'Well maybe I better call Hildegard Lasseen and see what they expect, I mean it's ridiculous.'

'Okay, I'll take lunch.'

'Y'all die and nobody told me?' Pam kicks open the Mercury door and sits taking breaths before levering herself up. Something as big as a goddam bullfrog jumps out through her legs, I swear. 'Vernie, come help ole Palmyra with these bags – I've been calling your damn number since Adam & Eve.' She drops some sacks onto the driveway, then struggles over to the willow, pulling back the branches like drapes. Mom sits sniffling underneath.

'Lalito's gone,' she sniffs.

'Took his time about it,' says Pam. 'C'mon now, this food's getting soggy.' She begins the long haul up to the porch. I gather the Bar-B-Chew Barn sacks, and linger beside her.

'Vernie, look!' she says, pointing into the sky. I look up. 'Tsh,' she slaps my belly. She even makes the little sound, 'Tsh,' like a cymbal. It's just a thing we do, me and Pam. 'C'mon, Doris, or I'll call Lolly and tell him about your herpes.'

'Shit, Palmyra, God.'

Thunderclaps of laughter ripple through Pam's flesh. My ole lady struggles to keep her misery, squirms and wrassles with herself on the bench. In the end, she gets mad and scuttles up to the porch. 'You're just too damn perky – it's important to hurt sometimes.'

'Want me to push ya down the stairs? Haugh, haugh, haugh.'

'Well for God's sake, Palmyra. Anyway, we don't want your damn food.'

'Haugh, haugh, haugh. You should've seen Vaine at the hayride, she put away more corn than a truckload of empty Meskins.'

'But Atkins diet is supposed to be protein…'

'Barry's out for the night.'

'Oh?'

'A few of the posse owe him a beer. He found a gun yesterday, at Keeter's.'

twelve

It ain't my idea to leave before dawn. My ole lady decided to visit Nana, that's why the house stinks of hairspray. You know why she's leaving early: so nobody sees her scurry through town on foot. All she wants is for them to see her arrived, all hunky-dory. Not scurrying. It's a learning I made since the car went.

'Well I just can't believe there isn't a pair of Tumbledowns around town, I mean, I'll have to try down by Nana's.' She gives off breathy noises, and flicks her fingertips through my hair. Then she takes a step back and frowns. It means goodbye. 'Promise me you won't miss your therapy.'

An electric purple sky spills stars behind the pumpjack, calling home the last moths for the night. It reminds me of the morning when ole Mrs Lechuga was out here, all devastated. I try not to think about it. Instead I look ahead to today. Going to Keeter's is a smart idea; if anybody sees me out there, they'll say, 'We saw Vernon out by Keeter's,' and nobody will know if they mean the auto shop, or the piece of land. See? Vernon Gray-matter Little. In return, I've asked Fate to help me solve the cash thing. It's become clear that cash is the only way to deal with problems in life. I even scraped up a few things to pawn in town, if it comes to that. I know it'll come to that, so I have them with me in my pack – my clarinet, my skateboard, and fourteen music discs. They're in the pack with my lunchbox, which contains my sandwich, the two joints, and a piece of paper with some internet addresses on it.

As for the joints and the piece of paper, I heard the voice of Jesus last night. He advised me to get wasted, fast. If at first you don't succeed, he said, get wasted off your fucken ass. My plan is to sit out at Keeter's and get some new ideas, ideas borne out of the bravery of wastedness.

I ride down empty roads of frosted silver, trees overhead swish cool hints of warm panties in bedclothes. Liberty Drive is naked, save for droppings of hay, and Bar-B-Chew Barn wrappers. In this light you can't see the stains on the sidewalk by the school. As the gym building passes by, all hulky and black, I look the other way, and think of other things.

Music's a crazy thing, when you think about it. Interesting how I decided which discs not to pawn. I could've kept some party music, but that would've just tried to boost me up, all this thin kind of 'Tss-tss-tss,' music. You get all boosted up, convinced you're going to win in life, then the song's over and you discover you fucken lost. That's why you end up playing those songs over and over, in case you didn't know. Cream pie, boy. I could've kept back some heavy metal too, but that's likely to drive me to fucken suicide. What I need is some Eminem, some angry poetry, but you can't buy that stuff in Martirio. Like it was an animal sex doll or something, you can't buy angry poetry. When you say gangsta around here, they still think of Bonnie & fucken Clyde. Nah, guess what: I ended up keeping my ole Country albums. Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Johnny Paycheck – even my daddy's ole Hank Williams compilation. I kept them because those boys have seen some shit – hell, all they sing about is the shit they've seen; you just know they woke up plenty of times on a wooden floor somewhere, with ninety flavors of trouble riding on their ass. The slide-guitar understands your trouble. Then all you need is the beer.

Silas Benn has an ole washing machine for a letterbox. You have to watch out for it, because it's behind some trees as you approach his place from this end of Calavera Drive. I mention it because someday you might want to swing into Silas's driveway at speed. Watch out for the fucken washing machine. It's just one of the weird things about ole Silas. I know it's early to visit, but he always leaves his living-room light on, for security I guess, and it gives you the chance to say, 'Heck, Silas, I saw your light on.' He's wise to that ole line, but he still plays along. I nudge my bike up his driveway, and walk around to his bedroom window, tapping on the pane in the usual way. Then I stand back and hold my breath. A chink opens in the drapes. I tread softly to the back door. After some scrapes and rattles, Silas opens up and peeks out through crusty eyes.

'Pork my henry, son, what kinda time d'ya call this?'

'Heck, Silas, I saw your light on…'

'Ya dint see my damn bedroom light on. Dog-gone it, hell to berries…' Silas didn't have time to strap on his leg. He just hangs on a kind of crutch. Silas had a leg amputated, see.

'Sie, I got some real big business to run past you.'

He rustles through his robe for his glasses. 'Lemme see, whatcha find for me today…'

'Well y'see, that's the thing – I don't have any hard stuff, like on paper and all, on account of they took my computer away.'

'So what the…?'

'See, I have this plan how you can get all the pictures you want, hundreds of 'em – today even, when Harris's opens.'

'Aw hell, son, shill my wincer – ya dragged me up fer nothing.'

'Look,' I say, unfolding the sheet of paper. 'See these internet addresses? That's where all those hard-core pictures are kept, for free – even the Amputee Spree stuff that you really like. With these instructions, you can go by Harris's store, take the booth with the computer, and print out all you want. No kidding. With this list, you'll never have to pay for pictures again.'

'Shit, I don't know – I never got with them com-puder machines.'

'Forget it, it's easy. Everything you have to do is written here.'

'We-ell,' he says, stroking his chin. 'How much ya want fer it?'

'A case.'

'Git outta here.'

'No kidding, Sie, this list can save you a truckload of beer over the summer. A goddam truckload, at least.'

'I'll pay a six-pack.'

'We-ell,' I hesitate. You have to hesitate with Silas. 'We-e-ll. I don't know, Sie, plenty of kids'll wanna kill me, after I bust the business like this.'

'Six-packa Coors, I'll go git it.' He swings away into the house like a one-legged monkey. You can't drink till you're twenty-one around here. I ain't twenty-one. Good ole Silas always keeps some brews in stock, to trade for special pictures. Us Martirio kids are like his personal internet. He's our personal bar.