The Twelve-Fingered Boy

Text copyright © 2013 by John Hornor Jacobs

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jacobs, John Hornor.

The twelve-fingered boy / John Hornor Jacobs.

p. cm. — (The Twelve-Fingered Boy Trilogy.)

Summary: Fifteen-year-old fast-talking Shreve is thriving in juvenile detention until he is assigned a strangely silent and vulnerable new cellmate, Jack, who just might have superpowers and who attracts the attention both of the cellblock bullies and sinister Mr. Quincrux.

ISBN: 978–0–7613–9007–7 (trade hard cover : alk. paper)

[1. Juvenile detention homes—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Ability—Fiction. 4. Bullies—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J152427Twe 2013

[Fic]—dc23

2012015292

Manufactured in the United States of America

1 – BP – 12/31/12

FOR ADAM RULE

THE BROTHER I CHOOSE

O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

—
Hamlet
, Act II, Scene 2, by William Shakespeare

A human being is part of a whole, called by us “Universe,” a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circles of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.

— Albert Einstein

On the inside, everyone's the same. From the worst offenders—the kids who've killed, shot their parents, mutilated their pets, terrorized their neighbors—to the druggies and potheads, the dealers and the oxymorons. From the junior gangbangers, the bandanna wranglers, to the saddest wards of the state, the titty-babies, popped for serial shoplifting and curfew violations—they're all the same.

They all love candy. They'll eat that crap until their teeth rot out.

That's where I come in.

He's standing by the water fountain, picking his nose with the pad of his thumb. Not really digging into the nostril, just kind of brushing it the way adults do. They like to think it's not really picking your nose if you don't use your index finger. It is, actually. Assistant Warden Horace Booth stops, peeks at his thumb, and flicks his fingers like he had crumbs on them instead of boogs. Then he places his hands on his waist with the general I'm-king-of-the-world attitude that I've become used to. He watches the general pop, watches the boys playing dominoes, the boys reading, the boys yukking it up. He watches, always vigilant, always there to make sure we don't go all
Lord of the Flies
and start sacrificing kids.

I've got the conch. He knows it, I know it.

Ox, who's partial to Blow Pops, keeps his bulk between Booth and me so I can make the deal. Some kids got the jones for hard candy. Some kids got the jones for chocolate. Some are devils for gum and the chewy stuff. Now and Laters. Jujyfruits. Gummi Bears. Some are just big, walking cavities waiting to happen. And to get it, they'll pay. If I'm shadowing Ox, none of the D-Wing goons will bother me, even if I'm holding, and none of the C-Wing cadre will dare try to rough me up. Ox's ugly face, sprouting a Blow Pop stem, is enough to scare off even the toughest delinquent. And he's just sixteen, tall and muscled like his namesake. Don't know his real name.

Kenny, seeing the deal's about to go down, sidles up and slips me the cash. I don't even need to count it to know it's there. It's there, or he'll never get another pack of Sweet Tarts for the next two years, which is how long I'll be in here. Kenny's due a longer haul for robbing that little old granny at the five-and-dime. When he laughs about his arrest—his bust, he calls it—the way the old lady cried as the police arrived, you can see his black, nasty teeth. The boy don't brush.

And why should he? No mothers in Casimir Pulaski Juvenile Detention Center for Boys to tell you to brush your teeth. No fathers to tell you to floss—not like that was a problem for me before, on the outside. Just Assistant Warden Booth, watching and waiting.

Brushing your teeth isn't in the rule book. Dealing candy is. If he catches me, I'm bound for the Farm. At the Farm I have no contacts—no cousin who'll slip me the goods, who'll stash a box of candy in caches around old Casimir Juvie.