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clay that Max had made in art class, blue and with a dozen toothpicks extending from its torso; the art teacher, Mr. Hjortness, had called it the Blowfish Bluebird, and Max liked that name a lot. Now Gary gently but quickly swept the bird aside to make way for his buttocks. Next he reached down, fumbling for something under the bench. There were many shoes under the bench, all of them his or his mom’s or Claire’s. Now Gary’s shoes dwelled there, too, and it didn’t seem right.
    “Hey Max,” he said, while not looking at Max. He was tying his small shoes -- they looked like eels, narrow and made of cheap black pleather -- and saying, “Max ... Max ... What rhymes with Max?”
    Max didn’t care what rhymed with Max. He wanted Gary to first stop talking, then to leave the house.
    Gary, now done with his shoes, looked up. “Hey Max. You know where your mom keeps any tools?”
    Max had never seen tools in the house. At least not since his father had left.
    “Have you tried the kitchen?” Max said, suppressing a laugh. He heard Gary start toward the kitchen and then stop.
    “The kitchen? What would a hammer be doing in the kitchen?” Gary asked. He really had no sense of humor at all, thank god.
    Now he was in front of Max again. He was looking out the window, at his car, a crumbling white sedan. “Not that I’m ‘handy’ or anything,” he said, making a crank-turning gesture intended to mean “handy.” “I can’t get my trunk open. I need a big hammer or something. Sometimes you just need a hammer to get down to real business, am I right or am I right?”
    Max couldn’t think of a good answer to that round of nonsense, so he went back to his sports section.
    “Oh well,” Gary said, as he shoved his pale, freckled arms through the sleeves of his jacket. “Another day, huh?”
    Max shrugged again without looking up.
    Gary took a few steps toward him; he was suddenly far too close. “Listen. I’m, like, trying to make your mom happy.”
    Max’s face went hot. Every so often Gary decided to make such a pronouncement, a statement meant to define exactly why he was sleeping in their home three or so nights a week. And always Max wanted these moments over as soon as possible. He felt Gary close, standing to his right, trying to catch Max’s eye. Max stared so intensely at his cereal that he felt sure he could see the microscopic chemical compounds that formed each flake.
    “Whatever,” Gary finally said. He walked over to the stairs. “See ya Connie,” he yelled.
    “What?” his mother yelled down the stairs.
    Gary mumbled something to himself and, returning to the foyer, began looking for something in his pockets. He didn’t find it, so he eyed the change bowl on the bench. It was a silver bowl, evidence of some anniversary, and it was always full of coins, safety pins, barrettes, pens and pencils. And now it was filled with Gary’s soft pink hand. Max watched as Gary’s fingers made their way through the bright coins, slithering in every direction. Like the tentacles of a squid bringing food into its gaping maw, the fingers gathered ten or so quarters into the sweaty center of his Gary’s fist. He deposited the bounty into his front pants pocket and left.
    Seconds later, Max’s mom appeared in the foyer, head tilted, installing an earring.
    “Someone yelled upstairs,” she said. “Was that you?”
    Max shook his head. Together they looked outside. Gary was folding himself into his old white car, licked everywhere by rust. With a cough of blue smoke, it shook to life and Gary was gone.

CHAPTER VII

    “You ready?” his mom asked.
    Max didn’t want to be driven to school, but he had no choice. His school had done away with bus service. There were only a handful of kids whose parents had allowed them to ride it in the first place, and so the previous year they’d gotten rid of it entirely. No one complained, no one missed it.
    Riding his bike to school was no longer an option. After he’d