Chapter 8. Ethan
Marsal shows me how chaos can be a constant. All the time. Every damn minute of every damn day.
I used to think I was good at filtering out distractions: noise in the mess hall, the punching in MMA, even the barking from Griff's morning speeches. Then Marsal happened, and now I can't tune him out, no matter how hard I try. Somehow, he's louder when he's trying to be quiet.
Quiet Time used to be three hours of peace, although forced. I stretch out on my bed by the window. Everybody else is asleep, except Marsal. He fills the room with fidgeting and restless energy, the sound of his ankle bouncing against the metal rail.
He's supposed to be quiet. Thinking, or whatever. Doing anything but being on my nerves.
Not what happens.
"This is actual torture," he whispers, lying sideways on his lower bunk so his hair flops over the edge. "How many more hours until they let us out?"
"Fifty minutes," I hiss, not bothering to look away from my pharmacology flashcards.
"Fifty? I could kill myself and be reincarnated before Quiet Time ends."
"Shut up, Marsal."
He ignores me. Of course he does. That's his specialty. Ignoring me while making himself unignorable, like a song you hate but can't forget.
A few seconds of silence, and he's at it again. Humming. He does this thing where he hums half a song, then skips to another, and another. I don't think he notices he's doing it. Part of his ADHD. I also know he uses it as an excuse to drive me insane.
He does it on purpose. I'm positive.
I grit my teeth and try to focus. If my scores drop below a 94 this quarter, Griff will have me scrubbing urinals with a toothbrush. Unlike most of the losers in this place, I have ambitions. I want a career. I want to be someone.
He starts tapping. First a regular rhythm, then it mutates. By the third round, he's tapping Morse code on the metal with his nail. I time it, guessing he's spelling "kill me now," but it's random. I throw a pillow down at him. It lands on his head. He just laughs.
"That's abuse. I'm gonna report you."
"They'll give me a fucking medal for not going at your throat," I say, and he laughs even more, even though it's not that funny.
He'll wake the others. If that happens, Jack won't shut up either, and Harry will start going on about poker or some shit I couldn't care less about, and Miles will be in a sour mood.
God. I'm a nursery teacher.
After a while, the hum-tapping slows. I look down to check if maybe he's asleep.
He's not. He's watching me. Eyes bright and blue.
I look away. The office. His face inches from mine. I didn't kiss him. I keep not kissing him.
"Don't you ever get bored?" he asks, and it's not the whine from earlier. A real question.
"No," I say. "I'm studying. I use time productively. Try it."
He rolls his eyes so hard, his whole head rolls with them. "Boooring. If I sit with my thoughts for more than ten seconds, I will literally start screaming."
"Can't do anything for you," I say.
A few seconds of quiet. I go back to my flashcards. Make it through three more cards before he starts singing. Under his breath, but not soft enough to ignore.
I Will Survive. Gloria Gaynor.
I want to beg him to stop. Or spank his ass again until I make him cry instead. That thought makes my cock twitch. I usually have better control.
Last straw. I pull a comic book from behind my pillow and throw it on his bunk. "Here. Shut up and read."
He lights up. Instantly. Like an actual kid. I look away before it gets to me. He grabs the book, flips through the pages like he's counting them, then settles on the middle. Quiet for the first time in days, eyes flicking left to right. I enjoy the peace for a second.
It lasts maybe five minutes. Then a noise. He's drawing with a pencil stub he must've smuggled from class. I should rip it out of his hands, but I'm curious.
He finishes, holds it up. Snorts, like he can't believe his own genius. "Tell me that's not dead-on."
He's drawn a grotesquely accurate caricature of Griff: brow together, lips pinched, arms crossed, glaring. Above it, he's written, "DISAPPOINTMENT IS A CHOICE!!"
It's so good I almost choke. I want to tell him he's ridiculously talented.
I don't.
"I hope you realize if Griff ever finds this, you're a dead man walking."
He grins. "He won't. Besides, I didn't sign it. For all I know, you could have drawn it. It's your comic book."
"Oh, hell no," I say. He laughs, excitedly, like the little brat he is. "You're an idiot."
"How charming," he says, but he's so excited now, there's no chance he'll sleep. I see him smirking into the fabric of his pillow. I wish it didn't make me feel good.
The next time Griff does a surprise check, I secretly hope he finds the drawing.
We're scrubbing the MMA mats at 8 p.m. Usually he has a terrible attention span, but now it's worse. The first ten minutes, Liam actually helps, which is how I know he feels bad for landing us there. Then his focus evaporates and he's shadowboxing at the mirror, swinging at his own reflection.
"Christ," I say. "You punch like a frog."
He turns. "Frogs don't have fists, genius." Laughs at his own joke. I don't respond, won't reinforce him. I keep cleaning. Count under my breath. Every time he loses focus, it's one more second we're stuck here. At this rate, sunrise.
He goes off track again. Forgets the rag, wipes his hands on his shirt, throws a lazy jab. Then another. Then he starts hopping back and forth, doing some animal impression that would get him murdered in a real gym.
Impossible.
"Are you going to teach me or just judge?" he asks.
"Neither. I'll keep ignoring you," I say, but that isn't true. I can't watch this disaster any longer. "First, fix your stance. You're going to snap your knee."
He pauses. Blinks. Then… this is the part that kills me, he actually tries to do it right. He looks so happy I'm paying attention to him. Pathetic.
I put the rag down. Circle him.
"Here," I say, and put my hands on his shoulders to square him up. He flinches. Not scared, surprised I'd touch him. I slide his left leg back, nudge his hips, guide his hands up to his chin.
I'm basically hugging him from behind.
"You see this?" I say, gesturing at his fist. "Keep it tight. Elbow down. Protect your face, unless you want another nose job."
"Yours is crooked too," he says, frowning playfully. "Did you get hit a lot?"
"Yeah. And I got better."
He nods, fires off a real jab. Not great. Not embarrassing.
"Better," I say, and his face lights up like I've handed him a medal. Puppy being praised.
"Don't get cocky," I say, harder than necessary. "Your guard dropped the second you threw that. In a real fight, you'd be on the floor."
His smile falters. Something twists in my gut. I turn away, grab the rag. "Take five, then finish the last row."
He gets quiet for a second. I feel him looking at me, trying to figure out the shift. Good. Let him wonder.
He doesn't stay quiet long, though. Never does. Picks up the rag, starts scrubbing, but after a minute he's up again. Glances at me, then the mirror, tries a cross. Overcommits, stumbles, lands against my chest. I catch him. Steady him. Push him back upright.
We look at each other.
"Again," I say, and this time he goes slower. Focused.
Five minutes. I correct his form, he mouths off, I knock his guard, he laughs. He’s not athletic, but not weak. Lean arms, sharp. Scars I want to ask about. He keeps shaking his hair out of his face. I want to push it back. Instead, I nudge his calf with my foot. Tell him to anchor.
Somewhere in the middle of a combo, he fakes a left and nearly clips my jaw. So proud of himself he starts jumping up and down. I block it, grab his wrist, twist it behind his back. He yelps, but he's grinning.
Overpowering him like this makes me hard. I hold him a second longer than I need to.
"Ow! Okay, teach, I surrender."
"If you don't want to get hurt, smarten up, moron," I say, still holding him. Not mad. Something else. He's grinning, breathing fast. Alive in a way I'm not used to seeing kids here. Covered in sweat.
I let go.
He spins out, faces me. Neither of us says anything. Standing there, breathing heavy.
"Is this the part where we kiss?" he asks. Voice low, joking, but I see the flicker in his eyes.
"Shut up and finish the mats," I snap, grabbing the rag.
He laughs, goes back to scrubbing.
We go ten minutes without talking, but it's not awkward. Every time I look over, he's focused. When he catches me looking, he smirks.
We finish. I dump the water. Liam stands by the door, arms crossed, like he's proud of something.
"You're not as scary as you think," he says as we leave.
"You saw nothing yet," I grunt, and it makes him laugh. I shoulder past him. Eyes ahead.
That night, in my bed, I think about him. I don't want to. His skin. His stupid smile when he gets something right. The way he asked about the kiss, joking but not joking at all.
I should have kissed him. Twice now.
Three years here. This has never happened. Not once. I don't have time for this.
I fall asleep thinking about it anyway.