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at he dismissed as stupid。
If his parents watched him with bewilderment and a little fear； if they seemed happier when he asked to be excused from supper and shut himself in his room； that was all right with Nothing。 He was strange to his parents； and they were inprehensible to him。 He rejected their world。 There was not a thing in it that touched him； not a thing he could claim as his own。 Sometimes he wondered whether there was a place for him outside the elaborate juju of his room； whether there was anyone in the world who would belong to him； whether he could ever belong to anyone。 Who would want him？ Not his parents； for sure。 He had never belonged to them。 They should never have taken him in from the doorstep that cold dawn fifteen years ago。
Nothing pulled the quilt around him again； picked at the edges of the burn。 They didn't know he knew about that。 Long ago they had told him he was adopted； making it all sound proper and respectable； watching him for signs of childish trauma。 Maybe the knowledge that he was not of their blood assuaged their guilt when they saw their son looking at them and knew that he had caught the distance in their faces。 Maybe then they were able to justify their longing for a normal son who would keep his hair brushed out of his eyes； who would be elected student council president instead of sitting in his strange bedroom reading strange books； who would bring home little fresh…faced girlfriends in clean skirts and pink blouses。 Maybe they looked at him and thought； We did not make this creature out of our seed。 He is not our mistake。 And they were right。
They would never show him the adoption papers。 They said he had been left at the orphanage as a newborn； that his parentage was unknown。 But one day in early June； when he was twelve； he brought home an end…of…term progress report from school：
Jason is a highly intelligent child。 His achievements in areas where he chooses to apply himself； such as art and creative writing； are considerable。 However； he seems unable to relate well to the other children； his remoteness and his apparent determination to be 〃different〃 keep him from being a successful member of the classroom munity。 Due to this； though all his marks are above average； I cannot call his passage through the sixth grade a fully satisfactory one。
Yours；
Geraldine Clemmons
Two or three years later he could have laughed。 But all through his sixth…grade year he had had no real friends； no one who would e to his house and play games of pretend in the woods； no one who offered to trade sandwiches at lunchtime or asked him to one of the boy…girl parties that were beginning to be all the rage。 Through the girls' thin T…shirts he saw their sore budding breasts。 When he undressed for gym with the other boys； he tried to look at their bodies without seeming to look。 On some of them he noticed those same fearfully secret hairs he had begun to find upon himself。
He could not laugh at Mrs。 Clemmons's stupid progress report because he had begun to know how alone he was。 All through his childhood he had amused himself without really thinking about it…reading； playing alone or with neighborhood children； never noticing that they were unfortable with the stories he liked to make up； that they seldom came back more than two or three times。
But at twelve he became aware of himself； painfully so。 He became aware that he did not know who he was。 He dreamed often of a strange boisterous family who laughed all the time and cuddled him and took him along wherever they went。 He discovered how to masturbate； thinking at first that it was something he had made up。 Then he connected it with things he had read； and he learned how to turn it into a highly sensual experience； biting himself at first gently and then harder； thinking of other children in his class； imagining how it would be to hold them； taste them； feel their flesh between his teeth。 It did not seem strange that he thought about these things。
But on the day he brought the progress report home； he knew that he was alone and that he might be alone for a very long time。
His parents were both at work； his mother counselling disturbed children at a day…care center； his father doing something that had vaguely to do with finance。 The house was sunny and still； and all that afternoon he searched through their desk drawers； through their files and boxes； looking for his adoption papers。 He had to know who his real parents were。 He had to know where he had e from and whether someday he might find his way back。
His parents' papers were remarkably dull。 There were no old love letters scented and tied with pastel ribbons； no scan…dais； no bloodstained lace handkerchiefs。 There were no adoption papers。 The shadows in the house lengthened。 He became frantic； knowing with the terrible conviction of a twelve…year…old that these strangers named Rodger and Marilyn would murder him if they caught him going through their things； they would have an excuse at last。 But he opened one final dresser drawer in their bedroom； not really expecting to find anything； and under his mother's old granny glasses and McGovern buttons was the note。 It was tucked into a corner of the drawer； not hidden very well。 By this time he was sweaty and a little breathless。 His hand shook as he extracted the note； trying not to disturb the rest of the mess。
The paper was thick and cream…colored； with two small holes at the top as if it had been pinned to something。 Slowly he deciphered the spidery handwriting： His name is Nothing。 Care for him and he will bring you luck。
All at once the story fell into place around him。 A baby in a basket； abandoned on two strangers' doorstep some night。 That was what he had been。 Surely this note had been pinned to his blanket。 But the strangers had taken him in； changed his name； tried to make him into one of their kind。 If he had brought them any luck at all； that luck had surely been bad。 It was all so clear now。 It was all so right。
He slept with the note under his pillow that night and dreamed of a place where the buildings were gay with scrolled ironwork and the river flowed darkly past and soft laughter went on all night； every night。 He roamed the streets and the alleyways and courtyards； a sweet； rotten； coppery taste on his tongue。
The next day he put the note back in the drawer in case Mother ever looked there； but when he was alone in the house he took it out and read it again and again； holding the paper to his face； pressing it against his mouth； trying to catch the scent of the place it had e from。 For that was where he had been born。 He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the hand that had shaped those spindling black words； for that hand belonged to someone who knew him； who had held him。 In the veins of that hand； his blood might flow。
And he ceased to be Jason。 He became Nothing； for that was what the note named him。 He still answered to Jason； but the name was like an echo of a half…forgotten life。 I am Nothing his mind whispered。 I am Nothing。 He liked the name。 It did not make him feel worthless； on the contrary； he began to think of himself as a blank slate upon which anything could be written。 The words he inscribed on his soul were up to him。
He grew taller； and some of the flesh of childhood melted from his bones。 He was truly Nothing now； he knew it。 When in junior high school he finally made friends…not friends who could share his soul； but friends who understood a little better than anyone else ever had； other skinny pale kids； hippie and punk kids； kids in black T…shirts and leather jackets and smudgy makeup shoplifted from the drugstore at the mall…he told them to call him by that name。
The house was cold tonight。 His room was the coldest of all。 He shivered again； then threw off the quilt and pulled on gray sweatpants and an old black sweater with holes at the elbows。 The Tom Waits album had finished playing and turned itself off。 The hiss of the empty speakers filled the room； too loud here in the dark。
Nothing rummaged through his backpack and found the cassette Julie had given him。 It came from far away down south； and only five hundred copies of it had been printed…it was numbered on the liner； 217 of 500。 But somehow one copy had ended up in a record store in Silver Spring； a nearby town； where Julie had picked it up。
He put it on now。 The singer's voice wove in and out of the jangly guitar line； now losing itself in the music； now as strong and golden…green as some Appalachian summer mountain stream。
Does your road go no place？
Does it go someplace where you can't see？
If you follow it anyway
It just might lead you here to me 。 。 。
Nothing sat on the edge of the bed and hummed the words under his breath； his head tilted back； his eyes searching the stars and planets on the ceiling。 He thought of Julie taking the tape from her purse and handing it to him； he thought of Laine； sucking him off with innocent abandon。
Somewhere in the music； perhaps outside the window in the cold night； somewhere above the melody and under the moon； those lonely little ghosts started whispering to him again： You've got to get out of here。 You've got to find flour place； your family； before you rot and die。
〃All right；〃 he said after listening for a while。 〃All right。〃 All at once he knew he had to leave。 It was inevitable； and he wondered what he had been waiting for。 He would go south； looking for what he wanted； hopefully knowing it when he found it。 Maybe he would even hook up with the musicians from Lost Souls？ The name of their town was fascinating： he pictured it as a mysterious southern crossroads； a hamlet where the ordinary became exotic。 He had found it on a map of North Carolina； a tiny dot between the mountains and the sea； a town whose streets Nothing pictured as dusty and strange； whose shops were crammed with dark secondhand treasures； whose graveyards were haunted； whose moon rose full and honeyed behind the lacework of towering pines。
He said the name to himself and shivered： Missing Mile。
Nothing crossed his dark room and let himself into the hall。 His parents were out somewhere…a consciousness…raising group； a holistic health class； an expensive dinner with other people like themselves。 Their bedroom door was ajar； and the room within smelled of perfumed soap and after…shave。 The odors struck him as stinging and chemical。 They said his room smelled bad。
His fingers searched the bottom of the dresser drawer； familiar by now； and found the note at once。 Its presence in his hand was forting； its ink faded； its edges soft and ragged from all the times he had held it over the past three years。 He slipped it into his pocket。 He considered the collection of crystals on top of the dresser； then picked up the one he liked best； a piece of rose quartz。 He curled his hand around it。 No； he decided； it was too tainted with Mother's touch； with her antimagic。 After a few minutes of hunting he found Mother's cache of emergency money in her jewelry box and took that instead。 A hundred dollars。 It wouldn't last until he got where he was going； but it would help。 After that …Well； after that I'll find something else； he told himself。
Next he used the phone。 Jack wasn't home； but Nothing called around and found him at Skittle's； the pizza shop downtown where his friends hung out at night。 〃Can you drive me to Columbia？〃 he asked。
〃Gas isn't free； dude。〃 Jack was eighteen； had a fake ID that got him served at the liquor store； and considered himself the lord of the local scene。
〃I can pay you。 I have to catch a bus。 I'm getting the hell out of here。〃
〃Folks giving you too much shit； huh？〃 Jack didn't wait for an answer。 〃Okay； I can take you tonight。 Five bucks for the gas if you got it。 Meet me here at midnight。〃
How far could you ride a Greyhound for ninety…five dollars？ Far enough to start with。 〃Thanks； Jack；〃 ha said。 〃See you at midnight。〃
〃Hey； Laine wants to talk to you；〃 Jack said； but Nothing was already hanging up。
Back in his room he huddled under the quilt。 It was only nine o'clock； he could sleep for a couple of hours before walking into