Fishbones Book I – Chapter 1: Running

Posted On May 10, 2021

Illustration by Eyugho

Ferris was running.

He didn’t run very often and wasn’t what one would call “good at it.” He had only been running for a few blocks and could already feel his legs protesting. He wasn’t dressed for the occasion, nor had he woken up with a fist in his palm and the unshakable resolution to go for a few laps around his neighborhood. The only reason that his shoes were pounding so hard against the wet pavement, that his sweater was starting to make him sweat, and that his scarf had fluttered off into a gutter ten yards back, was that he was being chased.

His chasers were a trio of teenage boys—his classmates Rudy, Zach, and Paul. It was the natural order of things, with three entitled young men fulfilling their role at the top of the social food chain. Preying on the weak was a responsibility they took seriously. Ferris was one of their favorite targets, but this was because he usually never ran. All three boys, especially the athletically stunted one, found this new development very annoying.

Everything about Ferris Levinstein screamed “beat me up.” He was a pedigree nerd in every sense: a quiet, lanky, push-up-your-glasses-while-talking, string instrument-playing know-it-all. He probably deserved this, though he faced it more often than he would’ve liked.

Today would be different. Today Ferris had made the executive decision to not get punched in the face. At least, he would try not to. He stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk then regained his footing. If he truly deserved anything, it was a medal for the valiant effort he was putting into this whole running thing.

Unfortunately, as stated prior, he wasn’t very good at it. The boys caught him easily. Paul grabbed his arm as Rudy took a handful of his short, dark hair. Ferris’ glasses went flying as a fist hit his cheek. Something trickled down his chin and he could only pray it was blood and not spit. This was already embarrassing enough. When he dared to lift his head, all he could see was a blurry fist aimed between his eyes, hungry for the crunch of a broken nose.

Car tires screeched from the street. The fist froze. All four boys’ attention flipped toward the curb where a black Lincoln Town Car had skidded to a stop. It was a tank of a vehicle, gleaming steel leaving crescents on the pavement and a wake of burnt tire smell. The driver’s side door cracked open, releasing an older Italian with silver-streaked temples and a pair of thick, black glasses. There was a shotgun in his hands.

“What did I tell you, you little shits?” The man pushed fat shells into the weapon and ran the action forward with a clack.

Rudy managed to find his voice. “Fuck—go! Go go go!”

The three pushed past one another, tripping over their own feet. The sound of scrambling rubber soles followed them around the corner, and just like that, they were gone.

Ferris’ first order of business was to kneel, hands patting the sidewalk until his fingertips brushed plastic. He slipped his glasses back on. The world came back into focus, fuzzy shapes regaining their depth and detail. He immediately glared into the car.

“Demos, you idiot. You were supposed to meet me in the library,” Ferris said.

The idiot in question was not the man with the shotgun but a boy in the passenger seat. A cigarette dangled from the corner of the teen’s mouth.

“Oh.” Demos leaned out the open window, skinny fingers tapping ash onto the street. “I knew I forgot something.”

“You didn’t forget, you just wanted to go home and look at yourself in the fucking mirror!”

Demos tucked sleek black hair behind an ear. “Oh, come on.”

Demos Giorgetti was Ferris’ closest friend, not that there was much competition for the spot. He was much too well-dressed for a teenager and had both the physique and complexion of something meant to be haunting a Victorian hotel. He enjoyed things that old men enjoyed—bespoke suits and culinary journeys. He was also fond of things that old men did not like, such as stupid pop songs and looking at himself in the mirror.

The man with the shotgun was Victor Giorgetti, Demos’ uncle and caregiver. Victor loved his Lincoln, his family, and not much else.

“You had study plans today?” Victor’s fingers creaked on the wooden stock of the shotgun. “If you fail a single goddamn class—”

“God, fine! I’ll do it tomorrow!”

Ferris’ hand sharpened to an accusatory point. “Tomorrow!”

The two boys glared at each other. It was only when Demos noticed the bruise that had blossomed on his friend’s cheekbone that his eyes softened.

“You’re bleeding.” Demos gestured to his own chin, then tossed his cigarette butt out the window.

Ferris wiped the corner of his mouth with his hand, pulling it back to examine the dark red stain on his fingers. So it was blood.

Thank God.

#

Ferris first met Demos when they were both twelve years old.

He’d known guests were coming over that afternoon because his mother had spent the entire day cooking. The smell of brisket drifted through the living room. It was a rich, warm scent, yet it had gone completely unnoticed by the boy hunched on the sofa. Ferris’ attention was focused on the Game Boy in his hands, eyes locked on muted green pixels as he mashed buttons.

“Ferris,” Ruth called from the kitchen. “Did you finish cleaning up in there?”

Ferris didn’t look up. “Yes.”

“Then what are you still doing downstairs?”

He stooped closer to the screen, glasses slipping down his nose. “I’m busy, Mom.”

“Get up to your room. Your father needs to talk to the grown-ups!” The fervor in his mother’s voice had increased exponentially with each word. This was as far as he could protest without facing the easterly cyclone Ruth Levinstein could become.

“Fine.”

He slipped from the couch, eyes never leaving the screen, fingers never stopping their assault on the B button. Ruth’s timing had been prophetic—Ferris was only halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rang. For the first time in the last hour, his eyes left the screen.

What conversation could possibly be so ‘grown-up’ that he wasn’t even allowed on the same floor of the house? Ferris crouched near the top of the stairs, out of sight. He could hear the door open and familiar voices soon followed.

The older, more dignified voice belonged to Gino Giorgetti, a close friend of his father. Though the man had lived in the States for many years, he still carried hints of an Italian accent. The other voice had been locally grown. Victor was Gino’s eldest son—he ran the family restaurant, Ristorante Giorgetti, and was also a regular at the Levinstein household.

“Harold,” Gino said. “We brought wine.”

“You also brought a new face,” Harold said. Ferris could tell his father was smiling by the tone of his words.

“This is Demos, my grandson. Just flew over on Thursday—transferred at Fiumicino. He’s still a little jet-lagged.”

“Hello, Mr. Levinstein.”

It was an unfamiliar voice—a young boy. Curiosity drew Ferris to peek around the stair wall to get a look. The child was well-dressed for a twelve-year-old, wearing a white Oxford shirt and pressed slacks. A shock of black hair parted nearly over his forehead. He looked thin and tired. Ferris would later learn that he always looked this way.

“He’s the same age as your son, isn’t he?” Gino said as Harold took their coats. “I believe they’re only a few months apart.”

“You look half-starved, let’s find you something to eat,” Ruth said, taking the boy by the shoulder and leading him towards the kitchen. In truth, Ruth said this to everyone, all the time, and would continue saying this to Demos each time he crossed the threshold of their front door.

Once the child was out of earshot, the men began talking.

“I sent the docs over last night. Don’t worry about the deadline.” Harold poured a glass of scotch and handed it to Victor. Harold had quite a different physique from his son. Where Ferris had a spindly frame and a gaze much too world-weary for a boy his age, Harold had a round, bearded face and friendly eyes. They did, however, wear the same style of glasses, and both had a head of dark, curly hair. Sadly, Harold had lost most of his to the ruthlessness of age. A few years down the road, Ferris would have a barber cut off his as well, but only out of sheer embarrassment.

Victor took a sip. “Good. And the delivery?”

“Signature confirmation.”

“No problems?”

“No. Well, actually—about Alonzo,” Harold said. “There was a, ah, repeat of last month’s little issue.”

Ferris leaned against the wall and listened more carefully. They were being painfully vague.

His father’s job was relatively simple. Harold was an accountant. He took care of other people’s money. He would dress in a suit and tie, have coffee, and drive to work every morning in an office building downtown. There were many clients that depended on him and he was good at his job. The Giorgettis, however, weren’t normal clients. Ferris wasn’t an accountant, but he knew the difference between taxes and probably-not-taxes. He wanted to understand what they did and why they came to his father, but whenever he asked there was never a clear answer.

“You’re kidding me.” Victor set his glass down with a dramatic clink. “How many times have I—”

“He needs to be spoken to,” Harold said.

“Spoken to? Every fucking time he does this, it costs me money. What was it last time—eight, nine grand?” Victor said. “If he weren’t family I’d say take him under the Midtown Bridge and clip him. He’s a waste of life.”

Clip. To cut, or cut off or out, as with shears: to clip a rose from a bush. To trim by cutting: to clip a hedge. None of these definitions really applied to this situation, seeing as Alonzo was a man and not a shrub. As a metaphor, maybe—

Ferris swallowed, clenching his fingers at the thought. He was still young, but he understood more about how the world worked than his father assumed. He’d seen in newspapers, television dramas, and classic films, what happened to men under bridges. He knew what organized crime was.

“Victor,” Gino said. “You may want to watch your language in front of your nephew.”

“Oh.”

It sounded as if Demos had escaped Ruth’s clutches.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and say hello to Ferris?” Harold said to the boy. “He can take a little break from his homework.”

Ferris nearly hit his head on the wall as he scrambled to his feet and rushed down the hall into his bedroom. That was right—he was supposed to be studying. He barely had the time to grab a book before Demos appeared in his doorway. Ferris stared up at him, a proverbial deer in headlights.

“Hello,” Demos said.

“Hi.” The word had floundered somewhat in Ferris’ throat before escaping his lips. “Uh, what’s your name?”

“You know my name,” he said. “You were listening to them talk.”

“What?” Ferris snapped his book closed. “I—”

“I saw you on the stairs. It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Ferris said. So maybe spying wasn’t his true calling. Demos entered the room, walking past him to browse his bookshelf. He placed a slender finger on the top of a book’s spine, tilted it out halfway to examine the cover, then carefully pressed it back into place.

“So—you’re from Italy, right? How long are you visiting for?” Ferris tapped his fingers on the textbook in his lap.

“I’m not visiting.” Demos pulled a book out to flip through the pages. “I’m going to live with my uncle Victor.”

“Oh. For school?”

“My mother died.” Demos’ eyes were half-lidded as he put the book back in its place. “Did you arrange these by color?”

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t—wait, what?”

“These aren’t sorted by title or author. You placed them on the shelves in color order.”

“Well, yeah, but—” Ferris said. “But what about your dad?”

“I’m not sure where he is,” Demos said. Somewhere inside, Ferris was screaming at himself. He wondered if he would be better off not asking any questions—or maybe not speaking at all. Yes, he could just sit and stare at the new boy with a labored smile. That seemed normal.

Ferris rubbed the worry from his temples. There was only one thing he could think of saying.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Demos said. There was something dead in his voice—hollow.

“Aren’t you sad?”

Demos didn’t answer immediately. He thought for a while, then sat down on Ferris’ bed with folded hands.

“I’m not sad when I don’t think about it. So I try to think about other things. Uncle Victor said I’m too old to cry now,” Demos’ voice quieted. “But I saw him cry, too.”

Once again, Ferris had no idea what to say. Here he had been, only five minutes ago, incensed over not being allowed to play video games on the couch. This boy had lost his parents and had been thrust into a strange, new country with no friends and a not-so-sensitive uncle.

Demos tucked his hair behind an ear. “Ferris. That’s your name, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do I have an accent? Like Nonno?” Demos asked. He caught Ferris’ eyes. For the first time that day, Ferris saw emotion in them. It was fear.

“An accent?” Ferris blinked. Nonno must have been Demos’ grandfather. There was nothing particularly Italian about the way Demos spoke, though Ferris could have sworn he’d heard a hint of British intonation. It would only take one year for this to fade, swallowed whole by the beast of American vernacular.

“Well, not really. Did you take a class?”

“No. My father spoke English.”

There was another new emotion on that face—the faintest, softest hints of a smile. Ferris liked that smile, as weak as it was. Maybe there was a way to see more of it. He thought back, trying to remember what made himself happy, what made him smile even on those days he didn’t want to.

He looked down at the book in his hands for a solid half-minute, then passed it over.

“Here.”

Demos hesitated before accepting the paperback with both hands. “What’s this?”

“It’s Moby-Dick, my favorite book. It’ll help you think about other things, so you won’t be sad.”

Looking back, Ferris would come to the realization that a 600-page book about the hubris of man and an actual whale was probably not the best gift for a normal twelve-year-old. Then again, there wasn’t much that was normal about Demos Giorgetti.

“Thanks.” There it was—the rest of that smile.

As the boy lowered his head to peruse the pages of Moby-Dick, Ferris noticed that the hair covering his eye had been concealing a thick, white scar above his eyebrow. He knew better than to ask about it—his curiosity could wait until another day. Another day, and another time, when his friend would learn to smile all on his own.