woods where there might be a fugitive lunatic."
"What are you going to do instead," sneered Jonah, "stay home and polish your helmet?"
"It hurts my feelings when you say things like that," said Bradley, leading with his chin. The other three boys knew the proper response was a round of "Fuck yous." This was in stunningly bad taste, like telling a guy you wanted to bang his sister.
When they reached the cul de sac that was Beard's Landing, Bradley and his hurt feelings continued down the street, while Jonah, Scott and Gary went up the Cilley's driveway to draw up lists of what they'd need for three days in the woods. They offered the departing Bradley no farewell acknowledgement, and he trudged down the street, his face hanging down as if someone had cut his spinal cord.
"What a loser," Jonah said.
"I feel bad for him," Gary said. "He's like a girl trapped in a boy's body. That's gotta be some lonely space to farm."
"I guess," said Jonah, jealous of Gary's generous and expansive nature. Even though Gary knew the schoolboy code, he could rise above it. Rise above it and float. Jonah just seemed to lack that glowing respect for humanity that Gary emanated in waves. His last suspension showed that.
In April, Mr. Hodgdon’s social studies class.
“Mr. Hodgdon,” Jonah asked after raising his hand and being recognized. “Could you do me a favor?”
“What’s that, Jonah?”
“Could you give me back my socks?”
“What are you talking about? Why would I have your socks?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have them here. I left them under your bed last night while you were out bowling. Tell your wife thanks for me.”
Four days. School psychologist.
Summer at last. Two months of peace.
Or war.

Durham, New Hampshire, is a college town, where if you don’t teach, you’re basically nothing. Bradley’s dad was a professor of forestry, and their family used to take Jonah up into the White Mountains sometimes when Dr. Hocker was doing research. Now, though, Bradley stays home with his mom and his helmet.
Doctor Cilley was a real doctor, a physician. When you live in a place where everybody makes their living through the work of their minds, even Dr. Cilley was kind of suspect, because he actually used his hands in his work.
Jonah's dad made dentures, which made his family a little bit less than nothing.
Jonah's parents promised him living on Beard’s Landing would be great. There were these ten lots and they were the first family to buy one and build a house on the little peninsula, this little strip of land going out into Beards Creek, which is an estuary, which means it's both salt and fresh water mixed. Jonah's father says the most interesting stuff happens at nature's borders, like the edge of a forest where it changes into a meadow or the base of a mountain, when it's just starting to rise.
Jonah had lived here since he was eight, though, so seeing horse-shoe crabs living with muskrats and red-wing blackbirds just seemed normal to him.
It's like the old joke where a guy goes to a doctor who asks him about his morning routine.
"Well, I get up, pee, throw up, then brush my teeth."
"Wait a second," the doctor says. "You throw up every morning?"
"Sure," the guy says. "Doesn't everybody?"
Jonah already lived there three years by the time Scott and Gary moved in. Before them, there was just Bradley for kids on the street. And his eight-year-old sister, Jennifer, who doesn't really count for anything. I mean, she barely even knows she's alive. And Sean. Before the Army.
Then the Hockers, Bradley’s family, moved in across the street. Jonah's parents said the other eight lots would sell, and soon there’d be a ton of kids for him to play with. That was their version of peace with dignity, because Charlie White, the developer of the lots, got caught in some kind of scandal and went bankrupt and killed himself. His widow and his kids and the people he owed money to all fought over who got what until the lawyers collected enough there wasn't much left to fight over, and so none of the lots were sold until last fall. For a year, there was just Jonah and eight-year-old Jennifer and Bradley on this long strip into a creek.
Then, the previous fall, the Cilleys moved in and everything changed. For one thing, Scott and Gary were guy guys, not girly guys like Bradley. Almost from the start, Jonah had hit it off with the Cilleys, as they explored the woods stretching on for miles behind their houses. With Bradley, Jonah had never thought about looking for muskrats or Colonial treasure at the falling-down house foundation or pretending to be Indians on a scalping mission.
The boys were lounging in the Cilley's back yard, each of them lying on the freshly mown grass.
"I've prepared a list for each of you," Gary said. "Look it over and make sure you have everything you need.
Jonah glanced down at his list. It seemed complete.
"Besides our personal supply and fishing stuff," Gary continued, "Each of us needs to provide a few other things. I'll bring along the tent, a cooking pan, a first-aid kit and wax-dipped matches."
"Why wax dipped?" asked Jonah.
"You dip kitchen matches in wax," Gary explained, "so that even if they get wet, they'll still light. The friction on the striker melts away the wax when you light it."
"Pretty cool," whistled Jonah.
"Scott, you're in charge of food. We'll be able to eat fish, but we need other stuff. I've put together a separate list for you. Make sure and snag the stuff from the kitchen. If we're missing anything, let me know and we'll buy it on the way."
"What do you want me to get?" asked Jonah.
"You're in charge of firepower," Gary said.
"I thought you were handling fire."
"Not fire. Firepower," Gary said. "Armaments."
Jonah closed his mouth while his eyes widened.
"Bradley may be a little timid," Gary said, "but he's right to be concerned about some guy living out in the woods. We'd be stupid not to be able to protect ourselves. Jonah, I want you to get your old man's revolver and five or six rounds of ammo. Make sure the damn thing's not loaded and keep the bullets separated from the gun. This is for real, not like The Plan."
While serving the third day of his April suspension, Jonah had discovered a revolver in his garage, hidden in a white plastic food-service bucket and covered with rags. He pulled it out slowly, amazed by its heft. Jonah had gotten a bb gun when he was seven, followed by an air-powered pellet gun at nine and a .22 rifle for his eleventh birthday. He had killed a few squirrels and a rabbit with the .22, and even gutted them out with his father's help and eaten them. It was conceivable you could kill a man with a .22, although it would probably take a few shots.
When he held up the revolver, though, and sighted for the first time down a real gun barrel, Jonah felt he was at the nexus of power in the universe. He was king of all he surveyed. He was Shiva, the Destroyer. Carefully putting the revolver back on top of the scattered bullets, he covered it with the rags and came up with The Plan.
At dinner that night, he was as casual as could be.
"I was cleaning up in the garage this afternoon," he said to his father, "and I found something pretty weird."
"Pretty weird is how I'd describe the idea of you cleaning anything without being asked 20 times first," said his mother with a smile. "I was pleased when I got home to see you'd actually done as we asked.
"Was it Chatty Cathy?" asked Jennifer, referring to a talking doll he and the Cilleys had summarily executed with his .22 for the crime of collaborating with the enemy, either the Confederates or the Nazis, he couldn't remember. Her last words, taken down for posterity, were: "I'm wet. Change me."After 15 shots, Chatty Cathy had been nothing but shards in the woods, and the boys hadn't even bothered to clean up after the event.
"Nope. I found a gun, a revolver, in a white bucket, covered with rags."
"Oh, that," said his father, putting down his fork and taking a sip of iced coffee. "Before your grandfather moved to California, he gave me that old thing. I hate to throw it away, but I don't really have any use for it."
"Oh," Jonah replied.
"Now that you're done with this suspension," his mother said, "can you promise us you'll stay out of trouble?"
"I can promise I'll try," he said. "That's the best I can do."
That night in bed, Jonah plotted the next day's events.