The List: An Orphan X Short Story by Gregg Hurwitz

Author:Gregg Hurwitz [Hurwitz, Gregg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250796479
Google: DYbwDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B08CT3RM69
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2020-08-03T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 3

Whittled Down to Uselessness

A week later Evan is awakened by a foot in his chest. It is nothing personal. As the smallest kid, he sleeps on the mattress between the bunk beds, and this is what happens. His eyes open to a slow-motion stampede. Andre, back from another fruitless parent search, is the only one who bothers to whisper an apology.

The others are rushing quietly to the doorway, peering around the jamb with a sort of thrilled terror. The frame itself is crosshatched with countless height markers that Papa Z notched with his pocketknife this summer, another endeavor whittled down to uselessness given the turnover rates of the boys. Evan crawls over; the only space left at the doorjamb is floor-level.

From his snail’s-eye view down the long hall, Evan catches a partial angle of Papa Z embedded in his venerable armchair, one meaty fist clamped around a Coors tallboy. His face and neck are splotchy red; it is not the first beer of the evening.

A hushed voice emanates from the space across from him, over by the shit-brown corduroy couch with the missing cushion. “—can only take one right now. Sure it’s a way out. But he needs to show an ability to perform.”

“Charles has that,” Papa Z confirms. He draws again from the sweating can, his tree-trunk throat glugging up and down.

Van Sciver has gone stiff in the doorway. Evan can sense him above, as tense as a dog pointing to prey.

Jamal whispers, “Is that…?”

“The Mystery Man,” Ramón confirms before Van Sciver hushes them viciously.

“Charles seems the most likely,” the hushed voice says. “Or the other one. Andre.”

Andre pulls his head back slightly.

Down the hall Papa Z wipes his lips. “What about Evan?”

They strain to make out the Mystery Man’s voice. “The little one?”

“Yup.”

“Too small.”

“But willful,” Papa Z says. “So willful.”

“Nah,” Mystery Man says. “The little one’s no good.”

Muted sneers rain down on Evan. Then cease instantly as the weary floorboards of the living room creak.

Mystery Man steps into view, a facial profile over bony shoulders. Two slender fingers clamp a business card, extended to Papa Z. That gold watch glints. The Ray-Bans are on, even inside, even at night.

“Have Charles Van Sciver call,” he says.

The boys creep back to bed, buzzed on adrenaline. Whispered theories and dirty jokes fly back and forth.

“I’m gonna do it,” Van Sciver says. “Whatever the fuck it is, I’m gonna do it.”

“How ’bout Andre?” Ramón asks. “Mystery Man got his eye on him, too.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Van Sciver says. “Andre’s gonna move in with his mom and pop. Just as soon as he finds ’em. Ain’t that right, Andre?”

“What do you say, Dr. Dre?” Tyrell says. “You find your daddy this time?”

Assorted guffaws.

Andre doesn’t bother to look up from his spiral notebook, the one he draws in constantly, sketches of superheroes and soldiers and curvy girls. He hates being called Dr. Dre, almost as much as he hates being called Dre-Dre or his middle name, some crazy-ass biblical word written on his birth certificate that even he doesn’t know how to pronounce.

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