Goon

1: A GOON BY ANY OTHER NAME

The other boy—

the one with a sharp nose and eyes the color of dead sawgrass—

finally speaks.

We’re in a juvenile detention van,

an hour from our destination,

and this kid turns to me and starts saying that, before we arrive,

I should adopt a persona.

“You know,” he says. “An alter-ego.”

I swallow hard.

My whole life, I’ve been trying to come up with a better version of myself,

but nothing has fit.

I try to picture myself as someone stronger, leaner, meaner.

A few minutes later, though, my mind is still blank.

I am who I am.

“Goon,” I mumble, slouching further down in the vinyl seat

that’s sticky with sweat and humidity.

“The name’s Goon.”

Goon (noun): a thug; a fool; someone stupid or awkward; a follower

The other boy’s face shrivels up,

like he’s just been forced to eat a turd.

“Goon?! That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.”

The JDD officer in the driver’s seat laughs.

The back of his head and the road beyond

are chopped into squares by the metal cage

that separates him from Sawgrass-eyes and me.

“What’s your name?” I ask, trying to turn the tables.

He ignores my question. “Goon,” he mocks in a stupid voice.

“It sounds fat and ugly, like you.”

I glance toward the officer again.

He doesn’t laugh this time, just turns up the radio.

I’m a big kid.

I’m what you might call huge,

but not in a Dwayne Johnson “The Rock” I-could-kill-you-with-my-little-finger way.

No, I’m huge in a “Fluffy” Iglesias way—only taller, with longer hair.

I even had a pretty good sense of humor, once upon a time.

Anyway, I’ve gotten used to people talking shit to me.

Usually I let it go, but every emotion I’ve felt the last few months

is ready to boil over.

Being stuck in Florida in August doesn’t help.

Neither does the fact that the van’s AC isn’t working.

Worst of all is that, as I get closer to where I’m going,

I’m getting farther away from where I want to be—

from where I NEED to be.

I clench my teeth. “Dude, we’ve been in this van for three hours,

and you haven’t said a word,” I hiss. “And now you wanna pick a fight?”

Sawgrass sits up straight.

He’s half my size, but his eyes are lifeless and cold,

like he hasn’t cared about anything in a really long time.

“I’ll pick a fight whenever I want, you fat fuck.

Nice scar, by the way. Did your boyfriend cut you?”

Plastering my long hair over the jagged scar above my eye,

I scramble to my feet and tower over him.

This usually works.

It worked during my first month in Florida

when I teamed up with Ronnie and Swizzle,

a couple of bullies who asked me

(okay, threatened me) to join them.

“Don’t smile,” Ronnie had instructed.

“Don’t even move. Just stand there and take up space.”

Together, we could get pretty much anyone to back down.

We took kids’ lunch money

and sometimes hoodies and caps

and even got one kid to hand over his $200 Air Jordans.

The van hits a bump in the road, and I wobble.

I grab the seat to steady myself.

“Careful there, Tubs,” sneers Sawgrass.

Who’s scared now? his yellow eyes seem to ask.

I only get out a few words—“How’d you like it if….?”

—before the van swerves sharply.

I lose my balance, and my sweaty hands slide down the vinyl seats.

BOOM.

Down I go, right on my fat ass, right there in the aisle of the van.

The whole thing SHAKES.

It’s just like the acci—

Though I can’t even think the word,

my body remembers it.

My body feels every spasm and quake

before laughing brings me back

to the present. I look up at Sawgrass.

He’s on his feet now, but his face is still hard.

The laughing is coming from the front of the van.

“No fighting in my van, Big Butt,” the officer shouts.

“Goon,” Sawgrass says, glaring down at me.

“His name is Goon.”

2: JAMES

I’m drenched, from my scuzzy hair down to my stinky socks.

The only t-shirt I own hangs off my body.

It’s a disgusting, slimy skin that I can’t wait to shed.

I wonder what kind of uniform they’ll give me at J-R-O-T.

(That’s what my probation officer called where we’re going:

Juvenile-Rehab-something-or-other.)

Maybe they’ll give me a jumpsuit, and I’ll look like a giant orange.

Or maybe everyone wears matching shorts and t-shirts. I hope they have XXL.

But I don’t want to think about where I’m going.

I don’t want to think about being cooped up

with people like Sawgrass for the next five months.

To distract myself, I look out the window.

Florida rolls by, steamy and soggy,

like a pot of something foul that’s been cooking way too long.

We’re heading north, and I remember a year ago,

coming south.

Dad had called moving to Florida a fresh start.

He said the same thing every time we moved.

“The economy down here is off the charts,” he said.

“We just gotta make it work for us.”

For most people, this would mean “get a job.”

But for Dad, it meant

1) fake his way into a good job,

2) do something stupid and get fired,

3) collect unemployment,

4) work shady odd jobs, and

5) crash on the couch with Mom watching TV all day,

smoking all sorts of whatever

while my little brother James and I were in school

and, eventually,

even when we weren’t.

When we crossed the state line from Georgia to Florida,

my father said, “This time will be different.”

Mom and Dad took turns reading every road sign out loud,

as if they were sacred messages telling our fortune:

*Welcome to the Sunshine State*

*Florida Beaches, Next 3 Exits*

*Disney Awaits!*

James was sleeping beside me in the backseat.

I thought about waking him up so he could see the signs,

but I didn’t.

Whatever he was dreaming about was probably better.

I imagine my little brother next to me now, in the van—

not sleeping, but wide awake—

and laughing at some stupid joke he’s just made up.

His fat cheeks are like two red apples.

He laughs so hard, his eyes water.

For a few seconds, he stops breathing.

“That’s not funny,” I say. “Don’t do that.”

But he keeps laughing, keeps losing his breath.

I think, what are you doing here, anyway?

You don’t belong here.

You didn’t do anything wrong.

My heart is in a tug-of-war:

half of me is happy to imagine James here with me,

but the other half is scared for him.

You shouldn’t be here.

You won’t like it where I’m going.

I move my head,

trying to shake loose the vision of my little brother,

but I can’t.

James has always stuck close to me.

He’s my shadow, and I’m usually fine with that.

But sometimes that means he ends up where he doesn't belong.

Just like that night a few months after Mom’s OD

and after Dad disappeared—

one more move, only this time, without us.

James and I got dumped in the world’s strictest foster home,

and after Mr. Smith took away my phone

for filling the dishwasher the wrong way,

I punched a hole in the bathroom wall.

My little brother should have been asleep on the top bunk—

not eavesdropping on me as I crept around the house

muttering to myself about leaving and never, ever coming back.

He should have been dreaming about Pokémon and Star Wars—

not following me into the driveway

and crawling into the backseat of Mr. Smith’s car

just as I was slipping in behind the steering wheel.

You need to go home, I tell James now.

“Home?” his image asks.

His eyes are still wet with tears,

but he’s not laughing anymore.

“We don’t have a home, remember?”

I remember, but I wish I didn’t.