His grip tightened some more.
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Do you think I’m a tough guy?” I didn’t answer. He crushed the bones of my fingers together. I could feel the bone ofeach finger cutting like a blade into the flesh of the finger next to it. Shotsof red flashed before my eyes. “Do you think I’m a tough guy?” he asked. “YI kill you,” I said. “You'll what?” 36 Mr. Knox tightened his grip. He had a hand like a vise. I could see everypore in his face. “Tough guys don’t scream, do they?” I couldn’t look at his face anymore. I put my face down on the desk. “Am Ta tough guy?” asked Mr. Knox. He squeezed harder. I had to scream, but I kept it as quiet as possible sono one in the classes could hear me. “Now, am 1a tough guy?” I waited. I hated to say it. Then I said, “Yes.” Mr. Knox let go of my hand. I was afraid to look at it. I let it hang by myside. I noticed that the fly was gone and I thought, it’s not so bad to be afly. Mr. Knox was writing on a piece of paper. “Now, Henry, I’m writing a little note to your parents and I want youto deliver it to them. And you will deliver it to them, won't you?” “Yes.” He folded the note into an envelope and handed it to me. The envelopewas sealed and I had no desire to open it. 37 I took the envelope home to my mother and handed it to her and walkedinto the bedroom. My bedroom. The best thing about the bedroom was thebed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with the coverspulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there,no people, nothing. My mother often found me in bed in the daytime. “Henry, get up! It’s not good for a young boy to lay in bed all day! Now,get up! Do something!”
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