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ing vigil over the still chest； the blotted…out eyes； the drying mouth。 At the first tinge of dawn the dead twin would begin to move； and the living twin would lie down and stretch himself taut on the mattress； his skin already crackling on his bones； his hair straggling like grass across his bare hollow shoulders。 One day 。 。 。 one day 。 。 。 One day their eyes were open； but neither of them moved。〃
Ghost finished in a rush of breath； whiskey and fear breath； upset all over again。 Steve kept hold of Ghost's hand。 Ghost's fingers twitched。
〃Jesus； Ghost；〃 Steve said。 〃Jeeesus； Ghost。〃
Chapter 2
The last dying days of summer； fall ing on fast。 A cold night； the first of the season； a change from the usual bland Maryland climate。 Cold； thought the boy； his mind felt numb。 The trees he could see through his bedroom window were tall charcoal sucks； shivering； afraid of the wind or only trying to stand against it。 Every tree was alone out there。 The animals were alone； each in its hole； in its thin fur； and anything that got hit on the road tonight would die alone。 Before morning； he thought； its blood would freeze in the cracks of the asphalt。
On his razor…scarred； wax…scabbed desk before him lay a picture postcard。 The design on its front was multicolored and abstract。 There were splotches of deep lipstick pink； streaks of sea green and storm gray； flecks of gold embossed in thin bright leaves。 He picked up his fountain pen with the graceful heart…shaped nib； dipped its delicate tip into his bottle of ink （pen and ink having been stolen from the art room at school）； and wrote a few spidery lines on the roes…sage side of the postcard。
Then the boy stretched his legs under the desk and with the bare toes of both feet grasped the bottle he had hidden there。 The liquor inside was a darker amber than he was used to； and when he took a swig； there was a sharp taste of smoke behind the familiar musky burn that hurt his throat。 He swallowed the whiskey； licked his lips to wet them with liquor…essence and his clear spit。 Then he picked up the postcard； brought it to his mouth； gave it a whiskey tongue…kiss； kissed it as hungrily as he had ever dreamed of kissing the sweetest； richest mouth。 And he picked up the pen again and signed his name： Nothing。
His capital N and the loop of his g swooped like kites' tails。 His 't' was a dagger thrusting down。 He took another swig of his parents' Johnnie Walker and realized he could already feel the familiar half…queasy anticipation of drunkenness in his stomach； the floating dizziness in his head。 He was getting drunk on two shots of whiskey。 Evidently the shit from his parents' liquor cabinet was stronger than the shit his friends poured into empty Pepsi bottles and passed around in cars going too fast on the highway outside town。
He looked at the postcard； frowned at the signature； Nothing drying dull and black； wishing he'd signed it in blood。 Maybe it wasn't too late。 With the pen's tip he jabbed at his wrist until a bead of blood appeared； bright red against his pale thin skin； with a prick of light from the lamp shining in it。 He signed his name again； Nothing in blood； tracing over the black letters with scarlet。 The ink ran into the blood； and the whole thing dried rusty brown…black； the color of an old scab。 The results did not altogether disappoint him。
His blood made a trickling path down the inside of his forearm； staining the fine invisible hairs； covering some of his old scars； leaving some of their razor…tracery exposed。 He licked the blood away。 It smudged his lips sticky； and he smiled at himself in the window's reflection。 The night…Nothing in the glass smiled back。 The boy in the window had the same long sheaf of dyed black hair； the same pointed chin； the same almond…shaped dark eyes…but his smile was colder； far colder。
Nothing turned off the light and watched the reflection of his bedroom click out of existence； watched the cold night fill the panes。 He lay on his bed and watched the stars and planets glowing on his ceiling behind the layers of black fishnet he had hung up。 He'd painted them there； the rings of Saturn lopsided； the constellations crazed。
He felt his room gather itself in the dark and stand darkly around him； not frightening but surely full of power。 He was never certain what was here。 Cigarettes； he thought。 Flowers from the graveyard； and that bone； that damned bone； his friend Sioux wouldn't say where it came from。 Books； most of them stolen from thrift…shop shelves where he left only his finger marks in the dust。 Horror stories； thin books of poems。 Dylan Thomas； of course； and others。 A copy of Look Homeward； Angel…on the cover the stone； the leaf； the unfound door； and the angel with its expression of soft stone idiocy。 A lily drooped from the angel's hand； dead in stone。 Dust。 His old stuffed animals。 A clay skeleton his friend Laine had brought him from the Day of the Dead festival in Mexico； its eyes red sequins； its ribs dusted With glitter。 All the objects here； all the pencil drawings on the walls and pictures cut out of obscure music magazines and secret lists in notebooks； wove a web of power around him。
He pulled his quilt around his legs and touched his ribs and hipbones； liking how thin he was。 Then the bedroom door opened； and painfully bright light spilled in from the hallway。 He jerked his hand away and pulled up his quilt。
〃Jason？ Are you asleep？ It's only nine。 Too much sleep is bad for you。〃
It might block my channels； he thought。
His parents stepped into the room and he felt the web of power collapse and drift down； broken strands brushing his face。 Mother； fresh from her crystal healing class at the Arts Center； looked exalted。 Her eyes sparkled； there was too much blush on her cheeks。 Father； behind her； only looked glad to be home。 〃Did you do your homework？〃 Mother asked。 〃I don't want you going to sleep this early if you haven't done your homework。 You know what your father and I thought of a smart boy like you getting those grades last quarter。 A C in algebra！〃
Nothing looked at the pile of schoolbooks near his closet。 One of the covers was a vomitous shade of turquoise。 One was bright orange。 The black T…shirt he'd thrown over them blotted them out。 He thought that if he stacked them all up； he might be able to build an altar。
〃Jason； I want to talk to you。〃 Mother came all the way into the room and squatted next to the mattress。 Her sweater was woven of soft iridescent wool； pink and blue。 In fascination Nothing watched a smudge of ash from the carpet transfer itself before his eyes onto the knee of her cream…colored cotton pants。 He raised his head and checked the quilt； it was covering him decently。 He thought he saw the two small ridges of his hipbones poking up under it。
〃My support circle meditated with our rose crystals tonight；〃 Mother said。 〃I thought of you。 I don't want to keep you from fulfilling yourself。 I certainly don't want to decrease your potential。〃 She paused to glance at Father glowering in the background； then let the great revelation fly。 〃You can get your ear pierced after all； if you still want to。 Your father o