Eddie, Dad, and Anouk were on the veranda drinking tea, looking exhausted. There was a heavy stillness. Something told me I had just missed a heated argument. The smoke from Eddie’s clove cigarettes hung in the air. As I approached, the sight of my blood reanimated them. They all leapt to attention, as if they were three wise sages who had waited ten years for someone to ask them a question.

Anouk shouted first. “Are you being picked on by a bully? Why don’t you give him my phone number and ask him to call me? I’m sure meditation would really calm him down.”

“Pay him money,” Eddie said. “Go back and talk to him with a paper bag filled with cash.”

Not to be outparented, Dad shouted from his armchair, “Come here, boy, I want to tell you something!” I walked up the veranda steps. He slapped his knee to indicate the all-clear to sit on it. I preferred to stand. Dad said, “You know who else used to get a rubbishing? Socrates. That’s right. Socrates. That’s right. This one time he was out philosophizing with some mates, and this bloke who didn’t like what he was saying came right up to him and kicked him in the arse so hard he fell to the ground. Socrates looked up at the man and smiled at him benignly. He was taking it with amazing calm. An onlooker said, ‘Why don’t you do something, or say something?’ and Socrates said back, ‘If you were kicked by a mule, would you reprimand him?’ ”

Dad broke into howls of laughter. His body shook so badly I was glad I had opted not to sit on his knee. It was bouncing like a rodeo bull. “Get it? Get it?” Dad asked me through peals of laughter.

I shook my head, although in secret I did get it. But truth be known, I would absolutely reprimand a mule for kicking me. I might even have it put down. It’s my mule, I can do what I want. Anyway, the point of the story is I got the point of the story, but it didn’t help my situation any more than Eddie’s or Anouk’s impossible suggestions. I tell you, Dad and Eddie and Anouk, the lights I had to guide me through childhood, did nothing but lead me into brick walls.

A few weeks later I went to Brett’s house. He’d lured me there with the promise of a chocolate cake. He said he wanted to try out his teeth. As we left the school grounds, he explained how, by wiring them back into his gums, the dentist had managed to prevent the nerve from dying. To finish the job he’d had root canal treatment, during which the dentist gave him lots of gas but not quite enough to make it worthwhile.

When we arrived at his house I was disappointed to find there was no cake, and shocked when he said we’d have to make it ourselves. I thought it best to come clean with him.

“Listen, Brett. You’re OK, but I feel a little funny baking a cake with you.”

“Don’t worry. We’re not really baking anything. We’re going to make the batter and just eat that. We won’t even use the oven.”

That sounded OK, but really in the end it was not that dissimilar to making a proper cake, and when he started sifting the flour, I nearly made a run for it. I didn’t though. I held out. We finished the mixture and were just digging into it with large wooden spoons when we heard the front door open and a voice say, “I’m home!”

My body froze and stayed that way until the kitchen door opened a crack and Mr. White’s head came through the door.

“Is that Jasper Dean?”

“Hello, Mr. White.”

“Hi, Dad,” Brett said, which struck me as odd. I had stupidly assumed he called his father Mr. White at home.

Mr. White pushed the door open and came into the kitchen. “You two making a cake?” he asked, and, looking at the mixture, added, “Let me know when it’s ready and maybe I can have a piece.”

“Ready? It’s almost finished,” Brett said, beaming at his father.

Mr. White laughed. First time I’d ever seen his teeth. They weren’t bad. He came over and stuck his finger into the bowl and tasted the thick chocolate.

“So, Jasper, how’s your father?”

“You know, he is what he is.”

“He certainly gave me a run for my money,” he said, chuckling to himself.

“I’m glad,” I said.

“The world needs passionate men,” Mr. White said, smiling.

“I suppose,” I said, and as Mr. White went upstairs, I thought of all Dad’s long catatonic periods when passion meant remembering to flush the toilet.

Brett’s room was more or less a typical teenager’s room, except it was so neat I felt my breath might make a mess. There were a couple of framed photographs on the desk, including one of Brett and Mr. White standing with their arms around each other’s shoulders on an oval- they looked like actors from a mushy television movie about a father and son. It didn’t look in the least bit real. Above Brett’s bed was a great big crucifix hanging on the wall.

“What’s that for?” I asked in horror.

“It was my mother’s.”

“What happened to her?”

“Stomach cancer.”

“Ouch.”

Brett walked to the window with slow, hesitant steps, as if crossing unfamiliar terrain at night.

“You don’t have a mother either, do you? What happened to yours?”

“The Arab mafia.”

“OK, don’t tell me.”

I took a closer look at Jesus strung up there, his long-suffering face looking down at an angle. He appeared to be studying those sentimental photographs of Brett and his father. His unhurried eyes seemed to be contemplating them with a certain sadness. Maybe it made him think of his own father, or of how sometimes you get resurrected when you least expect it.

“So you guys are religious?” I asked.

“We’re Catholics. You?”

“Atheists.”

“Do you like school?” Brett asked suddenly.

“What do you think?”

“It’s not forever. That’s what I keep thinking. It’s not forever.”

“Just be grateful you’re not fat. Once you’re out in the real world, you’ll be fine. No one hates a thin man.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Brett sat on the edge of his bed, biting his fingernails. I admit now, there must have been a fog in my perception that day. I missed all the signs. I didn’t interpret the nail-biting as a cry for help or as an indication that he would soon be rotting dumbly in the earth. After Brett’s death, I dissected that afternoon in my head countless times. I thought: If only I’d known, I could have said something, or done something, anything, to change his mind. Now I wonder, why do we wish our loved ones back to life if they were so obviously miserable? Did we really hate them that much?

The day of Brett’s suicide, a Monday.

It was recess and everyone was fondly reminiscing about a Saturday night party. I was smiling because I felt lonely and unwanted, and it seemed to me that everyone in the phone book from A. Aaron to Z. Zurichman had been invited except me. I imagined what it would be like to be popular for an afternoon, and decided it meant I’d have to high-five everybody as I walked down the hallways. I wouldn’t like that, I was thinking, when I heard a voice shouting, “Somebody jumped! Somebody jumped!”

“Another suicide!”

The school bell rang and wouldn’t let up. We all crossed the oval and ran toward the cliffs. A teacher ordered us to return, but there were too many of us. You’ve heard of mass hysteria- mass curiosity is even more powerful. There was no turning us back. We reached the edge of the cliff and peered down. The waves were smashing up against the rocks, as if digesting: there was a body down there, all right, a student. Whoever it was, all the bones must have shattered on impact. It seemed as if all we were looking at was a school uniform tossed about in a washing machine.

“Who is it? Who is it?”

People were crying, grieving for someone. But who? Who were we grieving for? Students were already climbing down the steep path to see.