Chapter 36
CAIDEN
Seven years old
When I came back to school after suspension, Amelia cornered me. She had her arms crossed and a pouty expression on her face. I couldn’t help but notice her lips, how delicate and pink they were.
She waited for me at the water fountain, blocking it off. I tried to walk past, but she moved her body so that her sneaker hit mine, and then I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t see her.
“Why’d you do it?” she said. Her voice was a little rough. “Why would you even care?”
I shrugged. I’d practiced a million shrugs at home, in the mirror, and in the reflection of car windows, trying to get it just right so that nobody could see inside my head.
“He was being a dick. That’s all.” My voice came out too high, so I coughed and tried again, lower this time, like a grown-up.
“He deserved it. I hate when people try to act tough when they’re actually weak. ”
She didn’t answer, just stared at me with her big green eyes.
Kids were swirling around us, yelling and pushing and already forgetting about the fight.
But she wasn’t forgetting. I could tell by the way her hands were balled up at her sides, white at the knuckles. She had a Band-Aid on her finger, a pink one.
I didn’t want her to think I liked her or anything.
That would be the worst possible thing in the world.
So I said, “Next time, just push him back. He’s all talk.
You could probably kick him in the balls, and nobody would even care except him.
” I tried to pretend I was bored, but my face was hot, and I could feel sweat prickling behind my ears.
She snorted, like she didn’t believe me. “You didn’t have to hit him that hard.” Her voice was quieter now, almost nice. “He’s probably gonna tell everyone you’re a psycho.”
I shrugged again, but this one hurt my shoulder. “Let him. I don’t care.” I never cared, not about stuff like that. My dad said if you show it bothers you, you just make it worse. “It’s not like anyone likes me anyway.” I kept my eyes on the floor, watching a dried worm curl up on the tile.
She didn’t move away from the fountain. “I don’t think you’re a psycho,” she said.
“I never said I was.”
She just looked at me, and I had to look back.
Her eyelashes were so long that they made shadows on her cheeks. It made me dizzy, like standing on the edge of the diving board and looking down at the water.
The longer I stared, the more she stopped looking like a girl and started to look like an accident you couldn’t look away from. I wanted to say something, maybe even a joke, but the words got jammed at the back of my throat. So instead I said, “You ever kill a bug for no reason?”
Her whole face rearranged, like she was deciding if I was kidding or just broken. “Like a spider?” she said.
I shook my head. “Spiders are good. They eat the bad bugs. But like an ant, or a moth. Sometimes I just squash them, and I don’t even know why. Dad says it’s normal.”
She chewed her sleeve, thinking. “My mom says when you kill an ant, all its friends know. They follow the scent and come to get revenge.”
“That’s not true,” I said, but I wasn’t sure. “Maybe that’s why ants never die out. They’re always mad.”
She looked at her feet, then at my hand, the one still bandaged from the fight. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said. “He would have stopped eventually.”
I shrugged, but this time it wasn’t even on purpose. “It’s better if they’re scared.”
She looked at me hard, like she was trying to figure out if I was serious. I wasn’t sure myself. I liked the way the fight made me feel, but I also hated it a little, like eating too much sugar and wanting to puke after.
She asked, “Does it hurt?” and pointed to my hand.
I shook my head. “Not really. It’s mostly numb.” I pressed on the bruise just to prove it, hoping maybe she’d notice I was tough. But she just frowned, like I’d said something sad instead of something cool.
I wanted to tell her about the time I watched my dad punch a hole in the bathroom door and not even bleed, how after that I spent a whole afternoon poking my own knuckle against the wall to see if I could make it tough enough to break through.
I wanted to say that sometimes, when I was alone, I made lists of things I hated and her name always ended up at the top, but then I’d fold the paper up and hide it in my pillow and feel sick until I fell asleep.
“Thanks anyway,” she said.
I shrugged again. My whole life was one big shrug at this point. “Don’t mention it.”
We didn’t say anything else after that. The bell rang, and everyone poured out of the hallways like soap suds, and I watched her walk away without looking back. Her hair bounced against her shoulders, and the Band-Aid on her finger caught the light.
I didn’t follow her, but I wanted to, which was even worse.
All day I kept thinking about her. Every time I tried to pay attention, I’d see her in the corner of my eye.
I’d catch myself watching her and then hate myself for it.
After school, I caught up to her as she was walking out the front door.
I followed her, even though I didn’t want to look like I was following her, so I kept a few steps behind and kicked at every loose pebble on the sidewalk.
It was cold, the kind of cold that made your eyelashes stick together and your nose run, and the clouds looked like a big dirty sheet balled up over the sun.
Amelia walked like she was late for something, her skinny legs pumping hard, backpack bouncing against her spine.
She didn’t talk to me. I didn’t talk to her. But every block or so she’d glance back, like she was checking to see if I was still there, and when I was, she didn’t speed up or cross the street or yell at me to leave her alone.
She just kept going, and I kept going, and if that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is.
It was silent except for the sound of our shoes and breath. I basked in it.
It was silent up until I heard the roar of engine coming from behind me. My body stilled, and I looked at Amelia one last time with panic settling in my blood as I realized whose car it was.
The sound was enough. A shuddery growl, like a dog right before it bites.
It was my dad’s Cutlass, the muffler hanging on by zip ties and hope. The car slammed into the curb, hit the brakes so hard the back end bounced, and for a split second I thought he’d just keep going, tear down the street and never look back.
But he didn’t.
The door flung open, and he was already half out before the car even stopped moving. He had the look, the one where his eyebrows made a straight angry line, and his mouth pulled tight.
I could see the can in his hand, beer foaming out around his knuckles. He saw me, saw Amelia.
“Caiden! The fuck are you doing?” he yelled, voice echoing off the brick and making everyone turn. My heart shrank down to a marble. I wanted to keep walking, to pretend I didn’t hear him, but my legs already knew better.
I stopped dead, waiting for the next part.
Amelia stopped, too. She didn’t run, just squared her shoulders, like she was waiting for a tornado to hit and maybe she could out-stare it. I wanted to tell her to go, to get away before he noticed her, but it was too late for that.
My dad stomped over, boots scraping on the sidewalk, not even bothering to close the car door. “Get in the truck,” he shouted at me, yanking me away from where I stood.
I didn’t dare to look at Amelia again.
He just shoved me toward the truck, and I stumbled, backpack flapping and nearly tripping over a pothole. The door was still open, and he threw me into the passenger seat.
“You wanna explain what you were doing with that girl?” he spat once seated in the drivers seat. His breath stank like beer and stale gum. He leaned in and I could see the stubble on his chin, the way it bristled like cactus needles. “I said, what were you doing?”
I wanted to say, walking, or nothing, or just that it was a free country and she lived on my block, but none of those would have worked. I said, “I don’t know, we were just walking near each other,” because sometimes the truth is the best shield, especially when it’s empty.
He slammed the door so hard my teeth clicked together.
“She’s a Langston. You know what that means?” He jabbed his finger at my chest, poking hard. “You get close to her, you’ll catch what her mother’s got, and then you’ll end up alone and—” He cut off, maybe because he didn’t want to say the rest.
He looked at the beer in his hand and then back at me, and for a second I thought he might cry or hit me or both.
His hand balled the can so tight I thought it would pop. "You don’t talk to girls like that," he said, slow and dangerous. “If I see you talking to her again, I’ll pound your face in. You understand?"
He turned the key and the car shuddered awake. He pulled out so fast the tires squealed, and I watched Amelia shrink in the side mirror, her hair whipping around her face in the wind.
I wanted to wave, or yell something, but I just watched her get smaller and smaller until she was gone.