Harvey’s mama said, “Honey, don’t wave at those men. Those are convicts.” But to Harvey it was hard to tell, because none of ’em wear stripes like the Hamburglar. They look like regular people in blue jeans and shirts and hats, picking up trash. But his mama said, “Do you see those men standing at either end with guns? And if one of those men ran, then they would get shot, so it’s better not to smile and wave at all.”

Super Monkey could do it, but he can do anything. He could go right now and find Harvey’s daddy and say, “Please come home. Please don’t leave.” Super Monkey would have saved those kids that got shot, too.

“You can join the group now, Harvey,” Mr. Stone says, but Harvey tells him, “No, thank you.” He’s okay just sitting.

“Really, son,” he says. “I want you to join the group.”

“Can I wear this?” Harvey holds out the mustache he has kept safe in his pocket and finally the teacher tells him that yes, yes, yes, he can wear the mustache.

Shelley

Now that man struts in, looking as relaxed as a person can be in an orange jumpsuit with his life on the line. He even whispers something to his lawyer and laughs. Months before the trial began, she and Harvey had seen the doctor in Lowes Foods and overheard him talking to the clerk about a party he was having. He was wearing a loud floral shirt, long pink shorts, and shiny black loafers. He was going to have a luau, and he talked about leis and pupu platters, which made Harvey bend over double in the checkout line, his face red with laughter. When he laughed that hard, you could see the thin white scar where his lip had been unformed. This was before Harvey went to kindergarten and still laughed openly; his hands clutched the sack of gummy candies he had begged to buy, instead of covering his mouth.

“Did I miss something?” The doctor looked at Harvey when he said this, and it made Harvey laugh even harder.

She thought at the time what a hateful stare he’d given to Harvey, and then he leaned in close to her, so close she could smell his aftershave or soap, something out of her league to know, and he said, “You know there are surgeons who can do a much better job with that.” Harvey was still laughing, mouth wide, lip split, the thin white scar visible under his nose.

She has seen that same stare every day for weeks and weeks. In the piece she didn’t mean to write, she described the doctor’s eyes as being like dark slits in a fleshy melon. A jack-o’-lantern, a pumpkin head of hatred, fermented rot.