ONE
Leon Novak
AGED 9
My packed casesat by the front door—blue, small. The zipper needed pressure to close. Twice I pushed harder, listening for the snap, wondering how much force would break it.
No one else had a case.
Mom was red-eyed from crying and didn’t speak as I got in the back. Dad carried my suitcase to the car in silence. Dermot stayed inside the house, leg bandaged, with a new games console, not talking to me.
I wasn’t supposed to have stabbed him, but I wanted to know what would happen. What did pain look like when it started? How did someone’s body react when you crossed that invisible line? I thought about cause and effect, about whether I could predict the outcome, and if I could, whether that made me good or bad. Part of me even wondered if I would feel something important—remorse, maybe—but all I really felt was a curious emptiness, as if every question I asked only made more questions appear.
I hadn’t stabbed Dermot in anger. My big brother talked with his mouth full, spitting crumbs, but I was used to that. I watched his leg muscles move beneath the skin, wondered how deep a fork would go, whether his flesh would resist or part, whether Dermot would freeze or scream first. I chose a spot above his knee—more flesh, less bone—thinking it would be safer, assuming it would be safer and cleaner.
I pressed the fork in slowly, saw the skin dent. Then I drove it harder instead of pulling out. I watched confusion turn to understanding on his face—my main interest.
I timed Mom crossing the kitchen and measured how fast blood showed through the fabric. The squelch was quieter than expected.
Dad yanked the fork out before I could gauge the depth. Mom screamed; my brother cried. The experiment collapsed into chaos. I was irritated. If they’d waited a few seconds, I could have learned more.
When Mom grabbed my shoulders and shouted, I paused, then cried too. I mimicked my brother’s hitched breathing and trembling hands. I said I didn’t mean it, said sorry, checked the blood and flinched, pretending to fear it.
Grown-ups didn’tactuallycare what I felt.
They cared what I showed them.
If I gave them the right expression, the right words, the right shaking hands, and lowered eyes, they stopped asking questions. They stopped searching deeper.
So, I practiced.
Sadness first. That one worked best.
That night, they held me. Mom smelled of lavender and salt, her arms tight around me, rocking me as if I’d been hurt. Dad’s hand on my back, solid and warm, held me to her. Mom checked on me twice, smoothing my hair, whispering, her voice trembling. “You’re my good boy.”
I kept my breathing even, counting seconds between footsteps. Dad locked the kitchen drawer that held the silverware.
I tried my hardest to appear as normal as I could but apparently what I’d done to Dermot had been the final straw. I heard Mom say that on the phone later.
She said I scared them.
After that, they made me see men who talked in careful voices and showed me pictures. Faces with different expressions. Drawings of boys pushing other boys. Blurry photographs of injuries. They asked me what I felt when I saw them.
I told them what they wanted to hear.
I said the pictures made me sad. I said the hurt was bad. I practiced lowering my gaze at the right moments.
I don’t remember much about their questions, but I remember the letter opener on one of the men’s desks and stabbing my hand. I timed how long it took for someone to notice—how long before the patient alarms screamed.
They called it an accident.
I let them.
I thought this trip today was just another visit to people who wanted to ask me questions, and all the while, mom sobbed and dad cursed, and my lucky brother was home eating ice cream with our aunt Kate, who wasn’t an aunt but our next-door neighbor. I’d wanted ice cream, and Dad promised I’d have some when I got home, but I knew Dermot would have eaten it all to get back at me for what I’d done.
They were angry all the time but that was only when I hadn’t pretended hard enough for them.
The drive was long. I watched road signs, counted telegraph poles until I got bored. Mom and Dad didn’t play music or talk tome. When they spoke to each other, it was in quiet voices, as if I were asleep.
