Falter Kingdom. Michael J. Seidlinger

is brushed under the floorboards.

      Jon-Jon tugs at Jetson’s leash. The dog runs up to Brad, hyper and seemingly happy as always. Corgis. Happiness is a corgi.

      “Brad,” Jon-Jon says without looking up from his phone, “enough.”

      “Yeah, sorry, man.” Brad works on finishing the chicken fingers.

      I’m watching him until Jon-Jon asks, “Hunter, how are you feeling today?” Jon-Jon’s eyes are almost always glued to the phone in his hands. Guess it’s the way he conducts business. But he looks at me like he’s concerned. Is he really? You know, I never know what’s real or fake with the guy.

      “Yeah”—I fake a yawn—“just a little tired.”

      Jon-Jon leans forward. “That so? How tired are you, on a scale of one to ten, ten being chronic insomnia?”

      Uh, I go with an eight, which means I really tell him, “About a five.”

      Jon-Jon clicks his tongue, looks up at one of the girls, kind of cute, brown hair tied back, red lipstick—no one knows any of Jon-Jon’s girls, their names or anything else; I’m pretty sure they don’t go here—and the girl hands him a notebook.

      Brad with his mouth full: “Is that...?”

      It is. It’s yesterday’s betting pool.

      See I kind of started betting on football, baseball, basketball, whatever everyone around me was betting on, because it kept things cool. If I won, I get some cash. If I lost, then whatever. I don’t have a stake in any of these teams. I don’t even really find it all that interesting. Watching Brad as he flips through the book quickly, for him it’s more than just money.

      “Hell yes,” Brad shouts, “you owe me! Pay up, pay up!”

      This is how it goes. Then there’s still all the talk about stats, which player to pick, who’s got the better team. I just want to make it until fifth period so I can get some sleep.

      I lean against the wall while Brad and Jon-Jon talk sports, then about this rapper who’s supposed to be in town soon, how Jon-Jon can probably get tickets for cheap, which gets Brad excited. “Get me a few. Perfect bait for landing a date!”

      I glance over at Jon-Jon’s girls, or assistants, or whatever. I know they find this as dull as I do. Or maybe they don’t.

      What’s the big deal?

      I used to feel kind of bad about not being interested in sports or music or that kind of stuff. Culture, I guess. I mean, I still do. I can see how learning about the stats and predicting how ball games will turn out could be really cool. I bet it’s satisfying. But before I can really get used to it, they’re talking about other things. Never really been into hip-hop or the stuff I hear coming from people’s cars. At least at the parties they blast it so it’s all bass.

      But I guess I never got into it.

      I don’t really know what I like. Music can be fun to listen to, but sometimes I just like sitting back and listening to podcasts, people chatting about, I don’t know, new technology, space, time travel. Weird stuff that doesn’t come around often. I guess that’s kind of insane.

      Jon-Jon didn’t bring me here to listen to them talk business.

      He asks me, “Too tired for one on me?” He holds up a bottle of vodka.

      This guy, there’s no way he’s getting away with this stuff just by being careful. I say yes and we both take swigs from the bottle, Brad included. We take enough to ease off a little, but right before Brad and I walk back for class, Jon-Jon calls me out: “You ran, huh?”

      Back turned, I kind of freeze, feeling the more powerful lull of liquor, how it kind of feels heavier than a beer buzz. Brad nudges me. “Bro...”

      I know.

      I tell him the truth, the lie I’ve practiced enough for it to be truth. Trick is to believe it yourself.

      “Yeah, man,” I say, playing it smooth, “I did.”

      Jon-Jon stares at me. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

      Brad chimes in: “Wasn’t really planned, like, we got in each other’s faces, this guy and Steve... you know Steve? Steve the creep?”

      Jon-Jon nods his head once. “I do.”

      Brad continues: “Well, our boy here got in dweeb’s face and then just fucking ran Falter like it was nothing.”

      Jon-Jon puts his phone down on his right knee and claps five times, slow, like this—clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.

      “Yeah”—I sort of smile—“yeah, you know.” I laugh.

      “I could have made some money. We all could’ve,” Jon-Jon says.

      See that’s what’s been happening with Falter and Meadows students. You go there and run on a bet. No one talks about it and no one really makes any bets, but whenever people plan on actually running, more than a few people show up. They show up and Jon-Jon’s always there.

      I can see why he’s disappointed.

      Jetson barks at me.

      Jon-Jon looks at the dog. “And?”

      Jetson growls. I’m not doing anything. I take a step forward and the dog charges at me. Jon-Jon tugs the leash back.

      We all look at the dog.

      We’re all thinking the same thing, but only I really know the real deal.

      Still, I’m not telling. I don’t want the last thing people remember of me to be that I caught one, showing symptoms and all.

      Jon-Jon glares at me. “Didn’t catch anything?”

      Brad tries to speak for me, but Jon-Jon raises a hand like he’s some mob boss and a single gesture commands the entire scene.

      Then again, it’s kind of like that, actually.

      “No,” I say, “unless you call insomnia demonic.”

      “It should be!” Brad laughs. Brad is so fake.

      I want to say it—I don’t know why I hang out with you—but I won’t. I won’t.

      Enough’s enough.

      Jon-Jon doesn’t laugh. No one does.

      He says something like, “Fair enough,” right as the lunch period rings out in the distance. I give this kind of weird, awkward gesture—“It calls”—and then I burst out of the scene too quickly, like I’m trying to tell Jon-Jon that I’m hiding something. I manage to say, “Catch you later, man,” as casual as I can.

      Jon-Jon says something like, “Yeah. We’ll talk later.”

      The way he said it, it sounded insincere, like a mob boss who’s already read a victim’s future. He knows. Or he doesn’t know. Maybe no one knows. Even I kind of push it aside. It’s easy when there’s so much stuff going on.

      It isn’t until after school that the activity continues.

      Like it waited patiently for me to return home.

      Last thing I want to do is have to sit and eat dinner with the parents. Mom’s cooking is all Shake’N Bake, out-of-the-box premade stuff. She’s got all those clients to worry about, and when you’re lawyering it up, dinner and family and all that stuff isn’t top priority. And Dad, don’t get me started on Dad.

      Even when he’s pretending to care, in the back of his mind he’s thinking about the latest cancer patient of his.

      It’s not just money with them. It’s like, well, it’s like what I’ve seen in so many movies. The job becomes you.

      So when I get back from school and all I want is to crash for a few hours, Mom calls me into the kitchen like