Chapter 30 Vale
Vale
THE PAST
“Just follow my lead,” Aston tells me, curling his fingers through the chain link fence.
Brow furrowed, I shield my eyes from the bright August sun as I watch his lanky, too-skinny body shimmy up the fence, fingers white around the thin steel wiring. When he reaches the top, he heaves himself over, landing in a crouch, a cloud of dirt kicking up around his feet and hands.
Twisting his head, he meets my gaze over his shoulder, a familiar wild grin stretched across his flushed face. “Your turn.”
In the distance, past the row of trees behind where Aston pushes to a stand, there’s the distinct howl of a monkey.
“It’s easy. Just don’t overthink it,” he says.
Lips pursed, I slowly approach the fence, giving it a little testing tug, before hauling myself up it. Not only did Aston make this look far easier than it actually is, but I’m quick to learn that my being shorter didn’t help matters.
The rusty wire digs painfully into my palms as I use all my weight to scale the flimsy structure.
“Come on, hurry!” Aston whisper-shouts when I struggle to plant my foot on the top rail. I slip twice, my arms throbbing and trembling as I struggle not to lose my grip.
Eyes set in a hard glare, teeth gritted, I somehow manage to climb the last few inches so that I don’t have as far of a distance to swing over. This try, I don’t bother using my foot like he did. I just curl my entire body around the top, hugging it like a koala, before rolling myself off.
Aston makes a soft surprised sound, and next thing I know, his body is colliding with mine as he tries—and fails—to catch me.
Or at least, that’s what I assume he was trying to achieve. We both go down in a heap, grunted oomphs punching out of both of us.
There’s a sharp intake of air that’s quick to follow. One that didn’t come from me. Then—
“Owww,” Aston moans as I hurriedly scramble off him.
Heart pounding, chest heaving, I mumble, “Why’d you do that?” Rust stains my palms orange, and I grimace as I try to rub it off in the dry grass.
Next to me, Aston heaves himself up into a seated position. “Because you did it wrong,” he says in between shallow pants, “and it looked like you were gonna land on your head.”
His voice is tight—too tight. Gritted, like he’s talking through his teeth. It has me glancing over, the mess of my hands momentarily forgotten.
Face drained of all color, eyes screwed shut, features rippling, he hugs his middle. His too-pale forehead shines with sweat that I quickly realize isn’t just from exertion.
I blink. “Are you hurt?”
His throat bobs at the same time his jaw tightens, and he gives a little rapid shake of his head.
Narrowing my eyes, I walk over on my knees. “Show me.”
A single eye cracks open, darting up and down me as I come to a stop right next to him. “Why?” he says suspiciously.
I lift a shoulder. “Wanna see.” More monkey howls sound from the other side of the trees.
A long moment passes where he seems to be deciding whether or not to trust me. Finally, he gives a short, jerky nod, and unwinds his arms. But rather than lift his shirt right away, he plants a hand on the ground, and slowly, shakily climbs to a stand.
Joining him, I tilt my head, watching curiously as his features solidify into a stiff, blank sort of mask. It’s a look I recognize. One that, up until now, I’ve only ever seen when he sits down sometimes, but never accompanied with enough information to give me any clue as to what it could mean.
But staring up into his glossy, faraway eyes now, remembering the way he said Ow as his face got all scrunchy and white, I see it for what it is.
Pain.
That mask means he’s in pain.
He’s just trying to hide it.
I file this new knowledge away, to examine it later when I’m alone.
I’m about to say his name—remind him he’s supposed to be showing me where he’s hurt—when he seems to snap out of his daze, blinking and swallowing convulsively a couple times, before dropping his chin to stare at the ground.
Wincing, just like he did that time we knocked heads playing with the football he gave me, he lifts his shirt, bunching it up over his chest.
My brows crash together as I take in the dark black, purple, and blue splotch over his side, and the lighter green and yellow shades stamped around it.
My eyes go big and round. “I did that?”
His head snaps up, a confused scowl marring his features. “What? No.”
I go to brush my fingers over the bruises—see if they feel like anything, see if they feel warmer than unbruised skin, or cool to the touch—when Aston twists away, out of my reach.
“Don’t,” he snaps.
My gaze springs to his profile, eyes widening with surprise.
Lips pursed, he gives a short, rapid shake of his head, and lets his shirt fall, hiding the marks once more. Ducking his head, he turns away. “It’s nothing. Come on, let’s—”
“Did Rick do that?” I say in a small, irritated voice.
If not me, it had to be him.
But when? I can’t help but wonder. As far as I know, Aston hasn’t done anything bad lately. Nor have I, which means there’s nothing Aston could’ve taken the blame—and the punishment—for.
Aston pauses mid-step but says nothing.
A familiar twisting feeling starts in my gut, slowly spreading upward, making me all hot and tingly in a way that usually leads to me doing something bad.
Like that time Mrs. Roberts, my kindergarten teacher from back when my parents were alive, took my worksheet away before I was done with it. And I decided to leave a handful of thumbtacks—pointy side up—on her chair for her to sit on to teach her a lesson.
Or like when Gran told me to go to bed and turned off the TV before my show was over, and I waited until she was asleep to take the remote to her TV and throw it in her fish tank. Exchanging it for the fish I’d leave in her house shoes for her to find in the morning.
Or like a couple months ago, just before summer break started, when some kids were picking on me during recess.
Before I even had a chance to catch my bearings after one shoved me to the ground, Aston was there, shoving the bullies right back and throwing punches.
When the kid who had shoved me, who was much bigger than both of us, managed to get a punch in of his own—right to Aston’s eye, causing him to crumple to the ground with a cry that made my blood boil—I grabbed a nearby rock, the biggest I could find, and bashed it over his head.
The fight was quickly broken up after that, an ambulance was called, and Aston and I were rushed to the principal’s office.
“Don’t say a word,” Aston had told me.
That’s all the warning I had before he took the fall for what I did.
Somehow, none of the teachers witnessed it—not until it was too late, and a kid was laying unconsciously on the ground, bleeding from his head—so no one questioned it.
After all, this wasn’t the first time Aston got in trouble for fighting.
Not that he ever set out to hurt anyone. He was just defending himself, same as this day.
Cops were brought in. Rick and Louise had to come in for an emergency meeting…
Even CPS was notified.
It was a whole mess.
I really thought Aston was going to be sent away. He almost was. Would’ve been…
Had Rick not insisted he stay, promising he’d handle it—discipline him accordingly—and ensure this never happened again.
It probably helped that the kid ended up walking away with nothing more than a mild concussion and a handful of stitches. Lucky, they’d called it.
No, it didn’t keep Aston from getting expelled. But it did keep him from getting thrown into jail or juvie or wherever they send child murderers had the kid died.
It also didn’t keep Rick from giving him the beating of a lifetime later that night.
I was furious.
If Aston hadn’t shoved me in my closet the second we got home that evening, and shoved a chair under the knob to keep me from opening it, I probably would’ve done something stupid like fess up the truth—that it was me—or found something worse than a rock to quiet the cries, shouts, and crashes I heard coming from down the hall not long after he hid me away.
It likely would’ve been the second choice, seeing as I didn’t want to get in trouble, and my need to hurt whoever was hurting Aston was far stronger than any potential urge to set things straight. Not that I felt one, seeing as I was too pissed off.
Not unlike how I feel now, remembering the patchwork of bruising all over Aston’s side and stomach. Knowing it wasn’t me falling on him that did that.
“Earth to Valeyyy.”
Blinking Aston’s furrowed face into focus, I frown when I realize he must’ve turned around and came back for me, where I still stand frozen in front of the fence. Hands balled tightly at my sides.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he whispers, rolling his lips together like he’s trying to keep from laughing. All signs of pain that were there moments ago are gone, replaced once more by his usual never-serious self.
“What thing?”
“That thing where it looks like the lights have been turned off.” He points between my eyes, wiggling his finger. “Knock, knock. Anybody home?”
I make a face at that and swat his hand away.
He just grins big and wild and crazy. “Come on, I wanna see the tiger.”
With a sigh, I jog to catch up with him as he turns forward, quickening his steps toward the row of trees.
On the other side of them, visible through the gaps, I can make out chain link fencing not unlike what we just climbed over.
Only it’s a sparkly silver, and cages in the monkeys we’d been hearing, rather than the zoo as a whole.
The zoo we’d snuck into because we have no money.