“Marsha, why the hell did you hang up on me? Excuse me? Excuse you! What kind of relationship is this where I just give and give and you just take and take?”

Sticky shoved his head into the Linus pillow on his bed to stifle howls of laughter. Dan smiled as Marsha tried to answer and calm him down.

“Marsha, don’t act like you don’t know who this is. Fine, I’m going to put Uncle Turd on.”

Dan passed to Stick. He had a scratchy voice useful for prank calls.

“Marsha, why you treating Junebug like this? He knows about your flatulence and he’s okay with it—ah, too much, she hung up.” Sticky tapped the switchhook on the phone. “That was a good one. We should call Ursuline girls.”

Stick fetched the white pages while Dan contemplated his next victim.

“Want to do the survey?” Stick suggested.

“That never works. Let’s do ‘leave a message for Lupe.’”

“Okay, I’m Gonzalez then.”

Dan picked a number at random from the phone book and dialed.

“Hola, me llamo Guillermo. Quien es? No habla español? No problemo. Is Lupe Gonzalez there? No. Okay, I need to leave a message . . . That’s okay, you just tell Lupe I have his rooster. Okay? Don’t worry about it. Just tell him I have his rooster and everything is bueno. Comprende?”

Dan hung up and handed the phone to Sticky. “Can we smoke in the backyard?”

“Nah, my sister might see us. She’s asleep now, but she gets up a lot, creeps around.”

Why am I so itchy for coffee and cigarettes? Dan wondered.

Stick had talked to his mom around eight. She was trying to close the edition but had to run to the printers in Addison and wouldn’t be back until late. The plan to break out and raise hell had stalled. Stick’s mom would call in a pizza delivery. Put the brats to bed. Home by ten. Sorry, hon. Will make it up to you and Dan.

“Steve-o, what are we going to do?”

“Tonight? I don’t think—”

“No, I mean in life. What do you want to do when you grow up?”

“Probably become a porn star. I don’t fucking know. What are you going to do?”

Dan was too shy to say for real. “Well, I don’t want some boring-ass job, working at some company, killing myself like my dad, over what? To make money?”

“Yeah.” Sticky nodded. “Screw that.”

“I want to move back to New York, and read books, and figure shit out.”

“You should become a writer. That’s what Oglesby wants you to do.” Stick said it point-blank, and it was gratifying for Dan to hear it from someone else.

“Maybe.” Dan hesitated but couldn’t say it, as if naming what a Norwegian rat trainee wants would jinx things.