Beginning with Elmer Gravlaki Crawling Out From Under the Table

He was fidgety, but held his wooden 12 up high, running his hand over the slope of the 2.
My dad is the address maker here, he said. He makes addresses. Elmer brought the 12 down to chest level. Nobody lives at this address, he said.
The class watched. 12 - 0 = 12, he said. 12 - 1 = 11.
Danny shot a rubber band at Elmer.
Stop, Danny, I said.
What? he said, eyes dewy brown at me. Danny had a big-time pushover mother.
Up front Elmer's eyes were watering. 12 - 3 = 9, he quivered.
Danny threw a button at his head. I was about to put Danny's name up on the board when Elmer, voice wavering like a teakettle, said: Danny, stop. I know where you live.
Danny's forehead raised. You do not, he said. Elmer, clutching his 12, swallowed and came out with 144 Main Street, The wood 12 was tottering on his palm, but Danny, who had a paper clip all set to throw, suddenly put it down, hearing those numbers (apparently the right ones) that marked where he slept every night. I was impressed. This was a fine armor for Elmer.
Well, where do YOU live? Ann DiLanno asked Elmer.
We're unlisted, he said, rubbing his palm over the 1.
-Aimee Bender, An Invisible Sign of My Own