Machine Dreams

into the army, that the cop’s name was Buck. I felt an unreasonable dislike for Kato and Buck, whoever he was. Even Billy said I was being unreasonable; he didn’t seem to dislike either of them. But I disliked nearly everyone at times. I liked being with Billy’s friends down at the Tap Room, but occasionally the music would be on loud and the lights would be down and people would be dancing, crowding up the crummy dance floor; we’d all be slightly drunk and I’d feel a flash of hatred, like someone switching on a light. Why should they be sitting here, when he was there and I couldn’t find him anymore? Mostly, I disliked people my age, anyone privileged with possibility and liberty. I didn’t realize how much I disliked myself, my liberty and my helplessness.
    I liked Project Headstart. The kids at Headstart were not at liberty. They reminded me of everything I didn’t know; most of them were frail and jagged, but they had adult eyes, old eyes. Eyes that just watched, expecting little. The kids were scary. I kept trying to find out what they knew, but they didn’t know what they knew. If they did, they weren’t telling.
    One of the boys wouldn’t talk at all except for one-syllable noises that resembled “me” or “dog” or “no.” He was a five-year-old with a stubborn, beautiful, big-eyed face; even his name, Junior, was an afterthought, no name at all. He wasn’t aggressive. Mostly he was silent and stuck to the sidelines, but if pushed past a certain point on the playground he fought wildly, with greater dedication than his tormentors could ever muster. He bloodied noses. Still he wanted approval; he grunted, pointed, grabbed. He answered questions if the question required a yes response; he raised his brows emphatically and nodded, the look in his eyesclose to hopeful. I liked him best and he knew it. I think he hated coming to the school. Mornings, I met the bus at the door of Central Grade. Junior would get off last, shy and angry, shirking, frowning, but once he saw me he squared his shoulders and walked forward, determined. At recess he stood near the bushes, nervously fingering the small leaves and woody stems. The tangled forsythia and honeysuckle were unpruned, taller than Junior by several feet.
    On the morning of a day I won’t forget, Junior came in last from recess. I’d come in early to arrange fingerpaints and he’d probably been searching for me. He found me in the classroom, took my hand, and yanked.
    “What, Junior?”
    He said something that sounded like a whole sentence. I asked him to repeat it. He did, urgently, and tried to lead me toward the door. Mrs. Smith had noticed our exchange. She nodded that I should do as Junior requested, but I was already on my way; I went with him outside. He stopped beside the bushes, looked up at me, and waited.
    I squatted so my face was level with his. “What?” I asked.
    He repeated the word “honeysuckle.” The word was garbled but understandable; all four syllables were distinct. Again, he waited, unsmiling, one hand lost in foliage.
    I looked at the honeysuckle.
    He meant the bush was in bloom. That was what he meant. I broke off a branch and gave it to him. He broke one for me. And so on. We might have harvested the entire bush if Mrs. Smith hadn’t come outside then and stood beside us on the cracked sidewalk.
    “I don’t think they’re going to approve of your breaking these bushes,” she said, “but my lips are sealed.” She looked down at me. “There’s a phone call for you, Danner.”
    “For me?”
    “Yes, in the office. You go ahead. I’ll take Junior back, before they bring the building down.” She turned, taking him by the hand as they went in. “Junior,” she said, “we’ll have to put these branches in some water, won’t we?”
    He nodded but he was finished talking. I followed them as faras the classroom and went farther back into the wide hallway to the principal’s office. The office was empty; no principal in summer. The big desk was dusty and cleared of papers. The blinds on the tall windows were drawn. It was the second day of July and the air in the room was old, hot air. The phone was the only object on the desk; the curled black cord was strung across the desktop toward me.
    I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
    “Danner, this is Gladys. I’m with your mother. Come home right away, dear. Your mother needs you.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “A man is here, a sergeant from the