Ginnie stared at him. “Well, not right down to the bone,” she said, “but I’ve cut myself.” He was the funniest-looking boy, or man—it was hard to tell which he was—she had ever seen. His hair was bed-dishevelled. He had a couple of days’ growth of sparse, blond beard. And he looked-well, goofy. “How did you cut it?” she asked.
He was staring down, with his slack mouth ajar, at his injured finger. “What?” he said.
“How did you cut it?”
“Goddam if I know,” he said, his inflection implying that the answer to that question was hopelessly obscure. “I was lookin’ for something in the goddam wastebasket and it was fulla razor blades.”
“You Selena’s brother?” Ginnie asked.
“Yeah. Christ, I’m bleedin’ to death. Stick around. I may need a goddam transfusion.”
“Did you put anything on it?”
Selena’s brother carried his wound slightly forward from his chest and unveiled it for Ginnie’s benefit. “Just some goddam toilet paper,” he said. “Stopsa bleeding. Like when you cut yourself shaving.” He looked at Ginnie again. “Who are you?” he asked. “Friend of the jerk’s?”
“We’re in the same class.”
“Yeah? What’s your name?”