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JJ woke feeling an unusual heaviness in his limbs. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt the pain, but it was the first time his arms and legs felt strapped to the dingy, dirty carpet. It was the first time he felt paralyzed by the inflicted injuries that he couldn’t quite remember, and the first time he was worried that the head injury might be serious or even permanent.
This was followed by a shrill ringing in his ears and an overwhelming taste of copper in his mouth.
A sixteen year old kid from The Cut, JJ Maybank would do anything for his friends, even if that meant facing the wrath of his father. And this time, JJ knew that he wasn’t okay. His limbs, still slightly numb, ached when he moved them. He started by wiggling his fingers and his toes, each movement causing him to grimace, and with some success began to move and lift his arms and legs.
Left leg? Stiff, but okay.
Right leg? About the same.
Left arm? Movement jarred his ribs.
Right arm? Fuck.
As he attempted to lift his right arm, he was met with a white-hot pain that seared through his upper body and twisted his stomach into knots. This movement that sent bile creeping up his throat, jarred loose the memories from the night before and brought tears to his eyes.
He had stolen his father's prized possession- The Phantom.
He had given the boat to John B.
John B and Sarah tried to escape in a tropical storm.
John B and Sarah were dead.
Dead.
Dead.
After the others had been pulled from the SBI tent by their families with strict orders to stay at home in case they were needed for more questioning, JJ sat in the hard, blue, plastic chair waiting on Luke Maybank to show up and “sign him out”. He knew his father, and he knew his tendency to forget about his son, so JJ avoided the glances of the agents as the equipment was packed, resources were removed, and the tents were broken down around him. After hours of waiting around for someone, anyone to get him, JJ had stopped crying, and he watched as his father stumbled from the beat up truck toward the remaining tent with anger in his eyes and rage written across his face.
“Boy,” he growled. “Get in the fuckin’ truck.”
“I'll walk,” JJ snapped back.
“I said get in the goddamn truck,” his father almost yelled until he noticed the police presence. “Embarrassing the hell out of me. Stealing my fuckin’ boat. Get in there and shut the hell up.”
Luke shoved his son in the direction of the truck and grumbled at the agent who told him the same thing they’d told the Heywards and the Carreras- stay close to home in case they were needed. The older man, who rolled his eyes and left them with a “hopefully you don’t need him” as JJ stumbled toward the truck, kicking rocks and dirt along the way with his worn black boots. He knew his father was behind him, and with each step he hesitated, waiting for the first unsuspecting blow.
“Hurry your ass up,” Luke’s cold, calloused hand found the nape of JJ’s neck and he squeezed, the boy instinctively crying out in pain. “This ain’t even gonna be th’ worst of it.”
Even though he acted tough and unafraid, JJ was terrified of the wrath of his father. Even after almost killing him with the stolen gun, JJ still sought his approval and wanted to make him proud. There was no coming back from stealing his racing boat; stealing the keys from around his neck and giving them to his best friend who capsized it in a storm is about as awful as it gets in the eyes of Luke Maybank.
Exhausted from the events of the day, JJ collapsed silently in the passenger seat. The old truck smelled like weed, whiskey, and dust, and he braced himself for the first blow.
It never came.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered.
“We'll talk when we’re ‘ome,” Luke slurred. “Ain’t got time for this shit right now.”
With a thick swallow, JJ silently prayed that he'd be alive to see the morning and to go find his friend. He knew his friends knew, but their parents didn't, and he wanted to keep it that way. He hated the silence, the uncertainty of his father’s reaction, and the overwhelming stench of whiskey that filled his nostrils.
His dad sat down and gripped the wheel with white knuckles, his hand struggling to find the ignition. He was drunk, JJ observed, and he knew this wasn’t good.
“I can drive,” JJ said timidly. “You shouldn't be…”
“And let you wreck m’ fuckin’ truck. Worthless piece of shit,” Luke complained. “Stole m’ boat and gave it to that Routledge kid who’s bad fuckin’ news ‘cause you tried to be a hot shot!”
“He needed help!” As the words left his mouth the back of his father's hand connected with his face.
“Don't give me lip, boy,” Luke shut down JJ’s argument for the remainder of the journey back.
JJ watched as the “shit hole” he called home came into view; the yard needed mowed, the steps needed repairs, and the shutters are crooked.
Honestly, JJ thought it just needed to be burned to the ground so he could start fresh.
“Get in the house.”
JJ’s blood ran cold as he listened to his father’s voice. It was even; but full of malice. He knew his father had been drinking, and after discovering his missing boat, had probably abused any substance he could find. Taking a deep breath and walking from the beat up truck to the house, JJ begged whoever would listen that he'd be okay.
Because he knew Luke Maybank’s capabilities.
And his father was capable of anything.
His heart was racing and his hands were sweating as he waited with his head hung for his father to come inside. He could have run, but the cops could show up and that would be even worse. As he heard the door creak open, he knew it was better to take what was coming from Luke even if that meant he was going to endure the beating of a lifetime. This wasn’t just a minor mess up, JJ had stolen the keys to his father’s racing boat, given it away, and lost it forever.
“What,” Luke grabbed the blonde by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall before JJ could blink. “Were you goddamn thinking?”
“Dad,” JJ wheezed, the air forced from his lungs as his father held him against the peeled paint.
White hot pain had erupted down his spine and in the back of his head as his body hit the wall. Luke's hands, which started on his shoulders, were dangerously close to his neck and he was terrified of the notion that his air could be cut off at any moment. He needed to breathe or he would have an anxiety attack and he couldn’t show his weakness to his father.
“I wanna know what crossed through that little mind of yours,” Luke landed a swift punch to JJ’s jaw and warm blood began to dribble from his mouth. “When you decided to take my boat?”
JJ felt disoriented as father’s fist found his jaw another time, and then another. Punch after punch his father took out his anger, frustration, and fury on JJ with no mercy. He didn't know what to say, he didn't know what to think. As he opened his eyes, he saw two of everything and fuzzy black spots danced in his line of sight and his vision blurred permanently.
“Answer me!” His father slammed him against the wall once more. “The hell were you thinking?”
“John B needed help!” He whimpered, blood trickling down his chin. “It just didn't work out.”
“Sure fuckin’ didn’t,” his dad yelled angrily as he made contact with his fist again, this time to JJ’s eye.
JJ cried out as blood dripped from a gash in his eyebrow into his eye, continued to drip from the corners of his mouth, and down his chin. His legs, which hadn't given out yet, were shaking and he felt his hands growing numb. He wasn’t aware of anything other than pain, fear, and now anxiety.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I wasn't thinking.”
That's when Luke lost all control over his anger on his son. JJ felt his father’s hands wrap around his throat and squeeze, a small squeak escaping his lips. Luke, with strength rooted in anger, alcohol, and drugs, started to squeeze.
“Da…” JJ attempted to speak.
“Shut the hell up,” Luke growled. “That's two boats in as many weeks. You useless, fucked up, piece of shit. That's why your mama left. That's why everyone else hates ya or leaves ya. Ain't got a lick of common sense.”
JJ was growing tired as his oxygen supply was cut off and he tried to make eye contact with his father. Before he could pass out, Luke spun them around and threw JJ to the floor, his head making solid contact with the coffee table and a large gash forming from the solid Oak material. He felt a pop in his shoulder, stabbing pain, and then numbness in his arm.
“You'll stop mouthin' if ya know what's good for ya,” Luke spat, a large boot connecting with JJ’s rib cage. “Good for nothin’ kid, your mama made a good choice.”
JJ heard the crack, he felt the first rib break. And with the kicks to follow, felt the other fragile bones give way. He could feel them grinding together as he tried to curl into himself to protect his organs from his father’s blows. Involuntary tears spilled down his cheeks as he suffered through the rage-fueled beating.
But he couldn't.
“I’m going out,” that was the last thing JJ heard before curling onto his side, throwing up, and succumbing to the pain on the dirty living room carpet.
---
He knew he was hurt when he pried his eyes open and it was daylight. His altercation with his father had taken place at night and JJ knew that wasn't good. Everything was aching, he assumed his blonde hair was matted to his head, and he wasn’t so sure he could see.
He could smell his own vomit from the night before.
“Fuck,” he whispered, realizing he couldn't sit himself up.
His good hand wiped across his face in anxiety and when he pulled away, it was covered in blood. Breathing hurt, his throat was raw, his body ached and he knew things were broken. He didn't have a working phone, so he knew he needed to try to a) get the shoulder back in place, b) stand himself up, and c) somehow get to Kie or Pope without passing out in the street.
He'd remembered watching someone with a dislocated shoulder at the beach. He wasn't sure he was doing it right, but his good hand grabbed his right arm and pulled it across his body with a jerk, a scream, and a pop.
His head fell back to the floor with a thud and pain shot down his neck and his eyes weren't focused. His dad had hurt him before, but by morning the dizziness would subside- this hadn't- and he knew he was in trouble.
He worked hard to stand himself up. Through the burning pain in his ribs and lungs, the black spots splashed across his vision, the dizziness, and the rolling waves of nausea, he pulled himself up using the coffee table. Glancing around, he saw blood- presumably his- splattered across the wall, the carpet, the coffee table, and the couch. It was splattered down his shirt, on his skin, and the taste of copper and vomit lived in his mouth.
He felt numb.
He also knew he was hurt, emotionally and physically vulnerable, and needed help.
Step after slow and painful step, he walked through his house, throwing things into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder with a whimper. He tried his best to start his bike, but as he grew nauseated and dizzy, he opted out and began the walk to Heyward’s Seafood.
He knew he shouldn't show up there; Mr. Heyward wasn't a fan, but he didn't know where else to go. Kiara’s was further away, and on Figure Eight. He needed someone and even though he wasn't sure why, he walked the familiar path to the old seafood and convenience store. He could tell he was limping, but he didn’t know why. His legs, arms, and chest ached as he struggled to take a deep breath and to keep his eyes open.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
JJ’s feet drug across the ground and he stumbled periodically as his boots slipped on and off his feet with each step. They weren’t tied, he never tied them, but they were loose today and he didn’t adjust the laces. He’d noticed the path under his boots had changed- it was better sidewalk, less dirt.
That meant he was closer to Heyward's Seafood than he anticipated.
He walked with his eyes closed and holding his breath. He could hear men talking on the docks, cars driving past, and muffled voices coming from all around him. The noises disoriented JJ, but he pushed further to ensure that when he ultimately collapsed, someone would be nearby.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
JJ knew he wasn’t taking steps anymore, just dragging his boots painfully across the ground. He could barely lift his feet, and his legs were aching from the walk. Fresh blood bubbled from the cut in his brow and oozed down his face. His breathing was wheezy, he could hear it as he walked over the ringing in his ears. He could feel the broken ribs grinding and rubbing together as he moved. His right arm, with the painful, burning shoulder, wrapped around his midsection.
“...JJ,” he heard a muffled voice as he continued walking. “JJ, son.”
JJ didn’t stop moving toward the store that was somewhere in his general vicinity. He couldn’t see straight, and he could barely breathe, but the smells and sounds of the area indicated he was close. He just needed to make it to Heyward's. Even if Mr. Heyward hated his guts, he wasn’t so heartless that he’d leave JJ to die on the sidewalk in front of the store.
“JJ, stop walking away from me!” The voice was clearer, it sounded angry. “Stop!”
Out of instinct, JJ ducked away from the voice with a flinch and his vision blackened around the edges. The waves of nausea rolled over him as he begged the man to leave him alone, his voice barely above a whisper.
“JJ,” A warm arm wrapped around his waist and gently kept him on his feet. “We’re going inside.”
“‘On’ hur’ me,” he slurred. “Pl’se don’.”
There was a deep, anxious breath taken by the man supporting almost all of JJ’s weight, and he smelled like seafood. JJ wasn’t sure who it was, but he was grateful for the assistance. The help made his ribs hurt less but his legs felt like jelly. He was thankful, because the added support made him feel more stable on his feet.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” there was a jingle of a bell that echoed through JJ’s ears as he tried to relax.
He heard a second bell, the closing of the door, and felt the coolness of the floor under his back as he was eased onto the ground between shelves of food.
“JJ,” the warm hand found his cheek and JJ flinched. “Can you look at me?”
JJ’s eyes blinked lazily, and the man noticed that his pupils were uneven, the left one blown, and that his eyes were glassy and unfocused and that terrified him. The blonde boy’s hair was matted to his scalp with blood, and fresh blood was evident on his skin. His breathing seemed shallow, and as he assessed the teenager, he noticed the bruises that covered his body, the darkest on his throat.
“W’ ‘re yo’?” JJ mumbled as his eyes started to droop. “Pl’se don’ hur’ m’.”
“It’s me, JJ. Mr. Heyward,” the gruff voice explained gently. “I’m not gonna hurt ya. We’re gonna get ya some help okay. Mrs. Heyward’s grabbin’ the first aid kit right now and she’s gonna clean ya up.”
“‘Kay,” he mumbled. “M’tired.”
“Son,” Mr. Heyward grumped. “Don’t fall asleep on us. We don’t know how bad you’re hurt. Keep your eyes open alright.”
“‘Kay,” he whispered again. “M’sorry.”
“Keep talkin’ that’s good,” he encouraged. “No need to be sorry.”
JJ felt the tears sting his eyes as he was lying on the floor of Heyward’s Seafood, Mrs. Heyward rushed back into the shop with a large first aid kit.
“Ble’d’n on your floor,” he croaked. “Go’ Pope ‘n trouble.”
“None of that matters right now sweetheart,” Mrs. Heyward muttered as Mr. Heyward rummaged through the kit. “We’re gonna try to help you. You’re what matters.”
You’re what matters.
You’re what matters.
You’re what matters.
As JJ drifted in and out of consciousness, the words that Mrs. Heyward spoke echoed in his jumbled mind. He mattered, at least in that moment, to someone. The alcohol pads stung the cuts, and his head throbbed, but he mattered.
“JJ,” Mr. Heyward tried to focus the boy’s attention. “We don’t have what we need to make sure you’re okay here. Mrs. Heyward is going to call an ambulance.”
“N’money for tha’,” he slurred again. “Jus’ drive me.”
“We can’t move ya, kiddo,” Mr. Heyward took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’re not doing too well, and I don’t want ya goin’ into shock. We’re gonna keep ya warm till they get here. I know it’s hot outside, but she’s got a blanket and we’re gonna cover ya up.”
With the warning, a warm blanket was placed over JJ’s body and he relaxed into the material. He felt safe. As his eyes drifted closed, the Heywards kept him talking. They asked about how he got to town, how he was doing, if he had spoken to Pope after last night. They asked him his name too, which JJ remembered, but he didn’t remember the date, or who the president was, or what year it was.
JJ was scared because he couldn’t remember, so he asked if they would call Pope and tell him he loved him in case he died.
At that, Mrs. Heyward let a tear drip onto his bruised and bloodied hand that wrapped itself loosely around hers. She reassured him that he wasn’t going to die, and that they were going to help him when he got to the hospital. Mr. Heyward pulled out his phone and asked Pope if he could meet them at Kildare General because JJ was hurt. He begged his son to drive safely, and asked if he could bring a few things for the injured boy who was covered in blood.
Mr. Heyward’s phone began ringing repeatedly as the ambulance arrived as Pope called in response to his father’s text. He opened the storefront, and led the paramedics to where JJ was now shivering under the blanket with pale skin and unfocused eyes. Mr. Heyward, against his better judgement, told them he wasn’t sure what happened, just that he’d found the boy wandering toward his store and he was injured. They did what they could to clean the wounds, but he seemed seriously wounded so they called the ambulance.
But Pope knew what was going to happen to JJ after Luke picked him up from the tent, and even though he had been sworn to secrecy, Pope told his father everything about JJ’s home life the previous evening because he was scared for his friend. He spent that evening tossing and turning in his sleep because he knew JJ was in trouble.
“His breathing’s pretty shallow, definitely has a major concussion. We’re going to route him to Kildare General Hospital if you’d like to follow,” The younger paramedic said as he checked the IV line in the now unconscious JJ’s arm.
“I’ll go get the car,” Mrs. Heyward whispered.
Mr. Heyward, before the gurney left the shop, squeezed the boy’s hand lightly as if he anticipated a reaction. Even though there was nothing, he knew the lively boy who their son called his best friend would hopefully wake soon, and hopefully they could save him from his personal hell.
---
JJ didn't wake up again for 36 hours and Pope, Kiara, and the Heyward parents were on edge. The usually active blonde was so still, and all Mr. Heyward could do was hold his limp hand and wait for some sort of reaction.
After scans, x-rays, blood draws, and tests, he was taken to a private room where he was allowed two visitors at a time and one overnight guest. He had been diagnosed with a serious concussion, one the doctor insisted they keep a critical eye on, a fracture of the eye socket, broken ribs that needed to be kept still or risk puncturing something internal, some light damage from the shoulder dislocation, bruises, cuts, and scrapes. His kidney was bruised, and the boot shaped mark was a terrifying reminder of what happened.
They were assured that JJ would make a full recovery physically, but the doctor warned that this kind of beating could have a lingering mental impact. He also noted that the severity of the concussion may pose potential future issues for the boy if not appropriately addressed now.
“We need to get him out of there,” Mr. Heyward whispered to his wife. “That bastard almost killed him over a boat. Who knows what was happening before.”
“He still has to give a statement,” his wife soothed. “It's up to him to tell DCS and the police the truth. And maybe it wasn’t… him.”
“He won't tell anyone who it was,” Pope sighed as he walked into the room with lunch, the nurse letting him “sneak” in. “He doesn't want them to ship him away if I know his way of thinking. Assumes that DCS is just out to send him to the Mainland and separate him from his friends.”
The older man took a deep breath and scrubbed his calloused hands over his face, “what do we do?”
“Dad,” Pope swallowed heavily. “You don't particularly like JJ. Why are you doing... this?”
Heyward shot a look at his son that Pope had never seen before- pain.
“I don't dislike the kid,” he sighed. “Does he make bad choices? Hell yeah he does. He's a little pain in the ass too. But I don't dislike him. Don't accuse me of that.”
“I didn't mean it like that,” Pope sighed. “It's just… he’s JJ to you. A pest; you run him off. You don't like me hanging out with him. I'm confused.”
“You all need each other right now. And he needs someone,” his mother shushed. “He needs us, and you and Kiara. He can't just be left alone.”
Pope nodded and handed his father the boxes from The Wreck. Smells of fresh, fried food filled the room and the three sat in silence, the beeping of JJ’s heart monitor the only disturbance in the small room.
As they ate, they missed the twitch in JJ’s fingers and the fluttering of his bruised eyelids. They missed the slowly increased heart rhythm. Even though his bed was slightly inclined to accommodate the broken ribs and to ease the pain of breathing, JJ was still relatively reclined, and when his eyes finally opened he felt like he was looking directly at the stark white ceiling.
“‘v’rythin’ hurts,” he mumbled, Pope’s head snapping toward the bed. “'ven ‘y teeth.”
Pope turned his body to face the bed, his hand grabbing JJ’s free one with a comforting squeeze. He was convinced he'd never hear JJ’s voice again, as painful as it sounded in this moment, but he was thankful for the gravely words he spoke.
The blonde boy in the bed looked at his friend with pained eyes and a pale face. Pope, for the first time, realized how young JJ looked. His friend with usual fire in his eyes and a tanned complexion, looked small in the hospital bed. He looked frightened, and his jaw was clenched in pain and his eyes were watery.
“I'll ring the nurse, sweetheart,” Mrs. Heyward comforted. “They'll have something more for the pain.”
As she pressed the call button for JJ, Pope picked back up JJ’s hand that didn’t have an IV line fixed in the back. He squeezed it, and JJ weakly squeezed back, letting his friend know that he was okay. It was a reassurance that JJ felt safe, but the fear in his watery eyes spoke volumes.
“I think Kie is going to try to come see you,” Pope mumbled as JJ looked at him, his eyes droopy and dazed. “She’s been here some but she’s worried.”
“We all are,” Mr. Heyward added. “We’ve been worried for days.”
“‘M s’ry,” he whispered. “Feel bad ‘bou’ it.”
As his eyes drooped shut again, a nurse walked into the room and gently shook him awake. He attempted to focus on her, his eyes darting around the room with an inability to make eye contact. Mrs. Heyward walked to his bedside and slipped her hand into his, her presence calming him.
“Hi JJ,” she said as she looked at the monitors and machines around him. “It’s good to see you awake. My name is Krissy and I’m your nurse.”
“Hi,” he whispered.
“It looks like you’re doing pretty well. I’m just going to keep checking your vitals and your blood pressure. Are you in pain? Can you tell me between 1 and 10 how bad it is?” She asked kindly.
“Twelve,” he breathed. “Sucks.”
“I can take care of that. I’ve got something that can help,” her cold hand touched his forearm as she finished her task.
After checking his blood pressure, Krissy helped sit him up while moving his bed into a more upright position. At first, he protested, but he wanted to be able to sit and speak with the Heywards without his focal point being the small flashing light on the smoke alarm. His ribs shifted as he moved and he groaned, squeezing Mrs. Heyward's hand tightly, and the older man stepped up and smoothed his still dirty hair.
“It’s okay,” she soothed. “You’re okay. She’s going to get you situated and then help you feel better.”
JJ locked eyes with the woman, the first time he had been able to focus since the day before the beating at the hands of his father. As she ran her soft hand up and down his forearm, he felt his eyes water and he let the tears slip down his cheeks.
“Hur’s,” he mumbled. “Bad.”
“I’m going to get you fixed up with a little more pain medication, JJ,” the nurse said gently. “It’ll kick in soon and it might make you feel a little sleepy. But it will help.”
He nodded, still gripping Mrs. Heyward’s hand, and he saw her begin to replace the IV bag. As she spoke to him about what she was doing as she moved about the room, he tried to follow but his brain was exhausted, his head hurt, and he wasn’t sure how long he could pay attention.
“This is what’s going to make you a little bit drowsy at first,” the nurse said as she injected something into his IV line. “But it’ll help really fast.”
“‘Kay,” he whispered. “Hur’s.”
“I know sweetheart,” Mrs. Heyward comforted. “I know. But you’ll feel better soon. This is going to help.”
Pope hated to see his friend in as much pain as he was in. It broke his heart, because JJ was energetic- kind of like a Golden Retriever puppy they would joke- and seeing him still, unfocused, and with a dazed look on his face was alarming. Pope hated that his friend lived in fear of his father most of the time, and hated even more seeing the aftermath.
“Go to sleep, honey,” Mrs. Heyward whispered to the boy. “We’re going to be right here.”
As she soothed him to sleep with gentle words and touches, Mr. Heyward asked his son to step into the hallway and speak with him privately. Pope was worried; the look on his father’s face was grim and he wasn’t sure what was going to happen.
“What happened to JJ?” Mr. Heyward asked quietly. “Was it…”
Pope nodded, “That or Barry, the uh, island drug dealer… JJ kind of robbed him, spent his money on a hot tub because he knows he supplies his dad.”
Mr. Heyward ran his hands over his face again, his lips pressed in a firm line as he looked at his son.
“Does he have anywhere to go? Actually, let's walk that back. Does the boy even have any clean clothes?” He asked with concern.
“I don’t even know dad,” Pope whispered. “He stays at John B’s, and now that it’s a crime scene, he won’t have anywhere. And he’s JJ… those could be clean clothes. Been like this since we were kids.”
The hospital room door creaked open, and Mrs. Heyward walked out into the hallway dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex. She was struggling with JJ’s injuries, more than the other two, because in her heart she always knew the boy needed more support than he was getting, she just didn’t know how to approach it.
“I can’t believe we missed this,” Mrs. Heyward cried. “Right under our nose.”
Mr. Heyward walked to his wife and took her hand.
“So you don’t know much about home other than what you told me last night?” The older man asked. “Other than the situation?”
“He won’t tell us much. Told me at Midsummers that it’s, quote, nothing that hasn’t happened before,” Pope sighed. “He looked bad.”
“I saw him, I remember.”
“And he had a breakdown the other night. He, uh, bought a hot tub with the money he took from the dealer,” Pope sighed. “Had bruises all over so I know some of these aren’t fresh.”
Thinking hard about his next ask, Mr. Heyward looked toward the ceiling of the hallway with a sigh and after stepping away from his wife, he placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Would you mind a roommate?” He asked seriously. “Maybe even a ‘brother’?”
“Dad…” Pope was confused. “You want him to stay with us? You’d let him stay with us?”
Mr. Heyward nodded as his son threw his arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder. His best friend was going to be safe as long as he told the truth. And even if he didn’t, he would still have a safe haven if DCS sent him back home to his father. JJ would be safe. He held his dad as he cried, a silent thank you for trying to ensure that he wasn’t going to lose another friend in the midst of this storm.
"He needs to be safe, son. He's safe with us."
---
A few hours later, as Mr. and Mrs. Heyward left to get dinner, Pope finally spoke. He had been sitting with JJ in silence, television on a mundane baseball game, watching his friend as he drifted in and out of sleep.
“Kie is going to come by,” he whispered. “Are you feeling up for that?”
JJ nodded with a wince, his head and neck still bothering him and the pain medication starting to wear off. The nurse showed him how to use the button at his bedside to release more if he needed it, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps, even if his body was aching.
“She wants to give you a hug. She said so herself,” on cue, Kie walked into the room and saw JJ sitting up with a droopy, goofy smile.
“Hi,” she whispered. “Good to see you awake.”
“Hi,” JJ returned quietly. “Good to see you at all. I was worried I wouldn’t.”
Kie wanted to scream, cry, and punch JJ in the arm. Only he would make a weak joke after finding himself in the hospital because of a serious beating. She knew this was his defense mechanism, but she wanted him to take something seriously while she was there, because the gravity of his situation was weighing heavily on her heart.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she approached the bed and ran a hand through his greasy hair.
He winced, and she withdrew her hand worried that she made contact with an injury, “m’ hair’s dirty.”
“I don’t care. I want to know you’re okay,” she breathed. “Pope said you’re doing pretty well today.”
“Hurt a lot,” he sighed. “Nothin’ new.”
“Shouldn’t be anything you deal with at all, JJ,” a rogue tear trickled down her cheek.
She took a seat on the edge of his bed and he shrugged, his good arm giving her a thumbs up and his injured arm resting in the sling. He hoped to get rid of it soon, but he needed to take it easy and be careful with the injured joint.
“I was worried we lost you too,” she ran her thumb over the back of the hand she now held. “I can’t lose you too.”
Pope looked at his girlfriend with tears in his eyes and thought about them losing JJ. They’d traumatically lost John B and Sarah, and they almost lost JJ. From 5 to 3, almost 5 to 2. They would fall apart without JJ, the glue that holds the Pogues together.
The kleptomaniac.
The surfer.
The boy who would go to jail for him.
The boy who risked a beating from his father to save his friend.
The boy who was blaming himself for the death of their leader and his girlfriend even if he didn’t say it.
With no hesitation, he joined the two on the bed, and pulled them into a gentle hug. Silently, the three teenagers cried over the loss of their friends, JJ’s situation, and they released the pent up emotions they were harboring together.
It was ugly now, but they had each other.
They were caught off guard by a knock on the door and the creak of the hinges. JJ pulled away, followed by Kie and Pope, and he looked up to see Acting Sheriff Shoupe, standing in the doorway with a woman in a black suit.
“Can we speak to JJ for a moment?” He asked firmly. “Mr. Heyward is going to join us, but the two of you should step into the hallway.”
“Can they stay?” JJ asked weakly, forming a complete sentence for what felt like the first time.
“Sorry kid,” Shoupe shrugged. “Just us and Heyward.”
Kie silently squeezed JJ’s hand and when Pope put his hand on the small of her back, the two stepped into the hallway. Now, JJ leaned back against the bed and subconsciously pressed the button for more pain medication, hoping the release of the relief would put him to sleep before they could ask too many questions. He saw Mr. Heyward walk toward the head of his bed, and Shoupe and the woman stood near him.
“This is Annette, she’s a social worker,” Shoupe explained. “We’re here to ask you a couple questions.”
“Why ask when you know what happened,” he mumbled. “Got my ass beat by some Kook lookin’ for a fight. Tensions are high right now, clearly.”
“JJ,” Annette said gingerly. “Are you sure that’s what happened?”
“And if it is, can you give me a description?” Shoupe pressed. “We’d like to get an APB out on him so we can arrest someone.”
“Didn’t see him,” he grumbled. “Jumped me. Kicked my ass.”
“Are you sure that’s what happened?” She asked again. “Your injuries are pretty severe. You were choked, have a serious concussion, and some major injuries.”
“Yep, that’s it,” he averted his eyes and looked anywhere but at the adults in the room. “Are we done?”
“Not quite,” Shoupe explained. “We can’t locate your father. Couldn’t get a hold of him. If we can’t by the end of the day, we have to place you with someone.”
“I ain’t goin’ to the mainlan’,” JJ’s voice was soft as the pain medication started to kick in. “Can’ make me.”
“Son,” Mr. Heyward said gently. “You ain’t goin’ to the mainland.
“I ain’ goin’ to Wadesboro either,” he argued. “N’ fuckin’ way.”
“JJ, you ain’t goin’ anywhere but to a safe, secure home. You’re stayin’ with us if you’ll have us,” Mr. Heyward explained. “We want to take ya in. Bring ya home.”
JJ’s head snapped up and he made eye contact with the man at his bedside. His hands were trembling, and he felt the tears prick his eyes.
“Really?” He asked quietly. “You want me to stay with you? You guys will let me?”
“He’s an acceptable guardian,” Annette smiled. “He’s also offered without conditions.”
“And as long as you’re stayin’ outta trouble and we can find ya for questions as needed, I don’t see it bein’ a problem,” Shoupe concluded.
“And we would love nothing more than you to be safe with us,” Mr. Heyward added. “You’re welcome in our home.”
---
He was released into the care of Mr. and Mrs. Heyward a week after he was admitted. With specific instructions to be careful with his injuries, take it easy, and make sure he stays away from screens, bright lights, and loud noises until he was cleared for his concussion, he was on the mend physically.
Mentally, he knew there would be ups and downs, ebbs and flows. He knew he needed to lean heavily on his friends and his “foster” parents as he unlearned the hateful words and slurs that Luke threw his way throughout his life. Now, on his way to his new home, he relaxed into the seat because he knew that he wouldn’t feel the pain of his father’s fists against his flesh for a long time, if at all.
“We’re home,” Pope smiled as he opened JJ’s door and helped him out of the car. “You know where everything is. Nothing’s changed since fifth grade anway.”
JJ, as he walked into Pope’s bedroom and saw the makeshift bed next to his friend’s, smiled. He felt a warmness spread through his body, and as he eased himself onto the cot with the soft blanket on top, his eyes fell on the pile of clothing at the foot of the bed. Most of it was basics; socks, boxers, and plain white t-shirts, but he was particularly excited about the yellow and black plaid pattern he saw.
A new flannel shirt- brand new with tags.
Tears pricked his eyes as he took in the small gesture from the Heywards that spoke volumes. These were new clothes, purchased just for him, because he was staying with them. Not hand-me-downs, not John B’s rejected, extra clothes, not something he lifted from his dad or forgot to give back to Pope.
They cared.
The words that Mrs. Heyward spoke to him echoed in his head. He was what mattered. As he sat and picked through the stack, finding what he dubbed his new favorite t-shirt from the Marina, he felt the tears trickle down his healing cheeks.
“Everything good?” Mr. Heyward asked from the door. “Get what you need?”
“Everything is perfect.”
Tomorrow, and in the days to come, JJ would wake up in a loving home. He’d eat breakfast, put on clean clothes, and he’d go see Kiara with Pope. He’d stay away from the screens, spend time napping, and they’d start looking for John B when he was cleared to boat again.
But for tonight, he’d sleep in a safe home for the first time.
A home filled with family, with laughter, and with love. A home where he could sleep with the door unlocked, maybe even open. Where he wouldn’t wake up to slammed cabinets and the stench of burnt weed.
He smiled as he ran his hands over the soft blanket beneath him, tears pricking his eyes.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome kid,” Mr. Heyward smiled. “Welcome home.”