Fine Flu Journal Fine Flu Journal- june 2014 | Page 11

just go by Mike. His parents were weird, was what everyone said. His mother
wrote poetry that she published herself in little books and had hair down to
her butt, and his dad wore a
beret all the time—even when he showered, some of the kids said.
“What do you think, Sam,” Michael said, turning to me, “do you want to go for
a ghost hunt in the woods tonight?”
“I don’t know. I think we might just go to bed early,” I said, nudging Steve.
“Oh yeah,” Steve said. He reached his hands up, stretching. “I’ve been feeling
so tired today.”
“Yeah,” I said, stifling a yawn. “Really tired.”
“Whatever,” Michael said. “If you guys don’t want to hang out with me, you
can just say it.”
And he huffed on ahead before we could reply.
After lights out I waited in the dark for what seemed like a long time. An owl
hooted in the woods. I could hear the other kids breathing steadily in their
bunks and I wondered if maybe the whole thing was off—if maybe the joke
was on us for thinking something was going to happen. Maybe even the joke
was just on me, and when Joe’s flashlight came on everyone would be
gathered around my bunk, pointing and laughing at me. The longer I waited in
the dark the more this seemed like a real possibility, and I began to imagine I
could hear them rustling around my bed, could see them gathering above me,
preparing themselves for my humiliation. For what reason I couldn’t have told
you. I was twelve, and the idea of everyone conspiring to make fun of me was a
constant fear I had.
Finally, a flashlight clicked on. The yellow beam swept through the darkness—
passing me, thankfully—and landed on a strange scene. It took me a moment
to understand what I was seeing. There were white flurries over an open
mouth . . . fingers, chubby white fingers moving over Michael’ s open mouth,
the silver of his braces glinting while the fingers like engorged silver fish
worked in steady crazy patterns over the small black hole of his mouth. I did
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