The Conformity (37 page)

When I dream, I see a yard, the last of the summer sun upon it. A group of boys and girls playing Wiffle ball. A slight kid with a swagger and a mop of dark hair hiding intense, wolfish eyes. He's laughing there in the dream, and everything's all right. We've got money in our pockets. The sun's still up, and there's time—all the time in the world—before our mothers call us to come home.

Weird, I have a mother in the dream.

And a brother.

When I wake it's all gone.

But I remember.

He's reading in his room at the foster home in Atlanta when I come in. His eyes get this strange, knowing look that I've seen before so many times.

“Hey, Vig,” I say. “I've come a long way to see you. My name's Jack Graves.”

I hold out my hand to shake, and Vig cocks his head, looking at my mitt. It's pretty obvious he's counting all the fingers.

“I was friends with your brother,” I say lamely. “Best friends.”

He looks me up and down, his face still and unmarked by emotion.

“I know,” he says, and takes my hand. “I know, Jack.”

We walk through the house, hand in hand, until we're outside, in the sun. The grass is green and everything's in bloom now that spring is here.

“Hey, Jack, you wanna play catch?” Vig asks.

“Yeah.” He's so small, but still so much like Shreve. “Oh, yeah, I do.”

“Okay,” he says, beaming. “I've got a killer arm, dude.”

Of course he does.

Upon the mountain, beneath a brilliant sky strewn with a million stars, the mountain lion pads on silent feet. When it sleeps, it dreams the lives of man.

THE END

acknowledgments

My love and extreme gratitude goes out to my wife, Kendall, who (in addition to helping me proof this book) keeps me on the straight and narrow, relatively sober, fed, in clean clothes, and healthy. And she does so for our children as well (though she doesn't have to worry much about their sobriety). Without her, I would, most likely, be dead, due to my own self-destructive ways. I will, however, pat myself on the back for having the good sense to marry her.

I'd like to thank Andrew Karre, my editor, for his wisdom and guidance. I've never worked with an editor who understands character and story as well as he does and I feel lucky to have been able to work with him on this project. Hopefully there will be many more books in the future.

I could not have hoped for better partners in this endeavor than the team at Lerner Publishing Group—Amy Fitzgerald, Lindsay Matvick, Katie O'Neel, Laura Rinne, and many more—and I am very thankful for their efforts on my behalf.

As always, huge ups go to my agent, Stacia Decker, for her advice and first draft editing. She, too, is an amazing partner in this bizarre, wonderful business.

Is it weird to thank one of your own characters? Over the last four years, I feel like I learned much about myself through living with Shreve, living
through
him, so much so he no longer felt like one of my creations. He emerged from my psyche, dredged up from the leftover pain of adolescence, grew into his own man, a flawed and wonderful person, and now we are rejoined once more.

about the author

John Hornor Jacobs is the author of several novels, including
The Twelve-Fingered Boy
. He lives with his family in Arkansas. Visit him online at
www.johnhornorjacobs.com
.