High Ground
When joysticks wear your thumbs raw, you and Adam go and kick in Philip’s bedroom door. He is reading books about vampires or teenagers that transform into animals. Sometimes he is sitting on the floor in the corner, his ear pressed up against a boombox turned all the way down. Cher croons quietly through the plastic speaker, or ABBA: the voices sing only to him. When he sees you he knows what you want and he obliges, unsheathing the aluminum baseball bat he keeps under his bed, clicking off the boombox, gnashing his teeth. Always his face goes red and he chokes down tears. You never know
