“The Movement of Horses” by Adam Cushman
--page 2

         “Mr. Shapiro,” our dickhead Study Hall teacher Mr. Poland grunts through a mouthful of fries, “For the second time, please remove the sunglasses.” Everyone looks at me real quick then turns away from fear. This is when I take the fortune-teller out of my pocket with the secret message inside and toss it over the shoulder of Jeff Tabor, the senior quarterback who replaced me after my tragic knee injury last season(4). Jeff is built like a rock, has a pretty good tan and wears his sandy blond hair parted to the right. Me saying that doesn’t make me gay or anything, please, just secure enough in my sexuality to recognize an attractive man when he’s in front of me. In fact, if you were to ask Jeff, my guess would be that he feels the same way. It doesn’t mean he wants to blow me or anything. Sometimes Jeff gets in these weird moods though. This becomes a problem when he gives the fortune-teller over to that prick Poland and refuses to look me in the eye before sitting back down to work on his Algebra. Poland sees where I wrote “open me” and unravels the fortune-teller to read what’s inside. Then he starts glaring over the rim of those pointy black specs. “Everyone please stop what you’re doing and look at Mr. Shapiro,” his voice is like endless whining. Now everyone is looking from me to Poland and they know because they are half smiling that this jackoff doesn’t know who he’s messing with. “Mr. Shapiro is apparently going to be leaving us. Would you care to tell the class where it is you’re planning on going?”
         “To your mom’s house,” is my answer.

~

         Poland’s droopy face flushes and sinks to where his neck should be. He doesn’t say anything for a minute and this is when it occurs to me that last year a few people were talking about how Poland’s mother swallowed a handful of pills and that’s why he was gone for almost two months. Still, it’s just your old girl, dude. Move on.
         “Mr. Shapiro? Wasn’t it your mother who dated Coach Schamus? Just before Christmas break I seem to recall(5). The question is, Mr. Shapiro,” Poland starts pacing the room, “Who’s going to your mom’s house? Can I come?”
         Someone says “Damn” real quietly. Poland doesn’t realize the tightrope he’s walking but that’s okay because he’s a sad little man who wears brown dress shirts that hug his love handles and today I’m going to save his life.
         “Sit down, Mr. Shapiro. I’m not finished with you,” then he yells out, “You forgot your book,” and smells it all of a sudden like he’s never seen one in his stupid life. “One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest,” he reads aloud, “Looks like you’ve read all the way up to page ten. What’s this one about?”
         Without turning around, my hand grips the cold steel door handle. What I wanted to say was, “It’s about the coolest guy in the world and how he’s surrounded by retards,” but bailed instead.

~

         You ought to know right now that besides me, my dad is one of the most feared and respected individuals on the planet, and one hell of an insurance salesman. My neurotic spoon-fed whore of a mother calls him an “ambulance chaser” but that’s because he never told her that the whole insurance gig is a front. My father is in fact the head of La Cosa Nostra. People could die over that information and me just telling you puts your life at serious risk(6). Even though he lives in Georgia and pretends to speak with a southern accent and plays golf a lot, he is the mastermind of the largest criminal enterprise known to man(7). Chances are good that bounty hunters and capos will be deployed to return me to my father. Even though they’ll be on strict assignment to guarantee my safety, it is a sure bet that if found, I’ll be riding to Georgia in the trunk of a dark Sedan.

~

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