Mike’s ex-wife had a boyfriend of her own, so he knew exactly what Sims was going through.
“His name is Denny.” Mike shook his head, as if the name were too much to bear. “The kids talk about him all the time. Denny this, Denny that. Denny drives a Honda Element. That’s his big claim to fame.”
“This guy Paul, I’m sure he’s perfectly nice. But I just want to beat the crap out of him, you know? Just on principle.”
Mike scowled approvingly, as if watching a mental movie of the beatdown.
“Denny’s a graphic designer. But he plays rugby for fun. Who the fuck plays rugby?”
The only consolation for Sims was financial. He wasn’t sure how much money an assistant principal made, but he figured it had to be a pretty decent amount, which meant that Jackie and the boys would be able to maintain the standard of living they were accustomed to without relying solely on Sims. And who knew? Maybe Jackie would get her real estate career off the ground one of these days. That would give him even more breathing room if he ever decided to make a career change. It was just too stressful being a pediatrician, his stomach clenching up every time he examined a sick kid, not knowing which of his patients was the next Kayla Ferguson, the one holding the unlucky ticket. He just wanted to do something else for a while, a job that didn’t involve telling a mother that her child was going to die.
What he really wanted to do was start a blues band with Mike, find a drummer and a bassist, play a few local gigs, and see where it led. They’d been talking about it for a while, and Mike had been putting out feelers, checking around with some of his musician buddies to see if anyone was available. In the meantime, they’d been working hard on some songs, mostly covers, but a couple of originals, too, music by Mike, lyrics by Sims.
When they knew they were ready, they went into the Inner Sanctum, plugged in their guitars, and made a cell-phone video of “Born Under a Bad Sign,” playing along with a backing track Mike had recorded on his laptop. They did six takes before they nailed it, Sims holding down the rhythm without a hitch, Mike singing with bitter conviction and adding some sizzling lead guitar. When they were finished, they bumped fists and uploaded their file to YouTube. After that, there was nothing to do but sit back, crack open a cold one, and wait for someone to notice. On the whole, Sims was proud and hopeful — he thought they’d done an excellent job with the song — but there was a faint current of dread running beneath his optimism, because good things turned to shit all the time, and you couldn’t always see it coming.
The Chosen Girl 
ROSE’S FRONT WINDOW LOOKS OUT on the bus stop across the street. Despite the ferocious early March cold — the radio says it’s eight degrees with the wind chill — the middle school kids have assembled as usual in their sacklike jeans and ski jackets, clapping their gloves and stamping their fancy sneakers against the frigid ground, snorting plumes of vapor as they crane their necks for a glimpse of yellow down at the far end of Sycamore. It’s only seven-forty — the bus won’t be here for another five minutes. Rose presses her cheek against the warmth of her coffee mug, releasing an involuntary shudder of sympathy for the Chosen girl. Five minutes can feel like forever on a morning like this, even when your parents haven’t sent you out of the house without proper clothing.
The Chosen girl stands off to one side, over by the fire hydrant, her primly old-fashioned outfit — long skirt, drab woolen sweater, simple cotton kerchief — intensifying her isolation, making her seem even farther away from the other kids than she already is. There’s a look of vacancy on her face, as if she’s unaware that she’s the only one at the bus stop not wearing a coat. Her brother and two other Chosen boys are dressed for the weather, bundled into nice bulky parkas that let them blend into the scenery at first glance, though they, too, stand apart from the others, a cluster unto themselves. As far as Rose knows — and she’s the first to admit that she doesn’t know much about these strangers who have become such a conspicuous and disturbing presence in her town — the Chosen just don’t seem to believe in coats for the women and girls, though it’s hard to imagine something like that could actually be part of their religion.
Watching the girl, Rose can’t help thinking of the expensive winter jacket — her grandson’s Christmas present — that’s been gathering dust in her hall closet since November, a two-tone monstrosity emblazoned with the ugly logo of a team called the San Jose Sharks. It would be too big for her, of course. The girl — Rose imagines her name to be Rachel or Sarah, something plain and biblical — is such a scrawny little thing; the coat would just swallow her up, the garish mall colors mocking her sickly complexion, the dishwater pallor of her lank hair. It would be warm, though, and Rose pictures herself carrying it across the street, draped across her arms like a sleeping child, wordlessly offering it up to the half-frozen girl. Would she take it?
Would you? she silently inquires.
As if she’s heard the question, the Chosen girl looks up, tugging nervously at her kerchief. Her expression darkens, but it’s not anger on her face, just an adolescent petulance that makes Rose smile in spite of herself. At almost the same instant, the familiar bulk of the school bus slides into view, coughing dirty exhaust. It lurches away a few seconds later, leaving behind a forlorn vista of blacktop, sidewalk, and trampled grass. Rose remains seated in her chair by the window for a long time afterward, still staring at the spot where the girl had been, the coffee mug going cold in her hands.
MANY YEARS earlier, when her son had waited at the same bus stop, Rose had not been allowed to stare out the window like this. Instead she’d had to flatten herself against the wall, peering through the narrow crack between the blind and the window, seeing without being seen. She’d done this to humor Russell, who’d been mortified by the sight of her face pressed against the glass, her benevolent gaze trained on him as he went about his business in the world.
“Stop spying on me,” he’d told her a few days into his new life as a fifth-grader. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I’m not spying. I’m just seeing you off.”
“Well, cut it out. The kids are making fun of me.”
Rose would have liked to laugh at his concerns, but she knew what a sensitive boy he was, how easily wounded. It was hard enough being smaller and smarter than the other kids; he didn’t need to be ridiculed as a mama’s boy on top of that. So she’d compromised, retreating behind the lowered blind, actually becoming the spy he’d accused her of being in the first place.
This arrangement worked out pretty well until the morning the boys stole Russell’s hat. It seemed like a joke at first, a dopey prank. Russell was standing by himself as he often did, not bothering anyone, his face hidden beneath the bill of his brand-new Yankees cap, when Lenny Barton came tiptoeing up behind him. Lenny was an older boy, husky and boastful and unaccountably popular, despite the fact that he was repeating sixth grade and rarely washed his hair. As far as Rose knew, he and Russell had never had any trouble before.