4. Dylan
FOUR
DYLAN
FOURTEEN YEARS OLD
I do my best to blend. First in, then, when that fails, into the background.
The cafeteria at Parkside Academy is noisy.
I push my food around with a fork. Not really hungry, but not really not hungry either. I’m trying to study for the math test, but it’s difficult to concentrate. In the end, I give up, pack my stuff, and get up.
I’m carrying the tray with one hand while stuffing the book into my backpack.
A second later, the tray flips.
And the lunch I’ve barely touched? Instead of carrying it, I’m wearing it.
Parker sends me a smug look.
His friends laugh like a pack of hyenas.
“Freak,” Parker says. He used to say things like this under his breath, but ever since I transferred to Parkside, he’s found his volume button.
His friends laugh again.
I grit my teeth and start picking up my things.
My sweater is wet and smells like chicken salad and apple juice.
I square my shoulders while I make my escape.
I used to like school.
I know I did.
I just don’t seem to remember those days very well anymore.
It’s cold in the treehouse. February isn’t an ideal month to camp outside.
I throw my backpack on the floor and climb up.
Once there, I settle in.
I unpack my books and get a pillow and a blanket from the wooden chest by the wall. I snuck those in here a few weeks ago. They’re cold and kind of damp, but I’ll make do. It’s a whole process trying to read a book with gloves on. I’ve had some practice already, though.
I don’t skip school every day.
Really, I don’t.
Only sometimes.
It’s fine.
No one’s the wiser anyway, and today’s pointless, so I won’t miss much.
I have a history test coming up, and I picked up some extra reading just for fun.
I get so lost in the book I forget myself. Forget to listen.
I’m unprepared.
When a head suddenly pops into my treehouse sanctuary, I can’t even hide. A wide-eyed stare is my only option.
Eric climbs into the treehouse without a word and comes and sits down next to me.
“Is there room for one more?” he asks.
I nod. Haltingly resigned.
Busted.
For a little while, we sit in silence, except for occasional humming from Eric.
It stops abruptly.
“How are you, kiddo?” he asks. I open my mouth to say I’m fine. “Really,” he says pointedly before I can do that.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. The floor starts to swim. I breathe through it.
“I’ve been better,” I say after a bit.
He nods, slow and thoughtful.
“I think we should go inside,” he says then. “I made lunch.”
I follow him through the snow-covered backyard into the house. Eric sits me down at the kitchen table. It’s nice and warm and gets even better when he slides a steaming hot bowl of beef stew in front of me. He takes a seat on the other side of the table, and we eat.
I’m in trouble, I know.
I’ll probably have to go home after this and face the music.
So I eat slowly.
Abnormally slowly.
As slowly as possible.
But all things come to an end at some point. Even beef stew.
I push the bowl away and look down at my hands.
“Have you ever seen the Indiana Jones movies?” Eric asks. “The original, good ones.”
“No?”
He smiles—not angry, but calm and reassuring. “This feels like something that needs to be remedied right away.”
He makes popcorn, and we watch the first movie.
Adrian and Will come home when we’re halfway through the second one. Adrian sends me a long look before he drops his bag and throws himself onto the couch. Then he’s plastered against my side.
He argues with Eric about which is the best Indiana Jones movie.
I sink farther into the couch. It’s warm and light and people talk over each other.
Nobody trips me. Nobody shoves me. Nobody sneers.
Nobody steals my stuff just for fun. Nobody points and laughs.
Nobody whispers behind my back. Nobody looks at me with dismay like they’re not quite sure what to do with me.
Nobody makes me feel like they kind of wish I wasn’t here.
The tightness in my shoulders eases.
I close my eyes.
Just for a second.
“Dylan?”
Somebody’s gently shaking my shoulder, and my eyes fly open. Eric is standing in front of the couch. Somehow, I’ve ended up dozing off on the couch with Adrian’s head in my lap, his mouth slightly open, breathing soft and even.
I carefully maneuver myself out from underneath him. He mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep and throws his arm over his eyes.
Eric shakes his head with obvious affection. “That boy could sleep through a plane crash.”
I put my coat on in silence and get my things in silence, and we walk next door in silence. Aunt Nina is waiting in the hallway, arms crossed over her chest, mouth pinched.
“Nina,” Eric says before my aunt can even open her mouth. “A word.”
He sounds serious. More serious than I’ve ever heard him before.
Aunt Nina’s jaw tightens, but she gives a brief nod.
“Night, kiddo,” Eric tells me.
With no idea what I’m supposed to do, I make my way upstairs to my room.
I don’t know what Eric says. He doesn’t tell me, and I don’t ask.
Nina and Preston have a civilized family meeting where we all get to civilly air our grievances. It’s as effective as one might think a meeting where you’re supposed to civilly confront a bully can be.
Preston says it’s “boys being boys.”
I guess.
Only… I’m a boy, and that’s not the kind of person I want to be. The boys-will-be-boys kind of person.
Preston flashes his teeth at me. It’s one of those smiles that never reaches his eyes that he’s so proficient in.
“It’s a lot to get used to. This new living arrangement of ours,” he says.
It’s been two years.
“Growing pains,” he says.
Whatever.
I stop listening after that. It doesn’t really matter what they say.
It doesn’t matter that Parker is grinning at me smugly when he thinks no one’s watching. Getting away with it.
It doesn’t matter that no one in this house believes me.
There are people right next door who care.
I can take a few flipped lunch trays for that.
The Olsens own a garage. It’s why they moved from Philadelphia in the first place. One of their relatives wanted to retire and sell the place, so they got a family discount, Lynn says.
“It’s why we’ll never get to own a new car,” Harriet tells me. “Dad can fix anything, so Will’s grandkids will probably still be driving around in one of those clunkers we own. They’re bulletproof at this point.”
“Well, that, and we can’t afford a new car anyway,” Adrian says. “Hand me the wrench?”
I let my eyes slide over the selection of tools and try to remember which one of them is the wrench.
“The one on the left,” Adrian prompts, inhumanly patient.
I slap it into his outstretched palm, and he grins at me while he wipes sweat off his brow. I hand him a bottle of water.
There’s something soothing about watching Adrian work on cars, and I like the smell of the garage—that mix of dampness, gasoline, oil, spray paint, and a bunch of other things. And the noise. I like the noise. There’s always music playing and Jim and Emilio exchanging barbs and joking and laughing.
Ever since Adrian started helping out in the garage, I’ve spent a lot of afternoons here. He helps his dad while I do my homework. Sometimes I read chapters from history or biology or geography to him out loud and then quiz him after. He concentrates better when his hands are busy.
It’s tense at home nowadays. Ever since that civil family meeting where we discussed things civilly.
I make myself scarce.
Instead of arguing or commenting, Aunt Nina now seems relieved whenever I take off.
“Running off to see your boyfriend?” Parker sneers when we step off the bus. His mom is on vacation, so Parker is staying with us for a week.
Yay.
I ignore him. I’ve barely spoken a word to him in months, and I’m not planning to start now.
I go to move past him. The foot comes out of nowhere, and then I’m on my hands and knees.
“Oops,” Parker says with a gleeful note in his voice.
I grit my teeth and get up, wipe my palms clean of the gravel, and start walking again.
“Nothing to say?” Parker calls after me.
Nope. A reaction is what he wants, and I sure as hell am not giving it to him.
“Fucking loser,” he says.
I ignore him.
But not Adrian.
He comes out of nowhere. There’s a blur of movement from the corner of my eye, and then Parker is on his back on the grass with Adrian on top of him. Fists fly. Knuckles meet with bone. Adrian’s pressing the side of Parker’s face against the road and clutching the collar of his shirt.
“If I ever hear you speak to him again, I will knock all your teeth out and feed them to you one by one,” he snarls, pushing Parker’s face harder into the ground. “Same goes for your pathetic friends. Get it?”
Parker struggles and tries to get up.
“Say it,” Adrian grits through his teeth. “Say ‘I will not fuck with Dylan.’”
Parker struggles some more. His nostrils flare as he breathes out with a snotty sound.
“I will not fuck with Dylan,” he mutters after a few more seconds.
Adrian gives his head one more shove then gets up. When he passes me, he grabs my arm and tows me after him.
Once we’re out of sight, he leans against the side of the house and lets out a long breath.
He closes his eyes for a few seconds, and when he opens them again, he glares at me.
“You should’ve told me he was still pulling that shit.”
I look away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me!”
My eyes fly back to Adrian.
“ You matter to me,” he snaps.
For a moment, I don’t seem to remember how to breathe.
For a moment, I don’t seem to remember how to speak.
I only manage a single nod and a whispered “Okay.”
Adrian is still glaring at me.
“Okay,” he echoes.
We stand in complete silence.
My heart beats so loudly.
Thump, thump, thump, thump !
He pushes himself off the wall and steps closer, then awkwardly wipes dirt off my clothes.
My skin tingles.
“Come on,” he mutters. “I promised Mia we’d make cookies with her.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” he echoes.
And we go inside and make cookies. And when Adrian gets grounded for two weeks for the shiner on Parker’s face, I sneak into his room every night, heart racing because I’m terrified of getting caught, but I do it anyway, and we play cards in the glow of flashlights and laugh until Will wakes up and throws pillows at us from his bed.