Chapter 7 Ivan #2
I go to class. I sit at my desk. I stare at the board and don't hear a single word the teacher says, don't process anything, don't learn anything.
All I can think about is Jay, somewhere in the building next door, walking through the halls with his broken arm, sweating in pain, waiting for someone to notice and for the end to come.
For our end to come.
The morning crawls by. Every time the classroom door opens, I flinch, expecting someone to come for me. But no one does. The clock on the wall ticks away the minutes, each one feeling like an hour, like a year. I go to second period, then third.
I eat lunch alone at a table in the corner of the cafeteria, not hungry, not tasting anything, just going through the motions because that's what Jay told me to do.
Keep your head down. Survive. Be invisible.
It's during fifth period when the office aide comes to my classroom with a note.
My teacher reads it and looks at me with an expression I can't decipher, something between pity and discomfort, like she knows something terrible is happening but doesn't want to be involved. She tells me to gather my things.
"You're being checked out early," she says. "Go to the front office."
I pick up my backpack with hands that are shaking so badly I can barely grip the straps, and I walk out of the room.
My legs feel like they might give out at any second.
The hallway stretches out in front of me, the fluorescent lights too bright, and I make myself keep walking even though every step brings me closer to something I don't want to face.
There's a woman waiting for me in the office. She's wearing a blazer and a tired expression, and she's holding a clipboard, and I know immediately what she is. I've seen enough social workers in my life to recognize them on sight, to know the look.
"Ivan? I'm Mrs. Dodson. I'm here to help you."
"Where's Jay?" The words come out before I can stop them. "Is he okay? Where did they take him? I need to see him, I need to know he's—"
Mrs. Dodson's expression flickers, just for a moment, something that might be real sympathy crossing her face before the professional mask slides back into place.
"Your foster brother is being taken care of," she says carefully, choosing her words.
"Right now, I need you to come with me. We're going to go back to the house so you can collect your belongings, and then we'll find you a safe place to stay. "
"But where is he?" I ask again. "Where are they taking him? I need to see him, I need to talk to him, just for a minute, please—"
"Ivan. I understand this is hard. I understand you're scared. But your foster brother is in a different situation than you are right now. He's receiving medical attention and he's being placed separately. I can't give you more information than that. I'm sorry."
Separately.
The word knocks all the air out of my lungs. I knew it was coming. Jay told me himself it was coming. But hearing it out loud, from this stranger with her clipboard, makes it real in a way it wasn't before. Makes it final.
I don't fight. I don't run. I don't do anything stupid, because that's what Jay told me to do, because the last thing he said was to survive and to keep my head down.
I'll do what Jay said because he knows what to do. He always knows what to do.
I follow Mrs. Dodson out of the school and into her car, and I sit in the back seat and watch the familiar streets slide by outside the window. Streets I walked with Jay, corners where we waited for the bus, places that hold memories I'm already afraid of forgetting.
When we pull into the Hendersons' driveway, there's another car there already—a police cruiser with its lights off.
Mrs. Dodson tells me to wait in the car while she goes inside, and I sit there for what feels like forever, watching the front door, trying to hear what's happening.
I can see shapes moving behind the windows, dark silhouettes against the light.
I can hear raised voices, Mr. Henderson's angry rumble, but I can't make out the words, can't hear what they're saying.
Eventually Mrs. Dodson comes back out, and she opens my door and tells me I have fifteen minutes to pack my things.
A police officer escorts me inside, a tall man with a stern face who doesn't look at me, and we walk past the Hendersons who are standing in the living room looking furious and scared.
Mr. Henderson's face is red, his jaw clenched. Mrs. Henderson won't meet my eyes. They don't say anything to me. I don't say anything to them. I know I'll never see them again.
I walk down the hall to the room I shared with Jay. The room looks exactly the same as it did this morning. Jay's bed is still unmade from where I slept beside him last night, the blankets tangled and pushed to one side, still holding the shape of our bodies.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, just looking, trying to memorize every detail—the yellow walls, the dusty window, the narrow space between the beds where we used to sit and talk in whispers.
Then I get my garbage bag from the closet, the same one I brought with me when I arrived months ago.
The same one I'll take with me when I leave, the same one that's followed me through every placement, and I start packing.
Shirts, jeans, socks, underwear. The book I stole from the house before this one.
Everything I own fits in that bag with room to spare, just like it always has.
My whole life, everything that matters, fits in a black garbage bag.
I'm about to walk out when I notice something on Jay's pillow. A piece of paper, folded in half. My name is written on the outside in Jay's handwriting, the letters shaky and uneven like he wrote it with his wrong hand.
I pick it up with trembling fingers and unfold it carefully, and inside there are just a few lines.
I meant every word. I will find you. Don't give up on me.
Remember my name.
— J
Something breaks inside me when I read those words. Something that was already cracked splits completely open, and I have to bite down hard on my lip to keep from crying out loud, from sobbing right here in front of the police officer who's waiting by the door.
I fold the paper back up carefully, so carefully, like it's made of something precious and fragile, and I put it in my pocket where I can keep it safe, where nothing can take it from me.
I don't cry. I promised him I would be strong, and I will be strong even though it's the hardest thing I've ever done. I pick up my garbage bag and walk out of the room without looking back.
Mrs. Dodson drives me to a house on the other side of town, across the railroad tracks and past the strip mall and into a neighborhood I don't recognize. A temporary placement, she says, just until they can figure out something more permanent.
The woman who answers the door is heavyset and tired-looking and doesn't smile when she sees me.
She doesn't say welcome. She doesn't say she's glad I'm here.
She just shows me to a room I'll be sharing with two other boys, points to an empty bed, and tells me dinner is at six.
And that's it. That's my welcome. That's my new life.
I sit on the edge of my new bed, in my new room, in my new house, and I take the note out of my pocket and read it again. And again. And again, until the words are burned into my brain alongside all the other things I'm never going to forget, until I can recite them from memory with my eyes closed.
Jason Michael Morrow. March fifteenth. Macon, Georgia. Rebecca Morrow, maiden name Thorne. Scar on the left hand between the thumb and finger. Safe place is a beach with white sand and blue water. What did he say to me the first night we met? You can breathe.
I fold the note back up and slip it into the innermost pocket of my backpack, the one with the zipper, where nothing can fall out and nothing can be stolen.
It's the only thing I have left of him. That, and the information in my head, and the promise that someday, somehow, we'll find each other again.
I hold onto that promise with everything I have. It's the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
It's the only thing that matters.