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you out. I’ve always said if any of us could take Max and his black belt, it would be Jeff and his magic tooth. Max would get one whiff and kick his own brains out trying to get out of his misery.
    Nortie ran back into the room with a stunned expression and a tear in his eye.
    â€œAny luck?” I asked.
    Nortie gasped. “He knows I don’t have a sister.” He wiped his eye. “Jeez, why does he do that? He sucked his tooth.”

CHAPTER 3
    November 14
    You have to hurt a little for Nortie. He’s a classic case of what can happen to a guy who’s been beat up all his life. Eighteen years old and his old man still punches him around.
    I’ve asked Nort why he doesn’t just kiss him off—tell him to go to hell and stay with me for the rest of the year—but he shrugs and says his dad’s okay; he just doesn’t know any other way to act. I tell him it’s time he learned some other way to act or to hell with him, but Nortie dodges that.
    When we were sophomores, I went to their place for dinner one Sunday afternoon just before Christmas. I think Nortie was uncomfortable having someone comeover because his dad can be so ornery and unpredictable, but he had eaten at my place so many times he figured it was time to take a chance. Anyway, right before dinner, around three in the afternoon, Nortie and I jumped in their family car to run over to the local 7–11 to get whipped cream for the pie, and as we were pulling out of the parking lot, some guy slid around the corner on the ice and slammed into our front fender. There was absolutely no way Nortie could have prevented it—in fact, we were stopped when the guy hit us—but Nortie got real quiet, sort of set his jaw, and after they exchanged insurance information, we drove home.
    His dad happened to see us drive up out the living-room window and was barreling down the sidewalk toward us before Nortie could even get out. He jerked Nortie out of the car onto his hands and knees, then lifted him up and slapped the sides of his head, screaming at him. When Nortie put his hands up to protect his head, his dad gave him a hard shot to the solar plexus and dropped him. To this day I’m embarrassed that I didn’t jump out of the car and take my best shot at Mr. Wheeler, but I sat frozen, my eyes glued to his face. He isn’t a very big guy, but he looked so mean, deliberately aiming each of his shots. When Nortie hit the ground, Icame unfrozen; jumped out and ran around the car to help him up. His wind was gone and he was convulsing for air, but he waved me away. His dad was yelling, “Let the little screw be! I’ll teach him to mess up my car!”
    I tried to explain what had happened, that it wasn’t Nortie’s fault, but I couldn’t make him hear me. Mr. Wheeler has Nortie pegged for a screwup, and the facts be damned.
    Nortie’s mom watched it all out the living-room window and she didn’t move a muscle. For a quick second I remember hating her guts, but later I thought of the times I’d seen her wearing sunglasses on dark days and long sleeves on hot days to cover up her own bruises, and I guessed she was doing what she had to to get along. Still, it’s hard to respect her.
    I didn’t stay for dinner.
    Boy, it’s no wonder that little turd is so fast. He’s just a demon in workouts. He’s so nervous before every practice he can’t eat lunch and he whines and bitches and moans like a third-grader on Death Row as 2:30 approaches, but when we hit the water, he pays the pool back for every time his old man ever laid a finger on him. I hope he finds an outlet when we’re through with swimming, because he’s got to have a lot of mean energy boiling around in him.
    I think I’d like to get the whole truth about Stotan Week from Max because Max is a human being, but I have a feeling I’m going to get it from Jeff, who isn’t. I found a note on