One of many beautiful passages below the jump...
"I'm sorry, Stick."
And words like those, from my brother, were the kind of words that could get inside my head and whirr around like mad hornets trying to find a way out.
Sure he was sorry.
I knew what he meant.
He wasn't sorry he busted
that fucker's face open.
He wasn't sorry we got thrown out of a
goddamned basketball game.
Those were things you'd laugh about
and tell stories about over and over.
Things like that make normal boys normal
But goddamnit, goddamnit, GODDAMNIT
I knew what Bosten was sorry about.
He was sorry about me, like he felt
some kind of responsibility for me being me.
Like he knew what she was thinking every time
Mom looked at me, so he was sorry for that.
Like he had to admit
that since nobody else was sorry for me,
he might as well do the job.