Page 24 of King of Pain

Danny snorts. “Leave you alone? Oh no, Pacini. We’re just getting started.”

“You think you’re so special, don’t you?” Jimmy continues. “Winning some dumb contest. Always getting the priests to like you. What’s the secret, huh? Lick their boots? Or is it something else?”

The blood drains from my face. They don’t know. They can’t know. But their words cut deep. They’re too close to the truth.

“Why don’t you just go back inside and hide behind Father Tommy?” Mike sneers, stepping closer. “Bet he’d love that.”

I stand, clutching the edge of the bench. My palms sweat, and my heart pounds. “I didn’t do anything to you,” I say, my voice shaking.

Jimmy laughs, sharp and cold. “Yeah, you did. You breathe.”

I try to walk away, but he shoves me hard. I stumble back, tripping over the bench and landing on the ground. Gravel bites into my palms as I scramble to get up, but they’re on me in seconds.

A punch lands on my shoulder, then another on my side. I curl up, trying to protect my face as they hit and kick me, their laughter ringing in my ears.

“Think you’re better than us, Pacini?” Jimmy snarls. “You’re nothing.”

I don’t fight back. I can’t. The fear of drawing more attention—to myself, to the priests—keeps me frozen. Tears sting my eyes as I press my forehead to the asphalt, wishing I could disappear into it.

Eventually, a nun’s whistle blows, and the boys scatter. I sit up slowly, pain radiating through my ribs. My shirt is torn, and blood trickles from a cut on my lip.

“Anthony!” Sister Margaret’s sharp voice cuts through the playground noise. She hurries over, her habit flapping in the wind as she kneels beside me.

“What happened?” she demands, her eyes scanning my injuries.

“I fell,” I lie, my voice weak.

She frowns, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t press me. “Come on,” she says gently, helping me to my feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

As she leads me toward the school building, I glance back at the playground. Jimmy and his friends are watching from a distance, sneering.

I bite my lip, tasting blood, and force myself to look away.

Inside, as Sister Margaret dabs antiseptic on my scrapes, my mind races. I think about the contest, about Father Tommy’s smile, about the way the priests always treat me differently.

I hate the attention. Hate the way it makes me stand out. Hate that I can’t tell anyone why they favor me, or what it costs me.

“Your talent is very special, Anthony,” Sister Margaret says softly, her voice kind as she bandages my arm.

I swallow, forcing down the lump in my throat.

If only you knew, I think bitterly.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. I avoid eye contact with everyone, shrinking into myself as much as I can. The weight of this secret, the thing I can never tell anyone, feels heavier than ever.

Will it always be like this?

TRACKTWELVE

Foolin’

Anthony

The shop has a steady hum of activity today. It’s the kind of day where there’s just enough foot traffic to keep us busy but still plenty of time for casual conversation. A couple of customers browse quietly, flipping through the bins of vinyl and racks of cassette tapes while Chance and I have been working on remerchandising the ‘70s rock section near the front.

The killer riffs of Heart play overhead, a motivating soundtrack for an afternoon of busy work. I swear, Nancy Wilson shredding on an electric guitar just hits different. And don’t even get me started on Ann’s voice.

I look toward the counter to check on things and catch Chance lingering near the register. His attention is fixed on the stack of flyers by the till, the bold lettering promoting next weekend’sVino & Vinylevent.