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e； in its thin fur； and anything that got hit on the road tonight would die alone。 Before morning； he thought； its blood would freeze in the cracks of the asphalt。
On his razor…scarred； wax…scabbed desk before him lay a picture postcard。 The design on its front was multicolored and abstract。 There were splotches of deep lipstick pink； streaks of sea green and storm gray； flecks of gold embossed in thin bright leaves。 He picked up his fountain pen with the graceful heart…shaped nib； dipped its delicate tip into his bottle of ink （pen and ink having been stolen from the art room at school）； and wrote a few spidery lines on the roes…sage side of the postcard。
Then the boy stretched his legs under the desk and with the bare toes of both feet grasped the bottle he had hidden there。 The liquor inside was a darker amber than he was used to； and when he took a swig； there was a sharp taste of smoke behind the familiar musky burn that hurt his throat。 He swallowed the whiskey； licked his lips to wet them with liquor…essence and his clear spit。 Then he picked up the postcard； brought it to his mouth； gave it a whiskey tongue…kiss； kissed it as hungrily as he had ever dreamed of kissing the sweetest； richest mouth。 And he picked up the pen again and signed his name： Nothing。
His capital N and the loop of his g swooped like kites' tails。 His 't' was a dagger thrusting down。 He took another swig of his parents' Johnnie Walker and realized he could already feel the familiar half…queasy anticipation of drunkenness in his stomach； the floating dizziness in his head。 He was getting drunk on two shots of whiskey。 Evidently the shit from his parents' liquor cabinet was stronger than the shit his friends poured into empty Pepsi bottles and passed around in cars going too fast on the highway outside town。
He looked at the postcard； frowned at the signature； Nothing drying dull and black； wishing he'd signed it in blood。 Maybe it wasn't too late。 With the pen's tip he jabbed at his wrist until a bead of blood appeared； bright red against his pale thin skin； with a prick of light from the lamp shining in it。 He signed his name again； Nothing in blood； tracing over the black letters with scarlet。 The ink ran into the blood； and the whole thing dried rusty brown…black； the color of an old scab。 The results did not altogether disappoint him。
His blood made a trickling path down the inside of his forearm； staining the fine invisible hairs； covering some of his old scars； leaving some of their razor…tracery exposed。 He licked the blood away。 It smudged his lips sticky； and he smiled at himself in the window's reflection。 The night…Nothing in the glass smiled back。 The boy in the window had the same long sheaf of dyed black hair； the same pointed chin； the same almond…shaped dark eyes…but his smile was colder； far colder。
Nothing turned off the light and watched the reflection of his bedroom click out of existence； watched the cold night fill the panes。 He lay on his bed and watched the stars and planets glowing on his ceiling behind the layers of black fishnet he had hung up。 He'd painted them there； the rings of Saturn lopsided； the constellations crazed。
He felt his room gather itself in the dark and stand darkly around him； not frightening but surely full of power。 He was never certain what was here。 Cigarettes； he thought。 Flowers from the graveyard； and that bone； that damned bone； his friend Sioux wouldn't say where it came from。 Books； most of them stolen from thrift…shop shelves where he left only his finger marks in the dust。 Horror stories； thin books of poems。 Dylan Thomas； of course； and others。 A copy of Look Homeward； Angel…on the cover the stone； the leaf； the unfound door； and the angel with its expression of soft stone idiocy。 A lily drooped from the angel's hand； dead in stone。 Dust。 His old stuffed animals。 A clay skeleton his friend Laine had brought him from the Day of the Dead festival in Mexico； its eyes red sequins； its ribs dusted With glitter。 All the objects here； all the pencil drawings on the walls and pictures cut out of obscure music magazines and secret lists in notebooks； wove a web of power around him。
He pulled his quilt around his legs and touched his ribs and hipbones； liking how thin he was。 Then the bedroom door opened； and painfully bright light spilled in from the hallway。 He jerked his hand away and pulled up his quilt。
〃Jason？ Are you asleep？ It's only nine。 Too much sleep is bad for you。〃
It might block my channels； he thought。
His parents stepped into the room and he felt the web of power collapse and drift down； broken strands brushing his face。 Mother； fresh from her crystal healing class at the Arts Center； looked exalted。 Her eyes sparkled； there was too much blush on her cheeks。 Father； behind her； only looked glad to be home。 〃Did you do your homework？〃 Mother asked。 〃I don't want you going to sleep this early if you haven't done your homework。 You know what your father and I thought of a smart boy like you getting those grades last quarter。 A C in algebra！〃
Nothing looked at the pile of schoolbooks near his closet。 One of the covers was a vomitous shade of turquoise。 One was bright orange。 The black T…shirt he'd thrown over them blotted them out。 He thought that if he stacked them all up； he might be able to build an altar。
〃Jason； I want to talk to you。〃 Mother came all the way into the room and squatted next to the mattress。 Her sweater was woven of soft iridescent wool； pink and blue。 In fascination Nothing watched a smudge of ash from the carpet transfer itself before his eyes onto the knee of her cream…colored cotton pants。 He raised his head and checked the quilt； it was covering him decently。 He thought he saw the two small ridges of his hipbones poking up under it。
〃My support circle meditated with our rose crystals tonight；〃 Mother said。 〃I thought of you。 I don't want to keep you from fulfilling yourself。 I certainly don't want to decrease your potential。〃 She paused to glance at Father glowering in the background； then let the great revelation fly。 〃You can get your ear pierced after all； if you still want to。 Your father or I will go with you。〃
Nothing turned his head to hide the two tiny holes in his left earlobe； made with a thumbtack and several swigs of vodka one day at school。 The Jewelry Box at the mall would not pierce the ears of anyone under eighteen without a parent's permission； especially not the ears of a boy in black who looked younger than his fifteen years； who forged signatures on endless homemade permission slips。 And no wonder Father was pissed off。 This was the final indignity： a son who wanted to wear earrings。
〃Wait a minute。 Wait one minute。 Just what the hell is this？〃 Father crossed the room in two strides and pulled the bottle of Johnnie Walker from under the desk。 The last gossamer strands of the web whispered past Nothing's face and dissolved in the air。 He smelled the ghost of incense。 〃Young man； I think I would like an explan… 〃
〃Just a minute； Rodger。〃 Mother radiated benevolence； spiritual wholeness。 〃Jason is not a bad child。 If he's drinking； we should spend more quality time…〃
〃Quality time； my ass。〃 Nothing decided he liked Father better than Mother these days； not that he liked either of them much。 〃Jason is not a child at all。 He is fifteen and runs with a gang of punkers who give him a liquor habit and God knows what else。 He dyes his hair that phony black that rubs off on the pillowcases and stains my good shirts in the wash。 He smokes Cigarettes…Lucky Strikes；〃 Father said with distaste。 Nothing saw the pack of Vantages poking out of Father's breast pocket。 〃He throws away the clothing we buy him or rips it to rags before he'll wear it。 Now he's stealing from us。 Things are going to CHANGE…〃
〃Rodger。 We'll talk about it； among ourselves。 Don't worry； Jason； you're not in trouble。〃 Mother positively floated from the room； pulling Father after her。 Father slammed the door。 A stack of books fell over； spilling Plath and Bradbury and William Burroughs across the floor in an unlikely orgy of paper and dust。
In the hall Father's voice rose。 〃What the hell was that supposed to mean； he's not in trouble 。 。 。 he goddamn well is in trouble 。。。。 〃
Nothing closed his eyes for a moment and watched red spangles swirl away behind his lids。 Then he got up and stretched his lithe naked body； shaking his hair and his hands to cleanse himself of Mother's touch。 Father had taken away the good whiskey； but Nothing had his own bottle of brainrot hidden in the closet。 A flask of something called White Horse。 He'd gotten his friend Jack to buy it for him because of the name： Dylan Thomas had drunk his last eighteen whiskeys at a pub called the White Horse in New York City。
Nothing lay in the dark and sipped from the neck of the bottle； blinking up at the stars on his ceiling。 After a while the constellations began to swim。 I've got to get out of this place； he thought just before dawn； and the ghosts of all the decades of middle…class American children afraid of placency and stagnation and fortable death drifted before his face； whispering their agreement。
In Nothin