I’d been promising Custis that I’d teach him because he’d get so jealous every time he saw me and Old Man Turpentine dancing in back of the Fun Shop. He’d shuffle up to me all low and sideways with those desperate eyes, going, “C’mon, Curl, teach me to dance, you know you promised.” So there we were, outside the tent, dancing to Britney Spears, and Boobie’s coming through the woods with a baby in his arms. The night was behind him like a big dark thing you can’t see. Custis was like, “Who’s that?” And Boobie shifted the baby in his arms and went, “My little brother.” “What’s his name?” Custis asked, but Boobie just shook his head. The General Electric radio was the only thing that let you know you weren’t dreaming. It was either Britney or Pink or that little skinny bitch who can outsing all of them. There was so much blood on Boobie’s shirt you could smell the metal in it, and it wasn’t coming from the baby, because the baby was cleaner than a Christmas card.
