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e great revelation fly。 〃You can get your ear pierced after all； if you still want to。 Your father or I will go with you。〃
Nothing turned his head to hide the two tiny holes in his left earlobe； made with a thumbtack and several swigs of vodka one day at school。 The Jewelry Box at the mall would not pierce the ears of anyone under eighteen without a parent's permission； especially not the ears of a boy in black who looked younger than his fifteen years； who forged signatures on endless homemade permission slips。 And no wonder Father was pissed off。 This was the final indignity： a son who wanted to wear earrings。
〃Wait a minute。 Wait one minute。 Just what the hell is this？〃 Father crossed the room in two strides and pulled the bottle of Johnnie Walker from under the desk。 The last gossamer strands of the web whispered past Nothing's face and dissolved in the air。 He smelled the ghost of incense。 〃Young man； I think I would like an explan… 〃
〃Just a minute； Rodger。〃 Mother radiated benevolence； spiritual wholeness。 〃Jason is not a bad child。 If he's drinking； we should spend more quality time…〃
〃Quality time； my ass。〃 Nothing decided he liked Father better than Mother these days； not that he liked either of them much。 〃Jason is not a child at all。 He is fifteen and runs with a gang of punkers who give him a liquor habit and God knows what else。 He dyes his hair that phony black that rubs off on the pillowcases and stains my good shirts in the wash。 He smokes Cigarettes…Lucky Strikes；〃 Father said with distaste。 Nothing saw the pack of Vantages poking out of Father's breast pocket。 〃He throws away the clothing we buy him or rips it to rags before he'll wear it。 Now he's stealing from us。 Things are going to CHANGE…〃
〃Rodger。 We'll talk about it； among ourselves。 Don't worry； Jason； you're not in trouble。〃 Mother positively floated from the room； pulling Father after her。 Father slammed the door。 A stack of books fell over； spilling Plath and Bradbury and William Burroughs across the floor in an unlikely orgy of paper and dust。
In the hall Father's voice rose。 〃What the hell was that supposed to mean； he's not in trouble 。 。 。 he goddamn well is in trouble 。。。。 〃
Nothing closed his eyes for a moment and watched red spangles swirl away behind his lids。 Then he got up and stretched his lithe naked body； shaking his hair and his hands to cleanse himself of Mother's touch。 Father had taken away the good whiskey； but Nothing had his own bottle of brainrot hidden in the closet。 A flask of something called White Horse。 He'd gotten his friend Jack to buy it for him because of the name： Dylan Thomas had drunk his last eighteen whiskeys at a pub called the White Horse in New York City。
Nothing lay in the dark and sipped from the neck of the bottle； blinking up at the stars on his ceiling。 After a while the constellations began to swim。 I've got to get out of this place； he thought just before dawn； and the ghosts of all the decades of middle…class American children afraid of placency and stagnation and fortable death drifted before his face； whispering their agreement。
In Nothing's English class the next day； Mrs。 Margaret Peebles plunged her hypodermic of higher learning into Lord of the Flies and sucked out every drop of its primal magic； every trace of its adolescent wonder。 Nothing knew haft the class hadn't even read the book。 If they were judging it by what the teacher said； he could hardly blame them。 But he'd read it three years ago； one summer afternoon in bed with a fever； and when he had put the book down； his hands had been shaking。 Those wild salty…skinned little boys had tumbled through his head； and he had cried for them； so young； grown old so fast。
He looked at the blank page of notebook paper in front of him。 Pink and blue lines； neatly ruled。 He began to count them but lost track of the number。 The clock said 9：10。 Twenty more minutes left of class。 His head ached from last night's whiskey； and he wanted to sleep。 He began drawing in his notebook。 Swirls。 The first vestiges of a face。 An eye； green because his pen was green。 A tooth。
〃Jason〃
Outside； far away across the wide green front lawn； past the pink granite sign that looked like a gravestone except for the snarling tiger carved on top （Gift of the Senior Class； 1972）； a black van sped by。 The road past the school was long and straight； and the van was going too fast for Nothing to catch more than a snatch of the singing that blew back on the wind out the open windows of the van； borne on the wings of the sweet September day。 But he was sure it was Bowie。 Someone in that van was singing a song by David Bowie。 The voices were clear and loud and drunken。 Nothing watched the van disappear and wished more than anything else in the world that he were going with it； going with those happy singers； drinking and singing and going away on the
open road。
〃Jason。〃
He sighed。 Peebles was staring at him。 The rest of the class paid no attention； they were elsewhere too； in their own worlds； driving away on their own roads。 〃What？〃 he said。
〃We were discussing William Golding's Lord of the Flies。 You have read the book？〃
〃I have。〃
〃Then perhaps you can tell me about the rivalry between Jack and Ralph。 What allows it to grow so bitter？〃
〃Their attraction for each other；〃 Nothing said。 'Their love for each other。 They had this fierce love； they wanted to be each other。 And only when you love someone that much can you hate them too…〃
A ripple of laughter went through the class。 A couple of boys rolled their eyes at one another…what a fag！
Peebles pressed her thin lips together。 〃If you had been paying attention； instead of doodling and staring out the window…〃
Suddenly he was too tired to care what happened to him。 This was empty； all empty useless crap。 〃Oh fuck you；〃 he said； and felt the class suck in its breath and silently cheer him on。
Half an hour later； sitting in the principal's office waiting for the hand of petty academic fate to descend upon him； he thought again of the ghosts that had visited him last night。 Visions； or whiskey vapors？ It didn't matter。 You've got to get out of here； they'd told him。 You've got to get out of here。
After school； a bunch of kids met in the parking lot and went over to Laine Petersen's house to get stoned。 Laine's older brother had gone off to college and left behind his water…bong； an elaborate ceramic affair shaped like a skull with worms twining in and out of the empty eye sockets。 You put your finger over one of the nostrils to hold the smoke in。
Laine's girlfriend Julie had a bag of pot； real ragweed； the kind of stuff that scoured your throat and made your lungs feel like parchment if you held the smoke in too long。 Still； it was all these kids knew； and within fifteen minutes they were stoned out of their minds； Someone put a Bauhaus tape on and turned it all the way up。 Laine and Julie rolled around on the bed； pretending to make out。
Nothing had his doubts about how much Laine really liked girls。 The walls of his room were plastered with posters of the Cure； he had seen them in concert three time