The wind is whipping off the Sound and the bay is nothing but whitecaps that catch the glow of the streetlights in soft strobes. I've settled down between the biggest rocks at the back of the beach. Boulders broken free and rolled by the greatest of the earth's glaciers God knows how long ago. I’m so fucking cold, but I’ve got my tiny fire going, a little trash, a copy of The Standard-Star crumpled up, and enough sticks of driftwood to start warming me and maybe last an hour. I look up at the rocks, the sedimentary stripes going vertically, and because of how I know about these boulders, I start to cry.

Christmas Eve, no, Christmas Day now, it has to be after two. I went to Midnight Mass at St. Joseph’s because no one would notice me in that neighborhood. That kept me warm for a while. I kept my hand over the right side of my face as much as I could. I know it's all swollen and black and blue. I know the cut’s bad. I got butterflies though at the Rite Aid in the Mall and got those on in the Macy's bathroom before the store closed. Then I pushed my face to the icy tile floor up by the top of the elevators in the garage. That was cold as shit and brought the swelling down some.

When I climbed in Kathy’s window at ten she freaked out when she saw me. She said she'd get her mom, but I told her “No way” so she cleaned it up and put new butterflies on. Then before anyone there got suspicious I left through the same window and got to St. Joe’s, with food Kathy had grabbed for me plus orange juice and cupcakes I bought at the C-mart on the way to church all stuffed in a paper bag. And then, well fuck him. Fuck them all. I'm not going home. I might never go home.

I wish the fire was bigger and that I could get warm, but there isn’t much wood and I can’t risk anyone spotting me. I’m counting on the wind and the clouds and the fog and the hour will keep me out of everyone’s sight until morning when maybe I can have a plan. I eat one cupcake, starting by peeling off the squiggle on the frosting, and one Christmas cookie from Kathy and take one hit of OJ, conserving carefully, and press the sand into a more comfortable shape to lie on.

My dad told me about these rocks. Of course he did. On Sunday morning walks along the beach he'd tell me how the Ice Age glaciers had dug the Sound out, cutting Long Island from the mainland. How along the way they'd shattered the rocks and rolled them like pebbles. You see, they lie at all these angles, broken and on their sides. Then, he'd say, ten thousand years of wind and rain and tides had smoothed them down again.

I’ll need to get up soon and find more stuff to burn. My fire sucks. I guess I was never much of a Scout, but fuck, I was a Sea Scout. We set sails, we didn’t build fires. One more thing I suck at, in a universe of things I suck at.

I never know. I never know. I come home. He comes home. I never know. He’s the best guy I've ever seen. So fucking strong, so cool, so helpful, he knows so much, he’s so nice. Every cousin calls him when they’re in trouble. Drunk date, crashed car, fight with their parents, whatever. He teaches everyone sports, fixing cars, and how to drive. He’s the biggest asshole. He’s angry. He’s drunk. He’s pissed off at the whole world. He seems to save that for me.

I know. I piss everyone off. I always fuck up. And he’s not gonna hit my sisters or my mom no more. So I’m there. And I make myself the target. I did tonight. Getting home late, sounding stupid. I always say stupid shit. I always do.

But damn. Fuck him. ‘'m an idiot kid. He’s the frigging grown-up. If I stay away all Christmas, will they figure it out? I don’t know. I wish I wasn’t 12. I wish I was 16 and gone, or I wish I was young enough to still believe in Santa Claus.

(c) 2007-2023 by Ira Socol