Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

Again, no matter how things played out, which direction he chose, the boy was screwed. Ergo, it was only natural to play both sides. Grab as much as he could.

By the same token, Kenny was waiting, seeking some sort of acknowledgment from Newell, searching for what might even have been forgiveness.

But not giving someone what he wanted, that came with its own charge. And not giving it to him precisely because he wanted that thing, this had its own propulsion. Spite came with the taste of your own blood.

A taste to which Newell was not accustomed.

But maybe could grow into.

He leaned down to the bottom troughs, where all the loose treats were — gum squares wrapped in the colors of the American flag, gelatinous animals sealed in plastic. Newell pretended to examine a few small, dense cubes of chocolate, then put them back down in the wrong bins. Discreetly, he checked different areas of the store. Moving so as to be out of view of the counter dorks, he positioned his back to shield his actions from the overhead glass mirror. In one fluid motion, Newell reached into a bin and scarfed up a handful of Old Glory gum singles. A deft move deposited them into his front pocket.

Newell waited for something to happen but nothing did: the scruffy guy was still loitering by the microwave; the frat guys were shouting about one another's tastes in brewski; and the dwarf was on that counter, kicking his legs and showing his biker magazine to the register blob.

Kenny's chest, narrow and blurred, rose and fell in the elevated mirror. Virtual Kenny rubbed the back of his neck, stared down like he was gathering his thoughts. Like he was gathering himself. Which was bogus, Kenny of all people rendering judgment, feeling disappointed, neglected, whatever the fuck, just total and utter bullshit —especially when Kenny had been the one who had ruined it all, Kenny had been the one who'd grabbed a place that friends were not supposed to grab. Only now it was Newell who wasn't able to share in the victory of his little gum-square caper, Newell who wasn't even able to look at Kenny, Newell feeling all guilty and bad, hurting Kenny's feelings ?

And how much more fucked was it when that sulking molester bastard walked right past the candy aisle?

Kenny picked up a clear snub-nosed bottle of water from a promotional display. He examined the label and took the bottle with him toward the fountain drink station. He ignored Newell and the whole deal messed with Newell's head, messed with it bad, and he looked at the bins and candies, and every single item was stupid and made him want to retch, and at the same time, each candy looked hellsa lots better than what he had in his pocket. Newell picked up a Charms Blow Pop and examined it and put it down. He did the same thing with one of those jewel candy necklaces. Now Newell sneaked a glance at the clerk and the midget. A kid just standing there in the candy aisle all this time and not choosing anything? If Newell was behind the counter, he'd be suspicious. Then again, if he was an adult, he wouldn't be working the midnight shift at the 7-Eleven.

Right now his mom was bent out of shape and coming up with plans involving some sort of military school. His dad was playing down his mom's concern, making excuses, responding to her in a way that straddled the border between condescension and insult.

From one side of the store a cooler door slammed. From another, the microwave screeched, the high beep that means it's done.

If right after losing his cell phone, Newell had called its phone number, he could have tracked the thing down. Why hadn't he thought of calling sooner? He wouldn't have this problem. Wouldn't even be in this situation.

Then again, if he somehow slipped away from Kenny right now and called, even if the person on the other end was willing to give his phone back, he'd still have to go and get it, and how was he supposed to do that?

Newell was thinking about the possibility of calling his cellular phone tomorrow, and whether he could somehow recover the phone without his parents ever knowing, when he heard a familiar voice, matter-of-fact: “You charged me for the water too, right?”

The boy's head jerked as if on a swivel, toward the sight at the register kiosk, and who was standing to the side of the dwarf, positioned politely, so as not to get in the way of those swinging little legs. A cold chill ran down the back of Newell's neck. He watched Kenny receive his change. “Great,” Kenny said. “You have a nice night, too.”

From the counter, Kenny picked up a large red cardboard cup, and took a sip out of the zany straw. Now he wearily turned so Newell saw his profile, long tangles in front of Kenny's face as always.

From where Newell was standing it was impossible that Kenny couldn't see him right back. But Kenny did not address Newell in any fashion. Rather, he bypassed the candy aisle completely for a second time. He headed toward the mart's front door.

The prospect of abandonment burgeoned. Newell's fear was delicious, tingling. He was going to be left here.

But no. Kenny idled in front of an unoccupied video poker machine. He placed his soda cup upright in the crook between his chest and his upper arm, began sifting through his change, then moved a hand into his right pocket, his elbows beginning a slow, played-out version of the bizarre chickenlike flailing routine that Newell had seen so many times. This time it ended with Kenny scavenging a dollar from his pocket, then stopping, picking at his chin.

Now his former friend looked up from the terminal and toward the boy at the mouth of the candy aisle.

“I'll be outside. Whenever you're ready. Don't take forever.”

And then the laser chime system; the door closing behind Kenny; the night curling around the back side of posters for twenty-four packs of cola, appearing in the wall of Plexiglas windows with all the color and depth of a vacant television screen. An uneventful, almost disappointing normalcy rushed into whatever space had been created by Kenny's absence. Newell became aware of the scruffy guy unwrapping his burrito to find a steaming mess; the indignant and contrary voices of the dwarf and the counter guy; the frat boys making their way to the register.

If Newell wanted, this was his chance. All he had to do was go to any of them and say that he'd been touched in a bad place by the bad man.

Candy bars were stacked inside flimsy cardboard boxes. Significantly more bars remained in the box with Hershey's milk chocolate with almonds than in the neighboring box (Hershey's milk chocolate). Next to these, Newell saw, were Nestlés. From what Newell could see, a lot more Nestlé chocolate bars were left than Hershey's bars. Probably this meant Hershey's bars were a lot more popular than Nestlés; although it occurred to Newell that it was equally possible that Nestlé candy bars were way better; anyone who paid attention to chocolates knew how much better a Nestlé bar was, everybody loved Nestlé bars, they were flying off the racks, every day they had to be replaced. Newell was not allowed to have chocolate, though, so he couldn't speak to the accuracy of this hypothesis.

When your formative years had been spent with you not being allowed to partake in eating chocolate, you ended up with an exaggerated interest in matters such as this. Although, actually, such an interest might turn out to be useful, especially when you got caught in a no-win situation. For example the one Newell was in.

With what Newell's father would have called an excess of sass, a case of beer was set down on the counter. One of the frat guys reacted to something with a comedic double take, smearing laughter over his buddies. This distracted Newell. His attention turned to the sight of the frat guys taking out wallets and pooling their money and showing proper identification. Newell noticed the scruffy guy was among them. He also saw that the dwarf had stopped kicking his legs, and sat motionless, his face crimson.