Read Swing State for Free Online Page B

older than him, but had creased faces like his dad’s.
    Recipes had patterns, too. He was horrible at math, but he understood how food worked. Bread, especially. And pastry. Pasta dough. Mrs. Lafrancoise always shook her head when she watched him bake. Zachariah, she’d say, you have a gift. She was the one who convinced him to enroll in voc.
    All the kids who wore denim jackets and T-shirts bearing the names of scary-sounding bands did voc. They drove noisy cars and drank beer. Even before his soccer accident, before his weight, he didn’t want to hang around with that crowd—taking regular classes would make more sense (except maybe math). But Mrs. Lafrancoise told him that because of the way he knew about bread—just knew, she said—he would have no problem getting a job at a nice restaurant. He could be a pastry chef. Or a baker. And because he came from a low-income family, he might be eligible for a scholarship to a culinary school.
    * * *
    Zachariah heard the TV as he opened the door.
    Uh-oh.
    When his dad came home early it wasn’t because something good happened. Which meant he had already started drinking. And a beating, probably, unless he escaped.
    The TV was loud with some kind of car race. Zachariah, still holding the screen door handle, turned and began to tiptoe back out of the house.
    He could walk back to the school library, open until five. Or he could walk downtown to the Double Scoop, although doing so would probably mean getting picked on. He missed sitting at its dark wood tables, a dish of ice cream in front of him, working on a game show. Since his weight gain, the rewards the place offered—quiet music, sun pouring through the windows—were not worth the inevitability of kids walking by his table, saying that fatties didn’t need more ice cream. But that risk far outweighed the sock of tennis balls in his father’s closet.
    â€œI HEAR YOU!”
    Oh no.
    Paul Tietz appeared in the kitchen doorway, eyes red and bleary, holding a can of Venerable. His short-sleeved work shirt was unbuttoned low, a stained white tee poking out from underneath.
    â€œTrying to get out without me hearin’ you, huh?”
    Zachariah said nothing.
    â€œWhat did you learn in school today?”
    If he said “nothing,” his father would deride him for being stupid. If he mentioned something he learned, his dad would accuse him of trying to outsmart his old man.
    â€œWhat are you watching?”
    â€œSome car race,” he said. “Who cares? Why would I want to watch a bunch of guys drive in circles? Going nowhere.”
    Zachariah nodded.
    â€œWhat’s for dinner?”
    Zachariah wanted to tell his father it was two-thirty in the afternoon.
    â€œYou’re always thinking about it. You’re probably thinking about food right now.”
    Zachariah said nothing.
    â€œI SAID WHAT’S FOR DINNER?”
    Before he knew it Zachariah was on the floor. A sunburst of pain blossomed in one kidney, fresh and raw. He hollered.
    â€œANSWER ME!”
    Zachariah moved his mouth to form words. None came.
    A fresh blossom on the other side.
    Still no words, but a howl.
    â€œWHAT’S FOR DINNER?”
    â€œAh,” Zachariah said.
    His father stood over him.
    â€œAh . . . I’ll make . . . Ruh . . . Ravioli.”
    It was Paul’s favorite. There was always frozen hamburger in the freezer.
    â€œI’m hungry,” Paul said and stomped back to the living room.

7.
    L IBRARY. C AR BOOKS WERE GOOD. P ICTURES. Understood more every day. Remembered.
    The recruiter said easier to get work when you come home. You gain stature. College if you want. GI Bill. Grants. But their looks when he went into the job place. Like here we go again. No. Couldn’t be because there were none. It was him. The way he looked. Talked. Something. So he’d learn up. Go see Artie. Say hey, man. I haven’t called because I’ve been