Vernon God Little

'Ma'am, I was behind the gym, I didn't even see it happen.'

'You said you were in math.'

'I said it was our math period.'

She looks at me sideways. 'You take math behind the gym?'

'No.'

'So why weren't you in class?'

'I ran an errand for Mr Nuckles, and got kind of – held up.'

'Mr Nuckles?'

'Our physics teacher.'

'He teaches math?'

'No.'

'G-hrrr

. This area's looking real gray, Mister Little. Damn gray.'

You don't know how bad I want to be Jean-Claude Van Damme. Ram her fucken gun up her ass, and run away with a panty model. But just look at me: clump of lawless brown hair, the eyelashes of a camel. Big ole puppy-dog features like God made me through a fucken magnifying glass. You know right away my movie's the one where I puke on my legs, and they send a nurse to interview me instead.

'Ma'am, I have witnesses.'

'Is that right.'

'Mr Nuckles saw me.'

'And who else?' She prods the dry bones in her box.

'A bunch of people.'

'Is that right. And where are those people now?'

I try to think where those people are. But the memory doesn't come to my brain, it comes to my eye as a tear that shoots from my lash like a soggy bullet. I sit stunned.

'Exactly,' says Gurie. 'Not real gregarious, are they? So Vernon – let me ask you two simple questions. One: are you involved with drugs?'

'Uh – no.'

She chases the pupils of my eyes across the wall, then herds them back to hers. 'Two: do you possess a firearm?'

'No.'

Her lips tighten. She pulls her phone from a holster on her belt, and suspends one finger over a key, eyeing me all the while. Then she jabs the key. The theme from Mission : Impossible chirps on a phone up the hall. 'Sheriff?' she says. 'You might want to attend the interview room.'

This wouldn't happen if she had more meat in her box. The dismay of no more meat made her seek other comforts, that's something I just learned. Now I'm the fucken meat.

After a minute, the door opens. A strip of buffalo leather scrapes into the room, tacked around the soul of Sheriff Porkorney. 'This the boy?' he asks. Like, fucken no, it's Dolly Parton. 'Cooperational, Vaine, is he?'

'Can't say he is, sir.'

'Give me a moment with him.' He closes the door behind him.

Gurie retracts her tit-fat across the table, turning to the corner like it makes her absent. The sheriff breathes a rod of decay at my face.

'Bothered folk, son, outside. Bothered folk are quick to judge.'

'I wasn't even there, sir – I have witnesses.'

He raises an eyebrow to Curie's corner. One of her eyes flicks back, 'We're following it up, Sheriff.'

Pulling a clean bone from the Bar-B-Chew Barn

box, Porkorney moves to the picture on the door, and traces a line around Jesus' face, his bangs of blood, his forsaken eyes. Then he curls a gaze at me. 'He talked to you – didn't he.'

'Not about this, sir.'

'You were close, though, you admit that.'

'I didn't know he was going to kill anybody.'

The sheriff turns to Gurie. 'Examine Little's clothes, did you?'

'My partner did,' she says.

'Undergarments?'

'Regular Y-fronts.'

Porkorney thinks a moment, chews his lip. 'Check the back of 'em, did you, Vaine? You know certain type of practices can loosen a man's pitoota.'

'They seemed clean, Sheriff.'

I know where this is fucken headed. Typical of where I live that nobody will come right out and say it. I try to muster some control. 'Sir, I ain't gay, if that's what you mean. We were friends since childhood, I didn't know how he'd turn out…'

A no-brand smile grows under the sheriff's moustache. 'Regular boy then, are you, son? You like your cars, and your guns? And your – girls?'

'Sure.'

'Okay, all right – let's see if it's true. How many offices does a girl have that you can get more'n one finger into?'

'Offices?'

'Cavities – holes.'

'Uh – two?'

'Wrong.' The sheriff puffs up like he just discovered fucken relativity.

Fuck. I mean, how am I supposed to know? I got my fingertip into a hole once, don't ask me which one. It left memories of the Mini-Mart loading-bay after a storm; tangs of soggy cardboard and curdled milk. Somehow I don't think that's what your porn industry is talking about. Not like this other girl I know called Taylor Figueroa.

Sheriff Porkorney tosses his bone into the box, nodding to Gurie. 'Get it on record, then hold him.' He creaks out of the room.

'Vaine?' calls an officer through the door. 'Fibers.'

Gurie re-forms into limbs. 'You heard the sheriff. I'll be back with another officer to take your statement.'

When the rubbing of her thighs has faded, I crane my nostrils for any vague comfort; a whiff of warm toast, a spearmint breath. But all I whiff, over the sweat and the barbecue sauce, is school – the kind of pulse bullyboys give off when they spot a quiet one, a wordsmith, in a corner. The scent of lumber being cut for a fucken cross.

two

Mom's best friend is called Palmyra. Everybody calls her Pam. She's fatter than Mom, so Mom feels good around her. Mom's other friends are slimmer. They're not her best friends.