The World of Normal Boys. K.M. Soehnlein

way he drops the bag.

      “Get the fuck over here,” he yells.

      Robin watches Scott take his time. There, he’s remembered the boy’s name: Scott Schatz. He’s one of those kids no one pays any attention to, though Robin’s always been curious about him. How has Scott managed to sit out the same games as Robin but avoid the kind of name calling Robin has put up with?

      “I got another bag back there,” the man says to Scott. “Go get it.” Robin can’t figure out what’s going on back there. Is this man barking orders Scott’s father? His mind races: a dead body in the bag, a pile of drugs, something illegal. One too many weird possibilities. Just get out of here. He’s pretty sure that there’s a turn somewhere not too far down the road that would curve him back toward Tappan Boulevard. Pretty sure, but not positive, and his instincts have been off all night. And then Scott turns back to him and lifts up his index finger as if to say, Wait one minute, and there’s something in his eyes, not quite comforting, but friendly in a simple way, for which Robin feels instantly grateful. So he decides to wait. Maybe Scott will give him directions after he does whatever it is being demanded of him. He takes a deep, steadying breath and leans his bike on its kickstand.

      The man at the van has opened a beer and is swigging it down. Scott returns from the woods, dragging another full bag with both hands. He struggles to lift it into the back of the van until the man gets impatient and does it for him, shoving Scott out of the way. Then they talk for a minute in very low voices, glancing back his way. Finally Scott waves Robin over.

      The man asks in a slurry voice, “You going to the hospital?”

      “Yeah,” Robin answers timidly.

      “What the hell you doing over here?”

      “I got lost. I wound up driving around Marble Road.”

      “Hah!” The man spits again. “You’re lucky you didn’t get the shit kicked outta you.” He chugs his beer.

      Scott rolls his eyes and frowns. “Shut up, Dad. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dad, Robin thinks. This scary guy is Scott’s father.

      Scott looks at Robin. “We practically live on Marble Road.”

      “Practically ain’t the same as actually,” Mr. Schatz says. He crushes the empty can in his hand and chucks it at Scott. “Throw your bike in the back.”

      “You don’t have to. I mean, you could just tell me how to get there.”

      Scott reaches out and grabs his handle bars. “It’s not that close, man.” Together they lift the bike in the van. The front wheel falls on one of the bags and the insides let out a tinny crunch.

      “Don’t you rip those goddamn things,” Mr. Schatz says, “or you’ll be carrying cans to the drop off one by one between your fucking teeth.”

      “Shut up, we’re not ripping nothing,” Scott says. “C’mon,” he says to Robin and climbs in. Robin props himself at Scott’s side. Scott reaches across him, the tail of his oversize wool shirt brushing prickly against Robin’s arm, and shuts the door. It’s dark as a cave.

      Mr. Schatz starts up the motor. Rock-and-roll music jangles the air. Robin thinks it must be Elvis, but he’s never been able to tell any of those ’50s singers apart. The air inside grows stuffy very quickly, filled with the stench coming from the empty cans: moldy beer, rotting sugar. Then there’s sharp burning of a match and a cloud of smoke from Mr. Schatz’s cigarette. Scott calls out to his father, “Hey, pass the smokes back.”

      Mr. Schatz ignores him. Scott picks up a can and hurls it into the dash. “C‘mon, give ’em over.”

      “You better calm down, motherfucker, or you’re gonna get it.”

      Scott rubs his nose self-consciously. “A little late for that,” he mutters.

      Robin nods and says, “Guess so,” which is all he can come up with. He hasn’t been hit by his father since he got a spanking at age six for who knows why—he can’t even imagine getting a bloody nose from him. Scott acts as if it’s not such a big deal, but with his eyes adjusting to the darkness, Robin can again make out that sad-angry combination he first saw on Scott’s face.

      Scott stamps his feet on the metal floor a couple of time. “Cigarettes, man!” he yells over the doo-wop harmonies.

      “You’re too young to smoke,” Mr. Schatz yells back, but in the tone of voice that sounds like he doesn’t really care. A pack of Winstons comes flying back at them and bounces off the spokes of Robin’s bike.

      Scott squints at him. “You don’t smoke probably.”

      “I’ve smoked my mother’s cigarettes plenty.” A lie: only once or twice, with mostly unpleasant results.

      “You can have a drag of mine. I don’t want you hacking to death.”

      Robin forces a laugh. “OK, that’s fuckin’ cool,” he says. He thinks he should say things like “fuckin’ cool” with Scott.