Chapter 7 Ivan
Jay wakes me up before dawn, his good hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently out of a dream I can't remember but that felt safe and warm.
For a moment I don't know where I am or what's happening.
My mind is still foggy with sleep, still reaching for the remnants of whatever peace I'd found in unconsciousness.
And then I see his face hovering above me in the dim light, and everything from last night comes flooding back in a terrible rush.
Oh my God, his arm.
The sound it made when it broke—that awful crack, that snap like breaking a tree branch. The way he screamed, a sound I've never heard from him before, a sound I never want to hear again.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is rough, scratchy, and raw like he hasn't slept at all, like he's spent the whole night awake and in pain. He probably hasn't slept. How could he sleep with his arm broken like that? "We need to get ready for school."
I sit up slowly and look at him. What I see makes my chest hurt so badly I can barely breathe.
He's pale, like all the blood has drained out of him and left behind just a shell.
There are dark circles under his eyes, deep purple-black bruises of exhaustion that make him look years older than fourteen.
A sheen of sweat covers his forehead even though the room is cold, even though I can see my breath in the air.
He's hurting bad.
His left arm is cradled against his chest protectively, and even through his sleeve I can see that it's swollen.
The fabric stretched tight over something that's the wrong shape entirely, something that shouldn't be there.
He looks like he might pass out at any moment, like he's holding onto consciousness through sheer force of will, but he's standing, he's moving, he's trying to act like everything is normal when nothing will ever be normal again.
"Jay, you can't go to school like this. You need a doctor. You need help. You need—"
"I know what I need," he cuts me off, but he's trying to be gentle despite the interruption, patient even through what must be unimaginable pain.
"And I know what's going to happen when I walk into that building with my arm like this.
But I don't have a choice, Ivan. If I don't show up, if I stay home, they'll come looking anyway.
Someone will notice I'm missing. At least this way, I control when it happens.
I get to walk in on my own two feet instead of being dragged in by police or paramedics.
I get to choose how this all ends today. "
I want to argue with him but I don't have the words, can't find them through the panic that's rising in my throat. He's right and we both know it. There's no version of today that doesn't end with someone seeing his arm and making a phone call.
The only question is how it happens and when.
"Okay," I say, because there's nothing else to say. "Okay, let's get ready for school."
We get dressed in silence. Jay struggles with his shirt, trying to get his broken arm through the sleeve without moving it too much. I help him as carefully as I can, my hands trembling. I hold the fabric open so he can slide into it.
Every small movement makes him wince, makes his breath catch and hitch in his throat. By the time he's dressed he's breathing hard, and there's fresh sweat beading on his face and running down his temples.
"Do I look okay?" he asks, and there's something almost funny about the question.
Like he's asking about a haircut or a new pair of jeans instead of whether he looks like a kid with a broken arm trying to pretend he doesn't have a broken arm.
Trying to pretend he's fine when he's so obviously not fine.
"You look like hell," I tell him honestly, because lying seems pointless now. Because we're past the point where pretty lies can help us.
"Well, we're in hell," he says, and he laughs, this short painful sound that's more like a cough.
We walk to the kitchen together, moving slowly because Jay can't move any other way.
Mrs. Henderson is there already, standing by the coffee maker in her bathrobe, and she looks at us with flat, empty eyes that show nothing—no concern, no guilt, no acknowledgment of what happened in this house last night.
She knows what happened. She must know.
She knows what's going to happen today. But she doesn't say anything, doesn't offer to help, doesn't ask if Jay needs to see a doctor, doesn't even pretend to care.
She just watches us grab a piece of bread each from the counter and walk out the front door like we're ghosts she can see right through.
The walk to the bus stop takes twice as long as usual. Jay is moving like every step costs him something. Like he's spending energy he doesn't have, his broken arm pressed tight against his body and his good hand clenched into a fist at his side.
I stay close to him, ready to catch him if he stumbles, ready to help if he falls. But he doesn't stumble. He doesn't fall. He just keeps walking, one foot in front of the other, his jaw set in that way I know means he's holding on, refusing to give in to the pain or the fear.
We're almost at the bus stop when he stops walking and turns to face me. He looks even more washed out than he did inside, like a photograph that's starting to fade, like he's already disappearing right in front of me.
"Ivan, whatever happens today, I need you to remember something."
"I know," I say quickly, desperately, the words tumbling out. "Jason Michael Morrow. March fifteenth. Macon, Georgia. I remember everything, I won't forget, I promise—"
"Not that," he interrupts, reaching out with his good hand and grabbing my arm, holding on tight enough that I can feel the tremor running through him.
"I need you to remember that this isn't your fault.
None of it. Not the cans, not last night, not what's going to happen next.
I made a choice. I knew what I was doing when I went after him, when I grabbed his arm, when I put myself between you and that belt.
And I would make the same choice again, every single time, a thousand times. Do you understand? I had to stop him."
My eyes are burning and I blink hard, trying to keep the tears back, trying to be strong the way he needs me to be.
"Jay—"
"Do you understand?" His grip on my arm tightens even more, and I can see the desperation in his eyes, the need to make me believe this. "Say it. Say you understand. I need to hear you say it."
"I understand, Jay," I whisper, even though I don't, not really, not in any way that helps.
How can it not be my fault when he got hurt protecting me?
How can I not carry that with me for the rest of my life, this knowledge that he broke his arm because of me, that he's about to lose everything because he tried to save me?
"That's good," he says, and he lets go of my arm.
He takes a breath, deep and shaky, and I can see how much even that small exertion cost him, how much energy he had to spend on those few sentences.
"One more thing. If they separate us today—when they separate us, because they will, we both know they will—don't try to fight it.
Don't run. Don't do anything stupid that'll get you in more trouble.
Just go where they tell you to go and keep your head down and survive.
That's the most important thing, Ivan. You survive.
You do whatever you have to do to survive.
Remember, this is only a small blip in time.
And then, when you're old enough, when you're out of the system and free, you find me.
Or I'll find you. One way or another, no matter how long it takes, we'll be together again. "
"You promise?" My voice cracks on the word, breaks completely, and I don't even care anymore about being strong or holding it together. Let him see me cry. Let the whole world see me cry. Nothing matters except these words that feel like a goodbye, like the last goodbye.
"I promise," he says firmly, and he pulls me into a hug, awkward and one-armed but fierce, desperate, holding onto me like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.
His chin rests on top of my head for just a moment and I can feel him trembling against me, can feel the pain radiating off him in waves.
"Remember my name, Ivan. Remember everything we practiced.
And I'll do the same. We'll find each other.
I swear it on my life. I swear it on everything I am. We'll find each other again one day."
The bus is coming down the road, getting closer. Jay lets go of me and steps back, and there's something in his eyes that looks like grief, like he's already mourning something that hasn't happened yet.
"Go on. Get on the bus. It'll be okay. I'll be right behind you."
I get on the bus with legs that don't feel like mine. I find a seat near the back and press my face against the window, watching through blurred vision as Jay climbs the steps slowly, painfully, clutching the handrail with his good hand while his broken arm stays pressed against his chest.
He walks down the aisle and sits in the seat across from me, and we don't talk for the rest of the ride because there's nothing left to say. Everything important has already been said. The words are all used up.
At school, we go to our separate buildings—me to the middle school, him to the high school next door.
I watch him walk away, moving slow and hunched, his broken arm held close.
I feel like someone has reached in and grabbed my heart and is tearing it apart with their bare hands.
I want to run after him, to stay by his side, to be there when everything falls apart.
But I can't.
I'm only twelve years old and I have no power over anything that happens in my life. I have no control.
I have nothing.
I am nothing.