Chapter 15 Vale
Vale
THE PAST
“I’m worried,” Quentin says from the other side of the wall.
It’s late. Way past what my new dad would probably call my bedtime, despite me being fourteen now. So late, I figured he’d be asleep too. He’s usually out by eleven at the latest. Earlier on days where he’s pulling long hours at the office.
He’s a lawyer—a defense attorney. He protects criminals.
Or rather, he protects those accused of crimes. Whether or not they actually are guilty doesn’t really seem to matter from what I’ve gathered.
After all, it was only last year when he visited me in the group home for the first time, asking me questions about what happened at the Baders to “build his case.” A case where basically the state itself was being put on trial for failing to protect two of its helpless wards.
He felt bad about it, he confessed to me later. Said he was just doing his job, but it was the one time he really hated what he does.
“The system failed you. Terribly,” he’d told me.
I just stared at him, waiting for him to tell me something I didn’t already know. Just because I don’t talk much, or really at all these days, not when people are around at least, doesn’t mean I’m stupid.
Back in the hallway, a rustle of paper sounds from Quentin’s office, followed by a harsh exhale. “I get that. But it’s been over a year now, and there’s been no...improvement. Hell, I’d take him regressing at this point. There’s just...nothing.”
Ah.
This again.
“I think...I think it’s time.”
My jaw clenches, right along with my fists at my sides.
Figures.
Shaking my head, I’m about to turn around and head to my room, start packing my things, when his next words halt me.
“I know, Marv,” he says tiredly. “I know I got too close to this. I know you didn’t agree with my decision to adopt him.
What can I say? I feel sick over that case.
Over what happened to those boys—both of them.
Yeah, yeah, I know. But come on, you and I both know that fucker deserved what he got, and CPS barely got a slap on the fuckin’ wrist for their role in it. It was blatant neglect on their part.”
It’s a moment before he speaks again. “Yeah, I know. But that’s the point.
It shouldn’t have been so easy to clear their name.
They’re protected by so many layers of fine print, it’ll be a miracle if they ever have to pay for their fuck-ups.
The least I could do is try to give one of its victims a fair shot at life, seeing as the other one got royally fucking screwed and you and I both know it. ”
Aston.
I suck on the inside of my cheek, staring straight ahead at nothing.
Did he get screwed though?
Last I heard, my foster brother was locked away in a mental hospital. I’m assuming nothing has changed. He made a mess that night. Lost his shit.
I can still hear his laughter.
Hear him singing.
“One...two...he’s a comin’ for you…”
The sounds of choking. Of shattering glass.
My hand burns...
There’s so much blood...
“And that’s precisely why I don’t want to do this anymore,” Quentin exclaims. Dad, my brain corrects automatically, despite it never sticking.
All thoughts of Aston and that night fade once more to the background.
I’m still not used to the idea of having a dad again after all these years. Not that Quentin has asked me to call him that, even after the adoption was made official last month. I think it would make him happy though, if I did. Maybe he’d think that means I’m moving forward, or whatever.
Then again, at this point, I think he’d be happy if I said anything at all…
“I don’t—” Marv must cut him off, and I picture him shaking his head as he goes on, “No, no, I’m not retiring.” He chuckles quietly at his own joke. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I just...I think it’s time for a change of pace. A fresh start for us both.”
I perk up at that.
Us both?
“I was actually in touch with an old buddy of mine from where I grew up. He’ was just promoted to Headmaster for the same academy we graduated from.” He chuckles wryly. “Can’t say I ever saw myself going back to Crowley, but Mom’s still there, even if she’s in a home and doesn’t remember me.
“It’s a good town,” he continues. “Small. A little run down. But it’s safe.
Great schools. And Grady Prep has a killer football program on top of its stellar curriculum.
Hell, it could be good for the kid, getting him involved.
Give him a chance to finally let off some steam.
God knows he could use it—use something. ”
I look down at my hands. Football...
A couple years ago, Aston and I found one, half-deflated, at the park down the street. We threw it around for a bit, trying and failing to get it to spiral or whatever. Aston really liked throwing it at me—going long—and then chasing me to tackle me.
Later, when the sun went down and the park closed, he told me I could keep it if I wanted.
So, I did.
Sometimes in my bedroom, late at night, I’d hold it to my chest as I tried to ignore the knocking in the room next door. I’d often find myself waking up with it in my arms, kind of like how little kids hold stuffed teddies to their chests.
I miss it.
Just another thing I lost that night.
Another thing taken from me...
It’s quiet for so long that I begin to wonder if I missed Quentin hanging up.
But then in a murmur I have to strain extra hard to hear—
“Sometimes I feel like he’s a ticking time-bomb.”
I still.
“And it’s not just because he won’t talk. He’s just so…distant. So hard to reach. There’s something…”
Off.
A voice I haven’t heard in years rushes forward—faint and murky, like it’s from a dream.
“Something’s wrong, Hugh. He’s my child, but he doesn’t feel like mine. Something’s just...off about him.”
“What happened that night…” Quentin goes on so quietly, I nearly miss it. I strain closer to hear him, shoving away the memories to focus on the present. “Something about it just… never sat right with me.”
My eyes widen, my pulse quickening ever so faintly. There’s a buzzing in my fingers. Flutters in my belly.
“I don’t know,” he mutters. I squint, pressing my ear nearly right up against the door, next to the small gap where it rests against the door jamb.
“I don’t know what I’m saying. Forget I said anything,” Quentin rushes out roughly.
He clears his throat. “Regardless, I just hope Ashwood does better by that boy than CPS did. But God knows when it comes to kids’ mental health in this country, it’s fucked. ”
I blink a couple times, feeling like I missed something.
There’s a squeaking sound telling me Quentin’s lounging back in his desk chair. “Yeah, go. Sorry for calling so late. Just wanted to make sure you heard it from me first.” A pause. “I’ll talk to Vale. See what he thinks. Last thing I want to do is uproot his life even further, you know?”
I take a quiet step back, processing everything that I overheard as Quentin makes his goodbyes.
There’s a thud—likely him tossing his cellphone on his desk. I hear a muffled groan, like maybe he’s covering his face.
Biting my lip, I turn my head, eyeing the hallway from which I came.
I’d come down for a glass of water, and to go outside. It’s something I started doing when I came to live here. We’re far enough away from the city that there’s hardly any light pollution. Sometimes, when it’s warmer, I lay in the grass and stare up at the stars, connecting the dots in my head.
Other times, I bring with me the journal my therapist gave me. I’ve yet to write in it, like she wanted. What’s the point? If I wanted to say something, I’d talk.
So instead, I draw. Not that I’m any good, but sometimes it feels good to just get it out.
Dreams that only come when I’m awake, in flashes and desires.
My memories. Stuff I wonder about when I’m bored.
It seems too risky to put words to, so I use symbols instead—let my drawings speak for themselves.
And then when I finally get up to go inside to bed, I stare at the page, ingrain whatever I drew to my memory, and then I rip it all up and chuck the pieces in the woods.
No one can see.
Quiet as a mouse.
My lip curls, and I shake my head.
Too preoccupied by my thoughts, I slip up—hit the corner of table with my hip. A vase teeters and I tense, cringing, hissing through my teeth.
“Vale? That you?”
My eyes widen, and I quickly hunch my shoulders, making myself appear smaller. I had a growth spurt over the summer. Proper nutrition does wonders for puberty. Finally, I look my age.
But in moments like this, I resent it. It’s made me clumsy.
It’s annoying.
Footsteps sound across the floorboard on the other side of the wall, and then the door opens, revealing my adoptive dad.
He’s young. Barely even thirty. He would’ve only been fifteen when I was born…not much older than I am now. He’s handsome, I suppose, with medium brown skin and thick, black hair he usually carefully styles. Tonight, though, it hangs messily over his forehead, like maybe he was yanking on it.
It makes him look that much younger.
He eyes me through the shadows with a scrunched look behind his thick black-framed glasses. “You okay? Need something?”
I just stare at him.
His mouth thins and he nods, pinching his nose.
Wetting my lips, I count to three, and then I say, “I think it’s a good idea.”
He stills. Slowly, his hand descends from his face. His eyes are wide with what I imagine is shock.
“Moving,” I clarify. My voice is a little rusty—crackly and stilted—but clear enough to understand. “I don’t want to be here.”
Here as in the city. Miles away from where I lived in squalor. From where I was abused and left to starve to death.
Quentin’s eyes widen impossibly more, and then he’s nodding. “Okay then. I’ll get the ball rolling tomorrow.”
I give a single nod back.
Turning on my heel, I start making my way back toward my room, when his voice halts me.
“I don’t know how much you overheard...but just know, I’m glad you’re here.”
I slow to a stop, cocking my head.
“It might’ve started out as guilt...taking you in. Fostering you. But that’s not why I adopted you.”
Stewing on that for a second—on the fact it still makes zero sense to me as to how adopting me assuages him of feelings he has no claim to; he’s not the one who neglected and abused me—I also consider how.
..interesting it is that he isn’t making a big deal out of the fact that I just spoke my first words to him.
It’s been a year since we’ve met. Four months since I came to live with him, not long after the trial ended.
A month now since he legally became my guardian...
My father, for all intents and purposes. Young that he is.
I turn my head, eyeing him over my shoulder. “I know.”
He arches a brow, and I shrug.
I level him with a knowing look. “You were lonely.”
Leaving him standing there gaping, I quickly make my way back to my room, softly closing my door. Stepping back from it, I watch, waiting to see if he’ll follow. Interrogate me.
Maybe about what I meant, how I knew that.
Or maybe about that night from over a year ago.
Maybe further back than that.
My eyes narrow as the seconds pass without a peep. Not a single footstep headed my way.
My gaze drifts away from the door over to where the mirror above my dresser stretches out across the wall. I cock my head, eyeing my round, pale face. My dark, nearly black eyes. My thick brown hair that is definitely in need of a trim.
My pulse pounds steadily, visible in my reflection from this angle. Thumping through my skin, reminding me I’m alive, even if I look a little plastic and fake standing like this.
So still.
Gangly and awkward.
I frown, and straighten, pulling my shoulders back. Lift my head and work out the tension in my neck.
I smile.
Soften it.
Eh, I’ll work on it.