One of the Boys

A "gripping and heartfelt" (The New York Times Book Review) story about two young brothers contending with the love they have for their abusive father, One of the Boys is "one of the most striking debut novels of the year" (Rolling Stone).

The three of them-a twelve-year-old boy, his older brother, their father-have won the war: the father's term for his bitter divorce and custody battle. They leave their Kansas home and drive through the night to Albuquerque, eager to begin again, united by the thrilling possibility of carving out a new life together. The boys go to school, join basketball teams, make friends. Meanwhile their father works from home, smoking cheap cigars to hide another smell. But soon the little missteps-the dead-eyed absentmindedness, the late night noises, the comings and goings of increasingly odd characters-become worrisome, and the boys find themselves watching their father change, grow erratic, then dangerous.

Set in the sublimely stark landscape of suburban New Mexico and a cramped apartment shut tight to the world, One of the Boys conveys with propulsive prose and extraordinary compassion a young boy's struggle to hold onto the pieces of his shattered family. Tender, moving and beautiful, Daniel Magariel's debut is a masterful story of resilience and survival. With the emotional core of A Little Life and the speed of We the Animals, it is "A knockout...A shimmering, heartbreaking portrait of children fiercely devoted to a damaged parent and of the intense sibling bond that helps them through" (People).

ldquo;An absolutely standout novel... It left me feeling impressed [and] mournful. A book that you find yourself thinking about weeks later... A stunning writer.”

Autorentext

Daniel Magariel

Klappentext

A "gripping and heartfelt" (The New York Times Book Review) story about two young brothers contending with the love they have for their abusive father, ONE OF THE BOYS is "one of the most striking debut novels of the year" (Rolling Stone).

Zusammenfassung
A “gripping and heartfelt” (The New York Times Book Review) story about two young brothers contending with the love they have for their abusive father, One of the Boys is “one of the most striking debut novels of the year” (Rolling Stone).

The three of them—a twelve-year-old boy, his older brother, their father—have won the war: the father’s term for his bitter divorce and custody battle. They leave their Kansas home and drive through the night to Albuquerque, eager to begin again, united by the thrilling possibility of carving out a new life together. The boys go to school, join basketball teams, make friends. Meanwhile their father works from home, smoking cheap cigars to hide another smell. But soon the little missteps—the dead-eyed absentmindedness, the late night noises, the comings and goings of increasingly odd characters—become worrisome, and the boys find themselves watching their father change, grow erratic, then dangerous.

Set in the sublimely stark landscape of suburban New Mexico and a cramped apartment shut tight to the world, One of the Boys conveys with propulsive prose and extraordinary compassion a young boy’s struggle to hold onto the pieces of his shattered family. Tender, moving and beautiful, Daniel Magariel’s debut is a masterful story of resilience and survival. With the emotional core of A Little Life and the speed of We the Animals, it is “A knockout...A shimmering, heartbreaking portrait of children fiercely devoted to a damaged parent and of the intense sibling bond that helps them through” (People).

Leseprobe
One of the Boys ONE
My father was swerving around cars, speeding, honking. I rested my head on the strap of the seat belt, tried to ignore how fast he was driving, unsure if he was outrunning the storm or just angry with me. My mother and I had gotten into a fight. She'd called him to come pick me up from her apartment. He resented any dealings with her. It was midday, spring. A shadow crept across the fields. Crows looked on from power lines. The warning sirens wailed.

"Let me look at you," he said. He thumbed my earlobe. "Well?"

I looked to the road to remind him he was driving.

"What did she tell you?" I asked.

"You answer a question with a question? She said you were out of control."

"That's it?"

"Why is your face so red?" he said.

Embarrassed, I went quiet, kept to myself. He knew I'd been crying. When we pulled into his driveway, I opened the door. He told me to shut it. I slammed it too hard.

"I was supposed to go to the movies," I said. "I'd made plans."

"Before the tornado watch?"

I nodded.

He repeated the question.

"Yes, before."

"Go on."

"I told her I was leaving, and she blocked the door, so I grabbed the phone and ran to my room."

"So today's the day she decides to start being a mother." He laughed wildly. "She had to hold you down?" he said, almost not a question. "Did she hurt you?"

I tried to remember. She had wrestled me to the bed. Then I was on my stomach. She twisted my fingers, took the phone. I tried throwing her off. That was when her hand holding the phone came down on my head. Now I fingered the tender spot on my skull, pressed it hard, wanting the pain, wishing the bump were visible.

"I don't know," I said. "No."

"Did she hit you?"

"I don't think she meant to."

He pulled me close, put his arms around me, patted my back to the rhythm of the wipers. It was an awkward hug. The kind of embrace you give to a grieving stranger. "It's OK, son," he said. "It's OK." He sat me up. My older brother was standing in front of the Jeep, palms to the sky, shrugging at the rain just now quickening. "Let's go inside."

My father equated the granting of privacy with respect. Even when our bedroom doors were open, he knocked, waited to be invited in. We did not yet know why sometimes, when his door was closed, he did not answer. Since the separation he'd assigned each of us our own bathroom. His was still the master, upstairs, the same one he'd once shared with our mother. My brother's, the hallway bathroom, was on the same floor as our bedrooms. To decide who would get it our dad had measured the distance with footsteps-my brother's door was closer than mine. Two floors down next to the basement was my bathroom. Only on those late nights when, staring out my window, cigar tip aglow, my father would whisper me awake, Be my eyes, was I allowed to use the hallway bathroom, and only because he'd entered my bedroom without asking.

Here, in my bathroom, the Weather Channel spoke to us from the television in the basement. My brother looked at the Polaroids developing on the sink top. The ghostly shapes taking my form. My downcast eyes. My messy hair I'd made messier, shirt collar I had stretched to look rougher. My father seemed displeased.

"You look too good," he said. "You were in much worse shape when I picked you up, weren't you?"

It was a question meant to convince my brother.

"Yes," I said.

"Maybe more light?" my brother said.

He brought the lamp from the basement, plugged it in, tilted back the shade.

"Now, son, try to look how you felt when she hit you."

My father pressed the button. A photo reeled from the mouth of