Before
The cotton-ball clouds had severely tested my patience, but the scene was finally perfect.
I pressed the tiny switch at the top of the shoebox, and the interior flooded with a warm, battery-powered glow.
Through the peephole I’d cut into the front, a scene from The Outsiders glowed to life.
Three weeks of obsessive crafting culminated in the best school project I’d ever completed.
Even my parents had seemed pleased with my dedication.
"Alice, we gotta go," Mom said from my doorway. "We’ve got to stop by Colt’s on the way."
“What? Mom, no. We’ll be late,” I protested, getting to my feet and gathering my project. “Why do we have to do that now?”
Mom glanced down the hallway and then at her watch. “Because he needs a form signed for football, and if he doesn’t get it done today, he won’t be able to play next year. Come on, let’s move.”
“Why doesn’t he drive himself?” I grumbled as I jogged down the stairs, backpack flopping against my back. “He’s sixteen.”
Mom froze a few steps from the bottom and lowered her voice. “And you’re eleven. That’s old enough to understand that not everyone has the privileges we do. It’s a ten-minute detour. Enough."
I huffed, because it felt like Colt was everywhere lately. He was at our breakfast table, he was in the passenger seat of our car, and he was the hot topic of conversation at dinner. It felt like we’d adopted a stray teenager, and I was the only one who found his constant presence obnoxious.
When I reached the dining room, there he was, yet again. Colt was hunched over a history textbook, and Grant was next to him, actually writing in his notebook instead of bouncing a Nerf ball against the wall.
That was the magic trick that’d earned Colt a permanent invite. In the six months since he’d started hanging around, he’d managed to do what my parents never could: get Grant to care about school.
Dad walked over and delivered a slap to Grant’s back, and then shook his shoulders. "Keep this up, and you’ll have scouts on our doorstep. Just gotta stay locked in, buddy, just like you have been."
"Colt, time to go." Mom jingled her keys. “Eddie, you’ll meet us there?”
“Right behind you.” Dad peered over Grant’s shoulder. “He’s got…six questions left.”
Colt stood up immediately, the ever-obedient, well-mannered third child. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
I rolled my eyes.
We piled into the sedan—me in the back with my project on my lap, Mom driving, and Colt in the seat next to me. I dropped my backpack between us, ensuring Colt didn’t get too close. It was awkward enough that he chose the back when he could’ve easily ridden up front with Mom.
I peeked through the peephole to ensure everything looked okay with my model.
“And your book report is finished, too?” Mom asked.
My head popped up. “Yeah, it’s done.”
Mom pressed her lips together, and I knew exactly why.
The teacher had only assigned the class a written book report.
But I’d wanted to do something special. To show my parents that I was focusing, too.
But also because thinking through all the individual elements of the diorama had been exhilarating.
I could already imagine the look on Mrs. Clark’s face when she saw it.
"Can I see?" Colt asked quietly.
"It’s not finished," I lied. I didn't want his big hands anywhere near it. But then I saw Mom watching me in the rearview mirror, her eyebrows raised in a warning. I sighed and tilted the box toward him. "Don't touch anything."
Colt leaned over, squinting through the peephole. A small, surprised laugh escaped him. "Whoa. That’s awesome. Look at the clouds." He paused, his eye still pressed to the cardboard. "I like the little guy in the red and white shirt. He looks tough. He’d be a good linebacker."
I pulled the box away. "He’s a character from the book. It’s not about football."
“Alice, be nice,” Mom warned.
I opened my mouth to point out that I was being nice by letting him look. And that Colt was the one who’d made my own project, and everything else for that matter, about him. But instead, I snapped my mouth shut and turned toward my window.
We drove toward the edge of Holly River, past the cheerful brick houses with their immaculate lawns and plastic Santas.
Then, we turned down a gravel road I didn't recognize.
The trees grew more congested—tall, spindly pines that blocked the late afternoon sun.
We stopped in front of a house that made my stomach drop.
It was small, the paint peeling, the windows dark. The wooden porch sagged in the middle, and a crooked fence surrounded an overgrown yard. The place looked like every haunted house I’d seen in movies. It was unfathomable (vocabulary word from The Outsiders) that Colt lived here.
"I’ll just be a second." Colt practically fell out of the car and jogged toward the front door.
"Is this where he lives?" I whispered, my grip tightening around my diorama.
Mom sighed. "Yes, baby. And it’s more than many people have."
I stared at the house. I couldn't imagine living there. I’d be scared to even close my eyes at night. My gaze caught on a broken window, shoddily covered with cardboard and tape. Was that Colt’s room?
It must be freezing at night.
The front door of the house swung open with a violent bang.
Colt came out first, his face harder than I’d seen it before, holding a crumpled piece of paper.
Right behind him, a woman stumbled onto the porch.
Her hair was frizzy, unbrushed, and her blouse was unevenly buttoned.
Even from the car, I could see that her face was flushed red.
"You think you’re better?" she screamed at him. "Running off with those people? You come back here, Colt!"
She was swaying, her movements uncoordinated.
She reached for his arm, but Colt dodged her, keeping his head down.
"Don't you walk away from me!" She chased him down the steps, but on the last one, her foot caught on something.
She tripped, stumbling over a cracked ceramic pot, and hit the gravel hard.
“Mom!” I cried.
Mom threw open her car door.
Colt dropped his paper and rushed to the woman’s side. "Mom! Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
The woman shoved Colt, a violent push that sent him reeling. She scrambled to her feet, clothing streaked with dirt, and resumed screaming. This time, using words I wasn't allowed to say.
Colt scooped up his paper and raced for the car. Mom met him halfway, grabbed his arms, and said things to him I couldn’t hear. Colt shook his head vehemently. She nodded and they barreled toward our vehicle. With Colt’s mom hollering at them both, Colt dove into the back seat, his chest heaving.
Mom got in next and locked the doors. "Should I call someone? Do you think she needs—" I craned my neck and saw Colt’s mom storm inside, slamming the door in a way that would’ve had me grounded for a month.
"No.” Colt cut her off, his voice firmer than I’d ever heard it. He turned fully toward his window. "Please. Just go."
Mom didn't argue. She backed out of the driveway so fast gravel sprayed against the undercarriage.
I sat in the back, gripping my project like a lifeline through the suffocating silence. I felt sick. Like I’d seen something I wasn't supposed to see.
Colt remained turned toward his window, arms crossed tightly over his chest. There was a chasm of space between us now as he huddled against the door.
"I'm so sorry, Colt," Mom said softly after a few minutes. She reached back, trying to pat him, but her fingers barely brushed his jacket. He didn't move. "Did you... did you get it signed?"
Colt nodded, but he didn't look at her.
I glanced down at my project. The perfect world I’d built inside the box felt small and stupid.
A hot, prickling sensation burned behind my eyes as shame filled my body.
The weight of what I just saw, of what I just learned, hit me full force.
My throat tightened with emotion, and I sniffed, fighting back tears.
I thought about all the times I’d complained about Colt being at our house.
How annoyed I was when he’d taken a third helping of lasagna and stayed over for the fifth night in a row, intruding upon family time my parents normally held sacred.
I’d made it obvious I didn’t want him around then.
I’d treated him like an intruder when he was only trying to escape that.
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I quickly brushed it away. When I glanced over at Colt, he was still curled against the door, forehead pressed to the glass. I wanted to apologize—to make him feel better—but I didn’t know how.
I looked at my project, and an idea formed.
I reached through the bottom access flap of the box, feeling around until my fingers closed around the plastic figurine with the red and white striped shirt. I pulled it free, dried glue snapping off.
Then I stretched my arm between us, holding it out to Colt.
He didn't notice at first. He was still staring out at the passing trees. I nudged his arm with the toy. He glanced at it from the corner of his eye, then quickly looked away. His face looked red and blotchy, and the sight of it made my heart ache.
I waited a beat, then laid the little man on the seat between us, pushing it right up against his thigh.
A few minutes later, as we neared the school parking lot, Colt’s hand moved. Without turning his head, without letting anyone see his face, he reached down and closed his fingers around the small plastic figurine.