Chapter 1 Ivan #2
Mrs. Henderson is pointing toward a hallway off the kitchen, one finger jabbing in that direction. "Last door on the left. That's where you and Jay sleep. Don't make a mess. Don't be loud. Dinner's at six. You miss it, you don't eat. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I walk down the hallway slowly, my feet making the floorboards creak with every step.
There's a bathroom with the door standing open with the toilet seat up, brown stains in the bowl that I don't want to think about.
Another door that's closed, probably the Hendersons' bedroom.
And then the last door on the left, which is open just a crack, just enough to show a sliver of the room beyond.
I push it open carefully, not sure what I'm going to find on the other side.
The room is small, barely big enough for what it contains.
Two beds, one pushed against each wall, with a narrow space between them.
A dresser with three drawers that looks like it's seen better decades.
A window with no curtains, just bare glass with dust in the corners.
The walls are yellow, but not a nice yellow, not the color of sunshine or daffodils or any of the good yellow things.
It's a sick yellow, a nicotine yellow, the color of smoke stains and age.
There's a boy sitting on the bed by the window.
He looks up when I come in, and my whole body goes tight with sudden fear, every muscle tensing, ready to run or fight or freeze.
He's bigger than me, a lot bigger, probably five or six inches taller, with the kind of build that comes from real work, from using your body hard.
Dark hair that needs to be cut, falling past his ears in messy chunks.
Dark eyes that look almost black in the dim light filtering through the dirty window.
He's wearing jeans with dirt ground into the knees and a T-shirt with a hole near the collar, frayed edges showing white threads. His hands are curled into fists on his thighs, knuckles white with tension.
He looks like the kind of boy who hurts people, who knows how to hurt people and does it without thinking twice.
I stop just inside the door, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I don't move closer. I don't say anything.
I just stand there holding my garbage bag against my chest like armor, trying to figure out where the hits will come from, how to block them, whether I should run now before it starts or wait and see if maybe this time will be different.
"Close the door," he says.
My hand is shaking a little as I reach back and push the door shut. I hope he doesn't notice the trembling, hope he doesn't see how scared I am because fear is like blood in the water. It makes the predators more aggressive.
He stands up slowly, unfolding from the bed, and he's even taller than I thought, towering over me by what looks like half a foot at least. He could really hurt me if he wanted to. He could do whatever he wanted and I couldn't stop him, couldn't defend myself, couldn't do anything but take it.
I take a step back instinctively, pressing myself against the door, my spine flat against the wood, nowhere left to go.
He walks toward me with slow steps, and I can't breathe, my lungs frozen.
Then I stop breathing entirely.
He's right in front of me now, so close that I have to tilt my head back to look at his face, to meet those dark eyes that seem to bore right through me.
His expression is still hard, still mean, still dangerous, and I'm bracing for the first hit, wondering if it'll be a punch to the stomach or a slap to the face or—
And then his whole face changes in an instant, like someone flipped a switch.
The hardness melts away like it was never there, like it was just a mask he was wearing.
His jaw relaxes, unclenching. His eyes go soft, warm, gentle in a way I didn't expect, didn't know was possible.
And he smiles. A real smile, not like Mrs. Patterson's fake one, not like the smile adults do when they want something from you or they're trying to manipulate you into believing everything's fine.
A real smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes, crinkling the corners, lighting up his whole face.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is different now too, completely transformed—quiet, gentle, almost tentative. "I'm Jay."
I don't know what to say. I'm still pressed against the door, still holding my breath, still waiting for something bad to happen because nothing this good ever happens without a catch.
"You can breathe," he says softly, like he knows exactly what I'm feeling right now. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise. You can breathe now."
I let out a breath, and it comes out shaky and uneven, my whole chest trembling with the release.
"I know I look scary," he continues, taking a step back, giving me space to breathe, to think, to exist without feeling trapped. "I have to. Out there." He tilts his head toward the door, toward the rest of the house where the Hendersons are. "But not in here. In here we're just us. Okay?"
"Okay," I whisper, barely audible.
"That your stuff?" He points at my garbage bag with his chin.
I nod.
"You can have the bottom two drawers in the dresser," he says, gesturing toward the piece of furniture between the beds.
"I don't have much so you can have more space if you need it.
" He goes back to his bed and sits down, pulling his knees up to his chest, making himself smaller somehow, less threatening, less like the dangerous person he appeared to be when I first walked in. "What's your name?"
"Ivan," I manage to say.
"Ivan. That's a good name. How old are you?"
"Twelve."
"I'm fourteen," he tells me, and then he's quiet for a second, watching me with those dark eyes that aren't scary anymore, just observant. "You been in the system long?"
"Since I was seven, I think. I don't remember much from before that. It's all kind of blurry."
Jay nods like this makes perfect sense, like it's normal for kids like us. And I guess it is normal, for kids like us.
"Okay, Ivan. Here's what you need to know about this place.
" He leans forward a little like he's sharing secrets.
"The Hendersons aren't good people. Mr. Henderson drinks and he gets mean when he drinks.
Meaner than he is sober, which is already pretty mean.
Mrs. Henderson doesn't care about anything except the check that comes every month for keeping us here.
Don't expect them to be nice. Don't expect them to help you with anything.
Don't expect anything at all from them except the bare minimum, and sometimes not even that. "
I nod slowly. I already knew this, really. I knew it the second I saw the beer in Mr. Henderson's hand at two in the afternoon, the way his eyes looked right through me.
"You do what they say and you don't talk back, ever," Jay continues.
"You work when they tell you to work, and you don't complain about it.
You eat fast at dinner because sometimes there isn't enough food and they don't care if you're hungry.
They'll just say you should have been faster.
You stay out of his way, especially at night, especially when he's been drinking a lot and his eyes get that look. You'll learn to recognize it."
My stomach is in knots now, twisted up so tight it hurts. But Jay seems calm and steady, like he's just telling me facts, like this is just how it is and there's no point in getting upset about it.
"And if things get bad, you come find me. Okay?" He looks at me intently, making sure I'm listening, making sure I understand. "No matter what time it is, no matter what's happening, you come find me and I'll help. That's a promise."
I stare at him, unable to process what he's saying. Nobody's ever said that to me before. Nobody's ever offered to help, to protect me, to be there when things go wrong.
"Why?" I ask, the word barely making it past my lips. "Why would you help me?"
Jay shrugs one shoulder, a small, almost sad gesture. "Because we're the only ones who are gonna look out for each other in this place. That's how it works when you're a foster kid. The adults don't care. The system doesn't care. But I care. So, you don't have to be scared. Not of me, at least."
I realize I'm still clutching my garbage bag against my chest. I let it drop a little, my arms relaxing just slightly.
"I thought you were going to hit me," I admit quietly. "Or steal my stuff, or do something worse. Older boys always... they always do."
"I know. I've had older foster brothers too. I know exactly what they're like. But I'm not like them, Ivan. I promise you that. I'm not like them at all. You'll see."
I want to believe him. I want to believe him so bad it physically hurts, an ache right in the center of my chest.
"Come on," he says, scooting over on his bed and patting the space next to him. "You can sit if you want. You don't have to stand by the door all night like you're ready to run."
I hesitate, frozen between the urge to trust him and the survival instincts screaming at me not to. Every part of me that's learned how to survive in this system is screaming not to trust him, not to get close, not to let my guard down because that's when you get hurt bad.
But he smiled at me.
I cross the narrow space between the door and his bed, my legs feeling shaky. I sit on the edge of his bed carefully, still holding my garbage bag, still not quite ready to let it go.
"You can put that down," he says gently. "I'm not gonna take your stuff. I already told you that. What's in there anyway?"
"Clothes mostly. And a book."
Jay looks at me for a long moment, something flickering in his dark eyes, something that looks like recognition or understanding or maybe sadness.
We sit there for a while, not talking, just existing in the same space. I can hear the TV in the other room, the clink of glass that's probably another beer being opened.
"Dinner's at six," Jay says finally, breaking the silence. "We should probably go out there before they get mad. They don't like it when we're late."
"Okay."
He stands up and holds out his hand to help me up. I take it hesitantly, and his hand is warm and rough and so much bigger than mine, swallowing my smaller hand completely.
"Hey, Ivan?" he says as I get to my feet.
"Yeah?"
"It's gonna be okay. I know it doesn't feel like it right now. I know this place is scary and the Hendersons are terrible and everything is awful. But I've got your back now. That means something. That means you're not alone anymore."
I look up at him. This boy with the dark eyes and the scary face he wears like armor and the gentle voice and the kind hands. This boy who promised not to hurt me, who promised to help me, who looked at me like I mattered.
Maybe he's lying. Maybe this is all some elaborate trick and tomorrow he'll be just like every other older boy I've known. Cruel and selfish and mean. Maybe I'm being stupid to trust him.
But right now, in this moment, standing in this sad yellow room with his warm hand still wrapped around mine, I choose to believe him.
"Thanks, Jay."
He smiles again, that real smile that makes everything feel a little less terrible.
And for the first time in as long as I can remember, longer than I can even count, I don't feel completely alone in the world.