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“Shit!” someone hisses. “Shit!”
“What?” Keith grumbles without looking up from his task. He yanks a few wires free of the console to give himself room to work and then presses the exposed tips together.
A hand comes down on the roof of the car, a warning, “It’s the fucking cops! Shit!”
“What?” Keith demands with wide eyes. He drops everything, but the other guys are already scattering across the pavement like roaches.
Keith shoulders his way out of the car, hears the nearby chain link fence rattle as the others shuffle over it, and then someone knocks him off his feet.
“You motherfucker!” Keith screams at the perpetrator’s retreating back. Robbie looks back, but he doesn’t stop running. Motherfucker. Keith gets it, but he’s still pissed: I don’t have to be fast; I just have to be faster than you.
Ignoring the sting of his scraped up palms and his bloodied knees, Keith scrambles to his feet.
“Police! Hands where I can see them.”
Keith grits his teeth and swears. They’re too close.
He’s wily, though. He just has to make it to the fence. It’s a ten-footer, but Keith knows he can get over it in two leaps. Afterward he just has to stay out of sight until the cops get tired of looking for him.
Keith hops over a discarded muffler in his path without breaking his stride, and he’s almost home free.
And then something slams into him from the side.
He goes down hard, hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, make his head spin.
The detective clumsily lands on top of him when they fall, and Keith, who is already scrawny for his age, doesn’t stand a chance under the weight. His ribs protest with a throb, and he wheezes.
Small black boots appear in his line of vision.
“Get off him, Lucas! He’s just a kid!”
There’s movement, and suddenly the weight is gone.
“Shit. You’re right. I didn’t even realize. Fuck. Sorry, kid.”
Keith ignores the apology and lays with his face pressed to the rough concrete, trying to force the air back into his lungs, wincing when something in his chest aches.
“Kid?” a woman crouches down in front of him. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Keith squeezes his eyes shut, but he nods.
A worried frown marrs the woman’s pretty features, “Can you tell me your name?”
Keith debates. He doesn’t see himself getting out of this one. She helps him sit up, and then she tentatively reaches out to him, stopping just shy of touching the maroon bandana obscuring most of his features. He averts his eyes, but doesn’t shy away. Gently, she tugs it out of the way to reveal his face.
“Shit. Shit, kid, I’m sorry,” the other officer repeats after he gets a really good look at him. He’s young, too young, probably middle school. Fuck.
The woman shoots him a dirty look before she asks, “Are you hurt?”
Keith bites his lip. Instead of answering her questions, he asks her one of his own, “Are you going to arrest me?”
Her face is conflicted, and she doesn’t respond. When the pauses stretches, the man reminds her,
“He was hot wiring a car, Fuyoko.”
Keith doesn’t confirm or deny it.
Fuyoko presses her mouth into a thin line and asks if he’s hurt again, and Keith shakes his head.
“Okay,” she murmurs, like she’s steadying herself for something. She sucks in a reluctant breath and stands, extending a hand to Keith and pulling him to his feet.
Once he’s up, she shifts her grip to his shoulder and steers him toward the police cruiser sitting a few feet away. With little to no inflection, she recites, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”
Keith shakes his head, and she sighs.
She puts him in the back seat, shuts the door, climbs into the driver’s side while her partner gets into the passenger seat.
Keith licks his lips and looks around the cab. This isn’t his first ride in a police car, but it feels different now that he’s being carted off to jail. He leans back into the seat, stoic, tries to let his feelings leak out of him like the blood slowly oozing from the shallow cuts on his knees, tries not to think about it. He’s got no moves left here. He’s at the end of the road, juvenile hall looming before him.
Silently, Keith listens as Fuyoko talks to the dispatcher through her radio. He recognizes some of the acronyms, but others are just a mix of letters that he can’t decipher. She lists things like B&E, attempted GTA, and describes him as AMJ.
Keith slides down further in the seat, which attracts the attention of the other cop, who says, “Buckle up, kid.”
The radio buzzes and someone asks for the name and badge number of the arresting officer.
“Detective Fuyoko Shirogane, 3118.”
There’s a bit of static and then a few more terms thrown around from dispatch, and then the car is in motion.
No one ever bothers to cuff him, even when they reach the precinct, which Keith appreciates.
The night shift workers barely look up as Detective Shirogane leads him to her desk in the bullpen.
She opens one of the drawers, and Keith doesn’t know what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t a first aid kit.
“May I see your hands?”
Stunned, Keith holds them out, and she makes quick work of cleaning the rocks and debris from his cuts and disinfecting them. She even wraps them in gauze when she finishes. She hands him a disinfecting wipe for his knees and two large bandages. They toss everything into the little trash can next to her filing cabinet when they’re finished. Fuyoko plucks one last item from the kit before she deposits it back into the appropriate drawer.
“There’s ibuprofen in this packet,” Fuyoko explains as she sits it on top of an enormous desk calendar. She taps it for emphasis. “I’m not allowed to give it to you.” Keith studies her warily as she stands again, “Now I am going to go and get a cup of coffee for myself from the break room. The machine’s pretty slow, so it’ll probably take me about five minutes, okay?” Keith’s brow furrows, so she emphasizes, “ Okay ?”
Oh , he thinks. He nods, she smiles, and then she disappears across the hall.
He tears into the pack, swallows two pills dry, and then tosses the plastic into the trash.
This isn’t the first time someone has skirted the system to help him out, like the kind counselors who kept snacks in their desks or teacher’s who gave him winter gloves and books that they claimed were from the lost and found.
He just didn’t expect it here.
When Detective Shirogane crosses back into the room, her eyes sweep over the desk to make sure he took the pain reliever. She carries a piping hot chipped mug of coffee in one hand.
When she sets it right atop the fading brown rings on the corner of her wooden desk, Keith reads the words World’s Best Mom emblazoned on it in pink block lettering.
Fuyoko follows his gaze and she smiles warmly, “My son got that for me when he was around your age, I think. He’s nearly eighteen now.” She gestures to a photo on her desk of a teen in a soccer jersey with dark hair and eyes crinkling with laughter. “He graduates in the spring. Wants to go to the local university so he can stay close. He’s thinking about majoring in elementary education.” She chuckles a little to herself, “He’ll never have much money to put away, but I want him to do what he wants.” Her eyes soften when she speaks of her son.
Keith tries to keep his face blank, but he’s confused now. Why is she just talking to him? Is he going to jail? Is she going to put him in the holding cell with the handful of drunks listing to the side and sleeping off the booze?
Why is she telling him any of this stuff?
He fists the hands on his knees as he waits for the other shoe to drop, the verdict, the final nail in the proverbial coffin.
Detective Shirogane rifles through a handful of papers on her desk, skims through them once more, and then gets down to business, “All right. We ran your prints when you came in, Keith.”
Keith draws his shoulders up to his chin.
Here it comes.
Fuyoko takes another sip of her coffee and thinks of the messy file on her desk. It was startlingly longer than she anticipated for a nervous eleven year-old. The guardianship information was borderline indecipherable, which means he’s probably a foster kid who has been moved around a lot.
Even more surprising was the unsettling number of injury, missing persons, and child neglect/abuse reports.
It’s awful.
In spite of the number of documents, this is essentially Keith’s first run in with the police where he wasn’t the victim of a crime.
Fuyoko studies her own child’s face behind the frame and aches at the thought of him being treated in the same manner as the boy before her.
She pictures Takashi at seven years-old, so small and sweet, running away and living on the streets. She can’t imagine what makes someone so young decide they’re better off sleeping under a bridge than staying put with a roof over their head.
She knows; of course she knows. She’s been a police detective for nigh on twenty years, and she made a point to take a number of classes related to social work in college. .
It takes some measure of compartmentalization to do this job, but it still hurts, seeing the worst the world has to offer reflected in the figure of a child.
Keith’s posture is like a wounded animal, like he’ll bite any hand that gets too close. His mistrustful eyes are almost too big in his thin face
Too little love, too much cruelty, it’s written all over him.
In spite of her thick skin, it scrapes Fuyoko raw.
“This is your first offense, and I’d like to let you off warning,” Fuyoko ultimately says. Keith lifts his head and blinks at her in surprise. “I don’t think this is the first car you’ve stolen though.”
She’s right.
She can see it in the way his jaw tenses.
“There have been a few thefts in the area lately. We’ve recovered most of the cars, and we have a lead on the ringleader.” Fuyoko pins him with her intelligent brown eyes. “You may be the one who gets into the cars and gets them running, but you’re still at the bottom of the barrel, a kid with a useful skill, right?”
She’s watching for it, so she sees the shift in his expression, like he’s in awe of how much she pieced together.
Fuyoko’s smile is grim. She knows she’s right. These gang leaders love to go after forgotten kids, offer them a place, and then use them, let them get their hands dirty.
“Stay away from Sendak, Keith,” she tells him. “He’s bad news.”
He makes a surprised noise and speaks before he can stop himself, “How’d you...?”
“I’ve been working this case for two months,” she explains.
Really, it would probably be more accurate to say she’s been working on this case for years, trying to get Sendak off the streets.
He’s been a problem in this part of town for too long, but it’s been hard to get any evidence on him. He’s good, keeps his hands clean. He’s the man behind the screen, the puppet master, the conductor of the orchestra.
In addition to B and E’s, petty theft, and larceny, some of their informants have suggested he’s responsible for the recent influx of drugs and several murders in the tri-city area.
He’s dangerous.
When they finally managed to connect him to a string of car thefts, she jumped on the opportunity.
They’d been patrolling the area for unusual activity the last few weeks, and it had paid off tonight.
She just didn’t expect to catch a kid in his first year of middle school.
Sendak’s gang probably picked Keith up to run drugs, but he must’ve proven more useful elsewhere. Afterall, a kid who can break into cars and get them running is a little harder to find than a drug mule.
Unexpectedly, the boy interrupts her thoughts.
“My placement is up soon,” he murmurs to his knees. He’s with a nice family now, but it never lasts. They kept him for a stint, and the stint was up now. They didn’t petition for any more time. He wasn’t sure yet if the caseworker had anything else line up for him, or if he’d end up in the group home again. He didn’t know which one he’d prefer, honestly.
Fuyoko’s isn’t sure what this has to do with stealing cars, but she knows better than to question it or to prompt him. There’s no need to interrogate him. She just needs to let him talk.
“I didn’t... I never even met Sendak. I just... some guys I know asked if I wanted to go on a joyride.”
“And you said yes?”
Keith nods, shrugs, “I guess I figured why not.”
Fuyoko doesn’t ask him for further details. She imagines booze and cigarettes, offers to work with them on future endeavors. Again, she knows the type, they prey on misfits and loners, kids who think they have nothing left to lose.
Fuyoko considers the boy.
What a fucking mess.
Keith can’t run with Sendak, but it would also be too easy for Sendak’s goons to decide he was a snitch and threaten him.
He can’t stay here now.
He needs to get out of town.
Poor kid, she thinks. Just another fly caught up in Sendak’s web.
She swallows the last dregs of her rapidly cooling coffee.
Regardless, it’s nearly two in the morning, and there’s not much she can about anything now.
She needs to talk to someone about moving him, and she herself needs to get home before the sun comes up.
“Who should I call, Keith?”
“Debra Lewis,” he says and then recites a number from memory.
“Foster mother?”
“Caseworker,” he corrects. “I’m not... Am I going to juvie?”
“Not this time,” Fuyoko answers and then eyes him firmly. “But if something like this happens again I won’t have a choice.”
And then she picks up the old phone on her desk and wakes up an underpaid social worker.
“Hello?” the caseworker’s voice is rough with sleep.
Fuyoko hands the receiver to Keith, “Debbie?”
“Keith?” she suddenly sounds more alert. There’s shuffling on the other end of the line. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
She seems worried, which is fair. He’s put her through some shit already.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he mutters and chews on his bottom lip. “Can you come get me?”
“Sure, yeah,” she mumbles. It sounds like she’s getting dressed. “Where are you, honey?”
Keith swallows, “Um. I’m at the police precinct? On the corner of Vine and Richmond?”
She swears under her breath, “Okay. Okay. Did something happen?”
“I stole a car.”
“Oh,” she pauses. “Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Just...” she hesitates. “Stay put, all right?”
He makes a noise of assent.
What else can he really do? It’s not like he can leave, and even if he could it’s not like he really has anywhere to go.
The call ends, he hands the phone back, and Detective Shirogane suggests he go wait for Ms. Lewis in the break room. She gives him a few dollars for the pop machine. “Make yourself comfortable,” she insists. “There are some chips and crackers on the table if you’re hungry.”
He disappears through the open doorway and drops down onto the beaten up old couch.
While she waits, Fuyoko works through some paperwork until a hesitant voice asks, “Is Keith Kogane here? I’m Debra Lewis, the social worker assigned to his case.”
Fuyoko stands to greet her, extending her hand to shake. Surreptitiously, she checks the break room.
The kid is asleep with his head on the arm rest.
“I’m Detective Fuyoko Shirogane; it’s nice to meet you.”
Debra looks a little flustered, but she accepts the handshake, “You as well, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” She flashes a sheepish smile and brushes her tangled red hair out of her face.
Fuyoko brings the caseworker up to speed, and Debra visibly relaxes when she finds out Keith isn’t going to be charged in court or taken to juvie. No parole officers, no anklets, and Debbie can’t help but feel like a weight has lifted off her shoulders.
“He’s a good kid,” Fuyoko says.
Debra’s mouth rounds with surprise. Few people give Keith a chance, let alone see past his harsh exterior into the gentle heart underneath it. It’s a little wild to hear his arresting officer praise him.
A soft smile graces Debbie’s tired features, and she peeks through the threshold at the kid sleeping in the next room. His face is softer, open, and Debbie says, “Yeah. He is.”
“He just needs a chance,” Fuyoko shrugs.
Debbie turns her attention back to the detective, “I think so too.”
Fuyoko studies both the woman and her sleeping charge. One corner of her mouth tugs upward as the gears begin to turn in her mind, “You know... I think we may be able to give him one. Think you’d be able to help?”
With a firm nod and a hopeful gleam in her brown eyes, Debbie promises, “Absolutely.”
The next morning Keith climbs into the front seat of Debra’s familiar sedan with all his belongings on his lap, and she drives about two hours to the rural edge of the county.
She doesn’t tell him much, and he doesn’t ask. Instead, she gets him talking on a few of his favorite topics and briefly admonishes him for his run in with the law. “What am I going to do with you?” she asks fondly. She ruffles his hair, so he knows she’s not mad. Just worried about him, which is nice.
Debra eventually turns down a gravel road and a little white rancher crops up at the end of the driveway. A woman who looks strangely familiar steps out onto the porch with a dish towel in her hand that she waves before the dust even settles. As soon as the pair are out of the car, the woman descends on them with bright enthusiasm.
“Hi! You must be Keith and Debbie,” she beams and then calls over her shoulder, “Takashi! They’re here! Come say hello!” Walking down the wooden steps, she reaches out to take both of Keith’s hands in her own. They’re tiny and soft, and they feel bony and cool in his own. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Chizuko Shirogane.”
He perks up, blinks, “Shirogane?”
“Mhmm, Fuyoko is my auntie,” she explains.
Before she can say anymore on the subject, the screen door behind her creaks open to reveal the bulky frame of the teenager from the picture. “Takashi, come meet Keith and Debbie.”
Takashi flashes a friendly smile, “It’s nice to meet you both. Can I take your bag, Keith?”
“No, uh, it’s... I got it,” Keith mumbles awkwardly.
“I’ll show you your room so you can put your things down, then we’ll have brunch. You hungry?” Chizuko asks.
Keith’s violet eyes dart over to Debra, like he’s trying to see into her head to figure out what’s going on.
She gives him no more than an encouraging smile and a look that says, Well, she asked you a question? Even you’re not this socially inept, kiddo.
Returning his attention to whom he figures must be his newest foster mother, he says, “Sure.”
“Debra? Would you like anything? Coffee?”
“I’d love a cup,” she says like they’ve offered her liquid gold in a mug, like she hadn’t had a cup at the precinct and an enormous black coffee from McDonald’s on the way there.
Predictable. Keith almost rolls his eyes.
Nonetheless, Debra Lewis is really the only consistent thing in his life, so he’s grateful for the routine behavior.
“Take her into the kitchen, Takashi,” Chizuko instructs as she leads Keith into the house. It’s light and open, painted in cheerful turquoise and calming gray, and there are photos everywhere. He recognizes the three new faces that he’s met in the last twenty or so hours, and he even sees a number of photos of a much younger Chizuko and what must be Takashi as a toddler.
Catching his eye, Chizuko says, “Fuyoko is a single mom, and she worked a lot of crazy shifts, so I always babysat Takashi.” She rubs a smudge off the glass, “He still stays with me a lot even though he’s old enough now, especially since Charlotte’s been on deployment.”
“Charlotte?” Keith asks.
Chizuko taps another photo with her finger. In the picture, a grinning Chizuko stands with her arm thrown over a blonde woman’s shoulders. “My wife. She’s got about another year, but she gets to visit us in about six months. We can FaceTime with her tomorrow night so she can meet you.”
As they go through the house, Chizuko points out the bathroom, linen closet, her room, and then she opens the last door in the hall, “And this is your room.”
It’s small, but it’s tidy and decorated with photos from NASA, rocket ships, and accurately placed glow-in-the-dark stars.
“Cassiopeia?” Keith asks.
“Oh! You like astronomy then? Takashi will be thrilled. This is his old room, but it’s yours now. You’re welcome to redecorate if it’s not your style.” Keith just stares, surprised, so Chizuko decides it’s time to give the kid a minute. Fuyoko warned her that he was a bit withdrawn and would spook easily. “Well, I’ll leave you to unpack. When you’re finished, come join us for breakfast.”
When the door shuts with a soft click, Keith lets himself tentatively explore his new space. There’s a full-sized bed with a quilt, a chest of drawers, and a closet; there’s even a laptop on the small desk, which he wonders if he’s free to use.
Keith pulls open the first drawer and unceremoniously closes his entire bag up in it, unwilling to spread out in another temporary space.
After his perusal they eat an enormous breakfast while Chizuko regales the table with anecdotes about Takashi’s terrible cooking.
Keith has to cover his mouth and act like he’s coughing to disguise a smirk when Takashi exclaims, “I only put ramen in the coffee maker once! ”
“That’s still too many times, Takashi.”
Debra and Chizuko laugh.
When the meal is finished, Debra and Chizuko start pouring over the extensive paperwork that comes with every foster kid.
Keith fidgets in his seat until Takashi ask him if he wants to go outside.
Unsure, Keith shoots Debra a furtive look.
“You know the drill,” Debbie says, “I’ll call you when I need you. Now get out of here.”
Keith doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s got no desire to sit through this endless pile of legal papers for the umpteenth time.
Keith follows Takashi out the front door, but he assumes the older boy was humoring the adults and will ditch him immediately, so he’s surprised when Takashi reaches into the trunk of a hatchback and pulls out a muddy soccer ball.
“You play?”
He does. Not as often as when he used to play with, well, but he still likes to play during gym class. Even though he’s unpopular with the other kids, they’re quick to pick him for their team in P.E.
“Yeah.”
Takashi kicks the ball to him after dribbling in place, “Cool. Do you play for your school or a league?”
Keith catches it on the flat of his foot and then bounces it to his knee, “No. I’ve never played for a team.”
“Really?” Takashi asks. He raises his eyebrows, “You’re pretty good with handling the ball for someone who doesn’t play with a team. You don’t want to?”
Keith kicks the ball back over to him, “I never really thought about it.”
“You should tryout,” Takashi says as he passes the ball across the yard. “The middle school team here still needs players.”
Keith shrugs, but Takashi manages to coax him into a game of one-on-one.
It’s fun.
By the end of their game, Keith is so worn out that he collapses into the grass and pants with exertion. He’s sweating and his heart it beating like a hummingbird’s, but he loves the thrum of it, loves the way it makes him feel alive.
Takashi plops down next to him in the grass and leans back on his hands. He’s only a little winded, but he’s also six years older and has played soccer most of his life, “Seriously. You should tryout. Just tell Chizuko. She can get it set up.”
“You really think so?”
“I do,” Takashi conforms. “You’re a natural.”
Keith considers his words, “Thanks, Takashi.”
The older teen grins and ruffles Keith’s dark, messy hair, “No need to thank me. It’s the truth.”
They’re interrupted when Debbie yells, “Keith! We need you inside to sign a few documents.”
Keith sighs, but Takashi gets to his feet and offers him his hand, the same way his mother had only twelve hours ago. Keith takes it.
“I’ll put this away and meet you inside. We can play again later,” Takashi says. Keith nods and heads for the steps, but Takashi’s voice stops him, “Oh, and by the way, you can call me Takashi if you want to, but my friends call me Shiro.”
The senior wears an easy, open smile, and it catches Keith off guard. He’s really not had any luck with people for awhile, and he can’t help but hesitate. What if this is too good to be true?
And even if it is true, nothing good ever lasts, right?
Keith’s insides twist.
“Keith! Hurry up! I have a wellness visit in a few hours!” Debbie calls again. She’d rescheduled everything else for him that day, but she didn’t like to miss wellness checks. Keith doesn’t blame her.
Keith signs his name until his hand cramps, and then he’s officially under the guardianship of Chizuko Shirogane. Debbie explains that she’s stopping by her office to fax the correct forms to Charlotte overseas, and then the pair will be his foster parents on the legal documents.
“Charlie will be so excited,” Chizuko promises him. “She and Takashi are both nerdy jocks, I swear, you’ll fit in perfectly with this crowd.”
Keith chews his lip and mulls over the new questions this news brings to mind, “She doesn’t know about me?”
“Nope, you’re a surprise, but don’t worry, okay? Charlie and I are like this,” she crosses her fingers. “Two parts of one whole.”
“She’s right,” Shiro agrees. “Sometimes it’s kind of freaky..” Chizuko shoves him lightly, but there isn’t any heat behind their words or actions, just affection.
“Jealousy isn’t a pretty color on you, Ta-is-shi,” Chizuko grins. “You’ll find Mr. Right someday. Probably megane , I bet.”
Shiro flushes, but doesn’t correct her.
Keith doesn’t speak Japanese or bother to ask for clarification. He just peeks at the two of them through the shadow of his bangs and considers them, the ease of their banter, their confidence, their acceptance .
He drops his gaze to his lap.
The group of four talk somewhat casually a little while longer, and then the reminder on Debbie’s phone chimes.
“There’s my time warning,” she says with a shake of her red hair. “There’s a few last things we need to go over before I leave though.”
Keith narrows his eyes. This is new.
Debbie puts her hands up in front of her tells him it’s kind of on him, which doesn’t explain anything.
“As you know, we have reason to believe that Sendak may retaliate against Keith for leaving his organization after being picked up by the cops,” Debbie explains as she looks at Chizuko. She turns to Keith next and looks into his violet eyes, “It’s possible that he’ll think that you traded information to avoid punishment.”
“I didn’t...” Keith starts, stops, color rising to his face.
Debbie puts a hand over his from across the table, “I know, kiddo. This is just a precaution, really. Detective Shirogane doesn’t think he’ll bother with you, but she wanted to be safe.” Keith settles a bit, but his stomach still feels off. “I know you don’t have any accounts right now, but you’ll need to stay off social media. Your school will be notified that they are not to publish any pictures of you.” She picks up a stack of paper and uses the table to tap them into a semblance of order, “Lastly, you’ll be identified on all school documents as Keith Shirogane. Your first name is common enough, but Kogane is pretty rare. I recommend you pose as a cousin.”
“Are you serious?”
Debbie nods, “You can choose a different surname if you’d like. Fuyoko, Chizuko, and I just thought it would be simpler.”
Keith glances at Chizuko and Shiro, purses his lips, “Shirogane’s fine.”
“Good,” Debbie says as she puts everything into a manila folder and stands up. She bids Chizuko and Shiro goodbye, and Keith walks her out to her car. Once she’s tucked the folder between the console and the passenger seat, she turns back to Keith with her hand on her open door. “Call me if you need anything, okay?” Keith nods, and Debbie tucks a stray lock of his dark hair behind his ear. She looks between the rancher and boy in front of her, “I have a good feeling about this one.”
Keith doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything.
His last placement was nice enough, but it doesn’t matter when they don’t want him anyway.
She crouches until they’re eye level and then pulls him into a brief hug. “I know I’m asking a lot of you, and I know I don’t have any right to ask anything of you. But please give this one a chance, all right? One more chance. One more try. For me. For you. Okay?”
He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either.
She brushes a few blades of grass from his shoulders and tells him she’ll be back in a month, and then she climbs into her car, turns the key in the ignition, and disappears into a cloud of dust.
Keith stands there until he can’t hear the hum of the engine in the distance, and then he sits on the bottom step, arms crossed and elbows on his knees.
The sun drifts across the sky, paints everything orange and red and purple watercolors as it meets the horizon. Chizuko brings out two plates of pasta, hands him one, eats hers on the top step without comment. She pats one hand on his shoulder and takes both plates inside to wash when they’ve finished.
Night falls over the valley, an inky violet
that washes everything in its reach in darkness, the stars are spilled glitter stretching overhead, and it’s so clear he can see the Milky Way galaxy.
He hasn’t seen it since the desert, the shack.
Keith shivers, but it isn’t because of the cold.
The storm door squeaks.
A worn blanket drops onto his shoulders.
“Stargazing?” It’s Shiro, but Keith doesn’t answer. “It’s one of my favorite things about this house.” Shiro leans against the porch railing, “I used to sit out here with Mom and Chizuko and Charlie, and we’d try to see who could name the most constellations. Charlie’s pretty good.” The old weathered wood creaks in response to Shiro’s weight, “We’d bring out a quilt so our clothes wouldn’t get wet. Mom got me a telescope for my twelfth dims. We’ll have to get it out sometime.”
The yard sums all the more when the light shining through the window in Chizuko’s room winks out. “When I was really little and she went back on the night shift, she told me I could look at the moon if I missed her. Said we were always under the same moon.”
The chains and springs jangle as Shiro ultimately settles onto the porch swing, and Keith thinks about all the places, the families, the schools, the kids who are under this same moon, thinks about how it looked as it rose over another porch with another family, laughing and joking and kicking a soccer ball, glasses of iced tea and the smell of Cuban spices wafting from the kitchen through the French doors, the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the shore.
Bittersweet, Keith thinks, because it’s comforting but it makes something inside of him ache.
One more chance. One more try.
Debbie’s parting remarks echo in his mind and he thinks, okay.
Okay.
One more chance.
One more try.
Keith stands. His ass is numb and his legs are stiff from sitting still for so long, so he stretches them and rolls his shoulders.
“Ready to go in?” Shiro asks.
Keith nods.
Shiro holds the door, points out the bathroom again and tells him the shower’s free and the hot water should be ready again by now.
Ten minutes later Keith emerges with dripping hair and hovers awkwardly between his new bedroom and the living room, where a TV flickers with late night infomercials.
Keith steps closer to the couch, where Shiro is leaning against the arm and a mountain of pillows. Keith thinks he’s asleep, but then he asks, “Going to bed?”
“Mmm,” Keith confirms.
Shiro yawns, “Me too.”
He finds the remote, and the screen goes black with a snowy click. He tugs an enormous through off the back of the nearest chair and tosses it over himself, yawns again.
“If you need anything, wake me up. There are extra pillows and blankets into the linen closet if you get cold.”
Keith hesitates, swallows, one more chance, one more try, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Shiro says.
Keith stands for a second, listens to the quiet of the house, the hum of the appliances, the tick of an old analogue clock, turns to go back to his room, stops, one more chance, one more try, for me, for you , tries the new name and whispers, “Goodnight, Shiro.”
And Shiro replies, “Good night, Keith.”