He’s trying to write an email to his grandson, but keeps stopping and rubbing his eyes. Oh, what’s this? Reaching for his glasses, puts them on but . . . no good, is it, Gramps? Now he’s getting up; he’s gone for a little under a minute. Holy shit, no! Back in his seat, he’s got his head tilted back, putting in eye drops. Looks like a little girl made you cry. Oh my God, this is classic. I could watch this all day, Nick trying to read the New York Times on-screen, rubbing his eyes, getting up and checking his vision by reading a book (with glasses and without), coming back to his computer where it’s clear he can barely make out the words on his display. Whether he gets his eyes fixed or his computer (which has got to be out of warranty), it’ll cost him. I’ll change it back before he takes it in to be repaired, so the tech guys won’t find anything. And because it seems like a hardware fault, they won’t even notice that I was ever there.

It’s a particularly mean trick to play on a Wrinkly but Nick’s also a douche, so they cancel each other out. My parents, for all their piss-poor judgment and honest mistakes, didn’t raise me to take shit from bullies. My mother used to say, It’s just us, us against the world. She said that to me once when I told her I was losing my friends, toward the end of elementary school. I think I was nine—one of those ages when you think things will change soon but nothing does. My dad always said to pick your battles, especially when the other guy’s bigger. But if you can fight back, fight dirty; the odds are already stacked against you, so do damage any way you can.

My friends had started to trust me less. I didn’t get invited over as much, and no one ever came to my house anymore. I didn’t hold it against them. I didn’t much like being there either. And I was just a scrawny kid, underweight and geeky and confused.