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NOAH
“Don’t ever do that again, do you hear me?” his mother hisses, her fingers painfully wrapped around his wrist.
The force she uses forces Noah to lower his eyes, and he stares at Mary’s broken nails, her damaged skin against his. His own hand doesn’t look any better since its knuckles burst under the impact. He stained his jeans when he wiped his palms on it earlier. Well, at least he aimed well, and his thumb is not broken.
Noah takes one last look behind him as they walk away. The girl is standing in the hallway next to her parents. Her complicated expression lights up, just a little, when she meets Noah’s gaze and in it, there is only gratitude. She shouldn’t have to thank him for anything. The boy catches Noah’s attention and takes a step back, hiding behind his father with his head down. Noah can barely see his black eye.
Mary — no, not Mary, Suzanne — drags him behind her and they disappear down a corner. On the stairs, her grip tightens around his bone, as if to try and break it.
The headmaster didn’t fire him. He didn’t even punish him, to be honest. He told his mother that this way of solving problems was not the right one, that it should no longer happen, but nothing more. He knew that if Noah was punished, then the other boy should have been too.
But he wasn’t and the girl’s parents are still protesting. Apparently, the punch that Noah sent toward his face wasn’t enough.
“I…” he starts.
“Shut up.”
They hurtle down the steps until they are out of reach. Behind a wall, she stops abruptly and turns towards him.
“Don’t get involved in other people’s problems.”
Noah bites his lip. His heart beats wildly.
“He kissed her,” he tries in a small voice. “He was going to…”
“I don’t care. Abram, I don’t care. It’s them or us, do you hear me?”
“I was just there. She told him no, she was…”
“Them,” she repeats, her eyes hard “or us. I won’t let you choose them.”
He thinks of his father. His hands on his throat when he caught him one night, when Nathaniel went down to get a drink from the kitchen. His smile. Oh Junior, perfect timing. No, his timing was never perfect.
He nods, a shiver running down his spine.
“Next time, you look away. Do you hear me?”
He nods again.
“Say it.”
“I look away.”
She releases a sigh.
“Well,” she nods, finally letting go of his wrist. “Let’s go now. We need to be gone before nightfall.”
PHILIP
In Nevada, he keeps his head down. His name is Philip and a classmate tells him that he doesn’t look like a Philip. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t talk to anyone, not even the teachers. His mother lied and warned them that he had a problem, was a little retarded, so no one tries to rip words from him.
The days pass, his gaze always over his shoulder.
One evening, he gets off the bus and two other kids push a homeless person around. The man falls and jostles the empty can that contained his coins. It makes them laugh, and laugh for a moment, proudly tapping their shoulders. Philip looks at them, fists clenched. His knife is in his straight sock against his skin.
He doesn’t grab it, just steps forward, fist raised.
When he comes back home, his cheek swollen and his gaze fleeing, his mother jumps to her feet. .
“It’s them?”
She grabs his cheeks, inspects them to check if it’s serious. She needs to be sure that it wouldn’t slow them down, and it’s nothing that would kill him if checked too late. He lets her.
“Abram,” she insists after letting him go, apparently satisfied with the state of his skin under the blood.
He knows that his nose is not broken. She turns away, grabs a bag under the bed and starts to fill it with all their things. “Abram, was it them? Did they follow you?”
He agrees with this guy. He doesn’t look like a Philip.
“They were going to rob him,” he said in a small voice. “He had nothing, and they…”
His mother brutally drops the bag and approaches him. The slap resonates so loudly that his back meets the wall. The burn rips off a shameful tear that he wipes away immediately.
“You promised.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You promised.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
She shakes her head. “No, you’re not.”
He stares at the cut on his arm, the one he got when escaping their last meeting in Idaho. Pocatello was a boring city, and it left him with a scar from elbow to shoulder, and three broken ribs.
“I…” A new slap. He expected it, this time, and his eyes remain dry. “Shut up. Pack your things.”
They leave with the first bus, in silence.
SAM
Oregon lasts longer. They go to three cities in two months, but stop at the last one long enough for his mother to find a job. His name is Sam, and Sam speaks and plays baseball.
He hates baseball, but his mother tells him that it’s been a long time since he did anything other than running so he has no choice. You can’t let yourself go, if your endurance decreases then you kill us both. There is a marathon team, but she tells him no. He doesn’t insist.
They stop at New Port, Washington, and it’s almost nice. It’s snowing, the sun is just high enough to pierce the constant clouds; he speaks, likes math, has brown hair. A girl stares at him in his Spanish class every time he speaks, and he ignores her.
Life is quiet enough to soothe him, until one evening he looks over his shoulder and meets someone’s gaze in a black SUV. He has to go around the block three times and hide behind a trash can before managing to get back inside their apartment.
His mother squeezes her lips when he walks through the door. He liked the name Sam.
ALEX
They go further, this time, and follow the coast to California.
Alex doesn’t know what he thinks about it. It’s much warmer, his t-shirt always stuck against his skin. The college is shabby, but no one asks him for anything. Alex is quiet, brown-haired, discreet. He likes to learn languages and is bad at math.
His mother struggles to find work for a while, but when she finally gets something, it’s one with night shifts, which means that she is only there for a few hours when he gets back from school. It’s a frightening freedom, and Alex ends up keeping his back against the wall in the evening, attentive. She is not there, all against him to keep an eye on him. He misses his warmth, and he hasn’t slept alone for months, a comforting habit that makes him feel like he missed a step once broken.
He always sits next to the same guy in literature. Alex is clearly behind in this class, but his teacher doesn’t care. He doesn’t try to give him a list of books to read, texts to learn, websites to consult. The teacher is content to just give Alex’s poor copies back to him without making any comment.
The guy next to him never takes any notes. He just draws, in the corners of his sheets. He’s short, often in black, and he never tries to engage in conversation. Despite all the schools he went to before, Alex has never met someone like that. It’s refreshing enough to become curious.
Which undoubtedly explains why one day, Alex is staring at him a second too long.
“What?” the boy growls, catching his stare.
Alex doesn't know his name. He barely makes an effort to remember them nowadays.
“Nothing”, he mumbles and passes a sheet from the package to him then sends the rest behind him.
If not for his silence, his detachment, and his dark appearance, this guy has nothing special. Nothing except the marks on his wrists. Bruises, finger-shaped. Alex tries to not care. You promised, his mother’s voice whispers to him.
Andrew Doe. A teacher calls him to the board and Alex follows him with his eyes, notes his rigid step as he walks to the front of the class, grabbing a chalk to write the right answer. He is unbeatable in literature, always with a book in hand at breaks and at lunchtime in the cafeteria. Rather average in math, as soon as it’s necessary to do more than repeat the exercises learned the day before. And irreproachable regarding dates in history and the name of the capitals in geography.
Alex stares at him. Andrew’s bruises fade, but always come back. It’s always fingers, wrapped around his wrists. Sometimes his eyes are red, but no one notices that because one day a guy from the class next door grabbed Andrew by the shoulder and got hit in the face for that. Since then, people have been whispering but they keep their distance.
Andrew Doe.
He smells of cigarettes, always arrives with wet hair as if he was washing them every morning, and settles down next to Alex at each class they have together. He must be a year older than Alex, but Alex is not Abram or Nathaniel or Sam or John or Rick or Noah, so no, in fact they are the same age.
Alex is ahead in some class, and behind in others. One morning, his mother rummages in his bag and finds a math assignment between the messy pages of the only notebook he takes to class. The almost perfect grade is accompanied by an encouraging green comment from his teacher. With a furious look, she grabs him and plants her nails in his forearms.
“You hate math,” she said. “So stop it.”
During the next exam, he writes all the answers on his draft to pass the time. He sets down calculus, explains theorems, develops his thoughts. All that with a pencil, on the attached sheet that their math teacher always makes them take out. Then, when there is not much time left, he reproduces the exact half of the answers on his exam. Half, precisely, and he pays attention to the number of points per exercise. Alex fills the other half with bullshit, results accurate enough to always fall at 0.3 of the correct answer. He finds that funny and lets out a smile before catching himself.
That’s when he notes Andrew’s stare.
The boy reads Alex’s draft out of the corner of his eye, furrows his brows, and then his eyes fall on the nail marks on Alex’s skin, where his sleeve has lifted, and his face darkens. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment, but something stirs in his expression.
A stone falls into Alex’s stomach. Alex likes being Alex. He doesn’t want to abandon him so quickly.
He made a mistake.
Andrew didn’t comment, but now his eyes are on Alex. He listens to the answers that Alex gives to the teachers, he reads his notes, he studies his steps, examines his tray during lunch. His own bruises come back, and one morning Alex is certain that Andrew’s right cheek is redder than usual. He recognizes this, he knows where it comes from. A slap, not strong enough to mark but sufficient to leave a trace.
Andrew smokes next to the school’s gates when a girl stops Alex at the end of the day.
“Hey,” she smiles, stopping in front of him. “Is that okay?”
Alex stares. He doesn’t think he has seen her around.
“I…” she continues, twisting one of her locks around her fingers with an embarrassed look. “I saw that you lived near the cemetery next to the industrial area.”
Alex frowns. She adds:
“I live there too. Funny, isn’t it?”
He studies her a little closer. The green scrunchy on her wrist, her ponytail, her white crooked teeth. His tone is dry when he asks, “How do you know that?”
It must not be the answer she was waiting for, because her smile fades. “Oh, I... I saw you, that’s all. Once or twice.”
She waits, as if Alex was going to offer her something. When he thinks she’s done and starts to turn back, she quickly adds, “Would you like to go back with me?”
He furrows his brows.
“Why?”
“To spend time together,” she blushes. “If you’re up for it, of course.”
He notices three other girls who are waiting near the wall, and who immediately lower their thumbs up when they catch him looking. He feels like he’s missing something.
“Why would I want that?”
The smile of the girl slides completely.
“Oh. Uh, I... it’s okay.”
He gives her a suspicious look. Should he tell his mother? She knows where he lives. Maybe Lola took an apprentice, maybe she is dangerous. No one ever comes to talk to him, where does this girl come from?
“Nevermind,” she adds, stepping back, cheeks burning. “It’s not a big deal, I’ll just…”
She shows something behind her, fails to enter the barrier near the sidewalk, then turns on her heels. Near the gates, Andrew stares at him. Alex must be wrong, but he thinks he’s seeing an amused smile behind his cigarette.
He doesn’t talk to his mother about it.
The next day, Andrew slides next to him in class and flatly comments,“You broke her heart.”
Alex can’t stop moving his leg. He thought he heard a noise in the stairwell of his apartment last night, but there was no one. He went to check, knife out, and came back empty. He almost called his mom, his hand on the disposable phone in the kitchen drawer, but decided to grab the firearm she got when they arrived in town along with their new identities. Alex went to sit on the floor in front of the door. He didn’t sleep. And almost shot her when she came home.
Mary asked him if he saw something. He replied that he had a nightmare. The slap has hurt more than usual. You sleep when you can, Alex. Do you hear me? Nightmares are useless.
Afterwards, she sighed and apologized, because he failed to answer her.
Alex blinks. “Who?” he asks, clearly lost.
Andrew raises an eyebrow then points his pencil towards the other side of the room. The girl from yesterday is sitting by the door.
“Ah. I didn’t know she was there.”
“What, you thought she was doing to stay home?”
“No, I mean here. I didn’t know we had class together.”
Andrew stares at him like he was stupid. “She was in front of us,” he said. “She was always in our class. From the beginning. She changed her seat today.”
“Ah,”Alex says again, foolishly.
He doesn’t know what to add, so he lets Andrew stare at him and does the same. Andrew doesn’t have any new bruises, but Alex sees his eyes slowly drifting towards his own cheek. It was red this morning but his skin doesn't mark that well. But one of his mother’s nails scratched him and left a tiny mark.
Andrew stays silent.
In the hallway, Alex realizes that it was their first real discussion. It’s nothing, it doesn’t make them friends; Alex is quiet, has dark hair, is discreet, he likes languages and is bad at math. He doesn’t have any friends. He’s bad at math, he’s discreet, he’s bad at math, he’s discreet.
Fortunately, Andrew is not a particularly warm person. They exchange some comments the following days, and meet in the courtyard next to the gates when they leave. Alex still eats alone, Andrew too; nothing changes.
One morning, Alex is late. An SUV followed him down a street, and he started sweating so hard that his t-shirt was soaked before he even ran into someone’s garden. A little further, behind a bush, he saw the SUV park in front of a driveway, a normal woman getting out to go pick her baby from the backseats.
He had trouble breathing after that. From the lack of exercise or from his panic, he’s not sure. Alex told his mother he should join a sports club, but it’s the middle of the year and all the spots are taken. Instead, since his mother is not there at night, Alex leaves the apartment, puts on a hood, and runs. She would kill him for that, but he hasn’t been caught yet, hiding his sweaty clothes under his bed to wash them by himself in the sink.
In front of the gates, sitting on the wall, Andrew wears long sleeves and a distant expression. There is no one left, the classes have started. Alex stops. “You’re skipping,” he says and it’s not a question.
Andrew raises his head. He watches for a moment in silence, and then takes out a cigarette. He’s young to smoke, but Alex has nothing to say. No one has nothing to say to Andrew: he hasn’t punched anyone in weeks, but his reputation is enough.
Andrew lights it up then looks at Alex and asks with a raspy voice, “You?”
Alex shakes his head.
“Just late. If I skip class, they will call my mom.”
Andrew’s fingers tighten and a shadow passes over his face. Sometimes he manages to perfectly control each of his expressions, but some days everything is more raw, hidden just under his skin. Andrew’s gaze finds itself once again on the very small cut on Alex’s face, and then he softly nods. His hair is wet, his eyes red and irritated. He takes a puff, keeps it for a moment, then spits it out.
Alex sits down next to him. The smell of smoke gives him both the impression that a shadow in his mother’s form will grab his forearms to take him away, and that someone is there to cover his back, if needed.
They say nothing more, but when Alex gets up once the cigarette is finished, Andrew does the same and follows him.
Their teacher doesn't accept them in class, so they end up in detention, accompanied by a furious girl, a member of the baseball team, and a kid who chews his gum with his mouth open. Andrew silently turns towards him after ten minutes, and his gaze is enough to silence him.
They’re going to call his mom. Alex knows it, but his sweaty hands won’t change anything about his situation. She will punish him, and he might talk about the SUV; being too careful is not a flaw, and he wanted to be sure. The school will always come after their safety. His mother will understand, she will just get a little angry, because he made a scene when Alex is supposed to be quiet and discreet and hates math. It’s going to be okay. He sat next to Andrew, he made that choice; Alex made a decision and this decision will have consequences. Was it worth it? He feels like it was.
They stay together after that.
Andrew finds him at the end of every class they don’t share, leaning against the corridor wall, indifferent like it wasn’t a big deal, and they walk side by side to the next one. During lunch, they sit at the same table. Alex watches him start with the dessert, and gives him his because they are always too sweet. At the end of the day, they pass through the gates at the same time, and only separate when Andrew leaves to take his bus.
It happens again the following days. Sometimes they speak and sometimes not. Alex never knows which question to ask, and just sends back the ones Andrew throws at him. He has many, apparently. He asks and asks and asks, trying not to look too interested, but his eyes shine under his detached expression. Where did he live before, what’s his mother’s job, why his clothes are like this, why is his draft filled in maths but his exam’s always empty. Alex lies, a lot, and he feels like Andrew realizes that.
One evening, Alex waits for the bus by Andrew’s side, when he sees Andrew’s jaw clench. “Stop it,” he said.
“Stop what?”
“Lying. I don’t like it.”
Alex is about to retort that he wasn’t lying. Andrew just asked him why he arrived during the year, and Alex replied that his mother lost her old job and found a new one here. Anyone would have accepted that, and Alex is a good liar.
But Andrew sees, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.
“If you don’t want to answer, then don’t.”
That’s what Andrew does. He keeps his mouth shut, his lips closed, and waits until the moment passes.
Andrew lives with a foster family, was shuttled from one state home to another, never left California, and his foster mother is named Cass. He likes black and orange, prefers sweet, and nodded when Alex asked him if he had a photographic memory or something.
In response, when Andrew asked him if he liked math, he said no. His mother lost her job, no he doesn’t dye his hair, yes he is going to finish school here, his parents are divorced and his father is a very busy man, and he has half-brothers.
Andrew would prefer silence than all that. But Alex learned that silence stirs people’s curiosity more than a banal and boring story. He has to answer something, and he has to look convincing.
He swallows. “I can’t,” he whispers.
“Yes, you can.”
Andrew stands up when his bus approaches. Alex stays on the bench, because he is going to walk home, as always.
“If you think I can’t accept a no, then it’s not worth it.”
The anger on his face agitates something in Alex’s stomach. He doesn’t want to lose Andrew; he’s not his friend because Alex is quiet and hates math and has no friends, but it’s the first time he has something like that and he can’t let it go.
Andrew gets on his bus.
The next day, they are both early in front of the gates. Andrew smokes and Alex settles down by his side. His throat is still tight.
“Sorry,” Alex says softly.
He has spent the evening thinking about it. He ran longer than usual, until his calves hurt, his mouth dry. He almost didn’t sleep after that, because a cat had to spill something in the trash can room on the ground floor and it echoed in the stairwell up to his door. This time, he got up from the ground at dawn and stored the weapon before his mom’s return.
Andrew doesn’t look like he wants to hear his excuses. “Shut up.”
He exhales smoke and Alex breathes back with force. It’s part of Andrew’s smell now. Something too adult for his age, mixed with his laundry, shower gel, and the shampoo he uses every morning.
He wears long sleeves, so when Alex looks down at his wrists, he can’t check the freshness of the bruises. His tongue runs over his lips to wet them and he stumbles, “I can’t... say everything. I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
He never felt the need to do so. It shouldn’t matter. He must survive, he must listen to his mother, he must stay as far away from his father as possible. He doesn’t need friends, he must not have friends.
They have already stayed in California for too long. His mother begins to look for buses and destinations, and he surprised her one morning in front of the low-cost plane tickets towards Germany.
It’s the first time in a long time that Alex really doesn’t want to leave.
When the gates finally open, he gets up and walks towards his literature class. His shoulders relax upon noticing that Andrew is following him.
He avoids lying too much.
To others, he needs to. Alex wouldn’t go as far as to say he likes it, but it’s not a problem for him. There is always someone trying to talk to him, discuss, suggest that he join a club, accompany him after classes, come and join him at the library. His frowning expressions and lack of interest are not enough. Only when he is with Andrew do the others leave him alone. Alex would like to have his super power, this atmosphere around him that prevents the other students from approaching.
With him, he does his best to tell the truth. They continue to exchange questions, and when the answer seems too close to the truth to be comfortable, then Alex keeps quiet. It’s hard, because a lie is always ready to come out, balanced at the tip of his tongue. Sometimes the words are already out and he cuts off in the middle of a sentence, looks at Andrew, and shakes his head.
It’s not perfect, but that’s something.
On a Friday, Alex accompanies Andrew to his bus stop when a car stops at their level.
His reaction is instinctive.
A burst of adrenaline rushes up his spine, and he grabs Andrew’s sleeve to pull him behind. His legs shake, ready to drag him away the second he spots a weapon. A few curious looks turn towards them, but he keeps his eyes on the tinted windows of the car.
The driver puts on the warnings, then exits the car. From the other side, his hand placed on the surely burning roof, the man raises an eyebrow. “Hey, AJ.”
He feels Andrew tensing behind his back. Alex’s fingers are not wrapped around his wrist, unlike his mom’s when she wants to prevent him from moving. He only touches the sleeve of his top, but it’s enough for him to feel like he has crossed a line.
He lets Andrew go.
It’s not Lola. Not Romero, nor anyone who should worry him.
Yet, when Alex turns to Andrew to check if this man is indeed talking to him, the expression he finds on his face provokes something strange in his chest. Andrew doesn’t hide it fast enough, but if Alex is unable to find a word for the face he just made, at least he recognizes the terrified spark in his gaze.
“The parents are waiting for you to leave, so I told them that I was going to come pick you up. Are you coming?”
His eyes suddenly stop on Alex, as if he was finally noticing him. They study his face, then run along his neck, on the too large t-shirt that sweat sticks to his skin, on his loose jeans and his damaged sneakers. His attention stops a little too long in some places, and he hears Andrew’s breathing stop.
Next moment, he passes Alex and makes sure to be in front of him enough to hide him.
“He’s your friend, AJ? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
The guy’s smile is too easy. Alex knows them, those smiles: they come out easily, even more so when the person knows what effect their controlled expression will have. His father used to smile like that, sometimes. Something simple, not the smile he had with his large meat knife in his hand and one guy’s leg in the other.
A calculated smile to say I’m nice, I’m harmless, look
Alex just stares at him. He feels his knife in his sock.
“Not my friend,” mumbles Andrew as he opens the door. “Let’s go.”
The guy is not old. More than them, he is an adult, but not thirty either. He is tall, broad, with a shaved head and a slightly crooked nose. He waves his hand in Alex’s direction, large strong hands with short nails. “I’m Drake. Don’t take this the wrong way, AJ gets shy when he’s afraid of me embarrassing him.”
Andrew slams the door after rushing inside. Alex barely hears his voice ordering something, but he can’t think of anything other than his livid face.
“You should come to our home one of these days,” Drake says to him with another smile. “AJ never invites anyone, but the parents would agree.”
Faced with Alex’s lack of response, he raises his eyebrows.
“Not much of a talker, huh?”
He waves his hand again to greet him, before returning inside the car. The warnings stop flashing, and a few seconds pass before they enter traffic, leaving him next to the bus stop.
Alex didn’t loosen his fists.
Andrew went camping for the weekend. That’s what he tells him on Monday, black circles under his eyes. He keeps his fingers clenched on the loose sleeves of his t-shirt, and Alex doesn’t need to look underneath to guess what he would find.
He is not sure to understand well.
But he is certain to understand enough.
Abram, you promised. To look away, yes. Do not choose them. That’s not what he does, his mom doesn’t understand it, but when faced with a real choice then Alex will always choose himself. But there, it’s different.
It’s Andrew.
“It’s him?”
He asks the question just before math class, without looking directly at Andrew. They have an exam, and the teacher prepares the papers at her desk while the students anxiously discuss upcoming questions.
Andrew turns his gaze towards him. He doesn’t immediately understand what Alex wants to say, until Alex’s eyes slip on his wrists. Andrew frowns. “Does it matter?”
Does it matter? They’re going to leave soon. And Andrew will be alone again. He thinks about this girl, this boy in the toilet who was against her, with Noah’s fist in his face. No one could look away after that.
Does it matter? They’re going to leave soon. So what he does just before doesn’t matter, that’s right.
“I think it’s him. But you can still tell me I’m wrong.”
Andrew doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t prove him wrong, keep quiet until Alex inspires.
“Okay,” Alex says simply.
Andrew glances at him. The blond looks angry, as if suddenly he had a weakness and feared that Alex would use it against him. “You’re not going to tell me to talk about it?” he hisses. “To tell someone?”
Alex shrugs.
“You just did. I don’t care about the others.”
Adults don’t always do the right thing. People came to his home, a long time ago. They saw his burned shoulder, his bruised face, his mother’s terrified expression, and left with a little bit of money and a closed mouth.
Andrew blinks. He stares at him as if he were trying to understand, but he must not succeed because eventually the exam arrive and he stays silent.
Alex reads the question and hesitates for a second. Then he doesn’t touch his draft, and puts all the right answers directly on the sheet.
He knows it’s his last week.
His mother told him to wash his things so he can put them in his bag, and two plane tickets are lying on the kitchen table. They don’t say anything, don’t discuss it, but it’s useless. They’ve done that enough times for Alex to know there’s nothing to do.
He enjoys the time he has left with Andrew. He would like to tell him, warn him, but it’s impossible so instead they hang out in front of the gates, at the library, in the corridors. Alex follows him everywhere like a lost puppy and Andrew doesn’t tell him to leave him alone; he waits for him by himself at the end of the classes they don’t share. Sometimes silence is pleasant and sometimes Alex lets himself go and gives Andrew little pieces of truth. He talks to him about the cities he has seen, the worst dishes he has eaten, and in return listens to Andrew telling him that one of his host families had cats, and that he had enjoyed sleeping with a lazy old lady with gray hair.
On Monday evening, Alex let Andrew go to the bus alone. He tells him that he needs to meet his mother in the city and lets him go away. He waits for the vehicle to stop before discreetly jumping in. Andrew is the kind of person to sit at the front if he can, as close to the driver as possible. He doesn’t have motion sickness, but once told him that if something went wrong, anything, then it’s better to put all chances on his side. He does not trust the driver, but he trusts even less the other users. It’s a logic that is not quite one, but it’s better than nothing.
Alex sits in the back, and stares at Andrew until he gets up as they approach his stop. Several people get off, and it’s all too easy to follow Andrew home without him noticing. Alex observes him hesitating in front of the gate, then pushing it up to climb the steps to the front door, and finally disappearing inside.
Alex notes the address and turns his heels.
Alex doesn’t have a plan. He would like to have time to come up with one, but they are leaving on Friday and something needs to be done. His mother eats with him before leaving for work and from the way she stares at him, he knows that she guessed something. In front of the door, she puts Alex’s black hair behind his ear and waits for him to say something. He keeps his mouth shut.
Andrew comments on the dark circles under his eyes on Wednesday. His eyes study his face with the same sharp look as his mother, long enough for Alex to feel the question coming.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
It’s not working.
“Your mom?”
Alex frowns. Andrew is misunderstanding his mom’s situation. He thinks he guessed correctly, thinks he sees something more in the slaps and nail marks on Alex’s forearms. His mother wants to protect him, it has nothing to do with the bruises on Andrew’s wrists, with Drake’s quiet smile and the tone of his voice saying "AJ".
“No, she’s working. It’s okay, I’m fine.”
Andrew presses his lips together, unhappy. He shrugs, as if to tell him whatever, I don’t care. Alex knows that he does care, but adds nothing.
He goes for a run every night in Andrew’s neighborhood.
His endurance is rather good from doing it at least four times a week, so he doesn’t need to jump in a bus to get there. He doesn’t really care about wearing the same sweat-filled outfit night after night, bought it especially to run three weeks earlier with the idea of throwing the clothes in the trash when they leave.
Every night since Tuesday, he sees Drake leave with his car and return a few hours later, drunk after partying. How a guy like that can have friends escapes him, and Alex runs, runs, and runs, always on the right path, always where he needs to be.
In the night from Thursday to Friday, Drake stops when he sees him. They are four streets away from Andrew’s house.
“Hey,” he says, lowering the window of his car.
Alex ignores him and continues to run. The vehicle moves slowly near the sidewalk.
“Hey,” Drake insists. “I know you, right?”
He hesitates, then remembers, “You were with AJ. The other day, yeah it was you.”
Alex’s step slows down, his breathing hard and fast. He hates the way he pronounces this nickname. Nothing that belongs to Andrew should be in his mouth.
“What?” Alex says, not even trying to be polite. When he turns his head towards Drake, he sees his gaze stop on his legs, on his sports shorts, on his sweaty neck. It gives him a shiver of disgust.
He deserves more than a poor fist in the face. He deserves Nathan Wesninski.
“And you are...?”
“Drake.”
When he sees Alex’s falsely confused expression, he adds, “His brother.”
“Ah, yes.”
He nods as if to greet him, then starts to turn away. Drake interrupts him, “Sorry, but what are you doing outside at this hour? You don’t have parents, or what?”
“How does this concern you?”
The man raises his hands with innocence.
“Oh, he bites,” he laughs. “Relax, I wasn’t saying that to denounce you. But even if the neighborhood is quiet, you’re still a bit young to walk around at night.”
He would almost laugh if his throat were not tied with anger.
“And?”
“And I can take you back, if you want. AJ knows that you walk alone like this?”
Alex thought he had to do a little more than that, be convincing, make an effort. Say please, thank you very much, if you don’t mind. But no. So he clenches his jaw and walks around the car to go open the passenger-side door. The interior is not air-conditioned and even Alex feels the sweat on his wet clothes.
Drake doesn’t even grimace, just watches him settle down.
“Don’t talk about Andrew,” Alex says, buckling up.
“Ah, sensitive topic? Did you two fight?”
Alex shrugs.
“Okay,” Drake says. “This stays between us, then.”
The smile he gives Alex is exactly like the one near the bus stop.
“Where do you live?”
“Next quarter. It’s not that far.”
“Show the way.”
He follows his instructions for a while, questioning him with an alcoholic tranquility that would lower anyone’s guard. If Alex did not know the danger in expressions, in looks that hook and remain, in hands that brush past, then he would have been fooled.
He is more familiar with his father’s murderous animosity, with a broken rib, a bullet in the shoulder, a knife in the flank, but is not surprised when Drake stops the car near a park, in a deserted area.
“I don’t live here,” Alex says, looking straight ahead. He still knows where he is. Finding his way back home won’t be difficult.
“I know. I was thinking that we could talk a little more before you go home.”
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever you want. I’m good at listening, and you seem to be in trouble.”
Alex raises an eyebrow. “And you know that because...?”
“AJ also had problems, and you seem a bit like him. If I could help him, there’s no reason I couldn’t help you.”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Drake’s hand pass over the gear lever. His fingers move closer, then land on Alex’s thigh, just between his shorts and his skin. He has big, thick hands, the kind that sends to the ground after a slap, the kind that squeeze wrists to keep them in place.
Alex doesn’t move. He’s barely breathing, waiting for the right moment.
“You know,” Drake continues in a slow voice, his heavy breath falling on Alex’s cheek. “AJ and I have a game. And I think you would be perfect to play it too.”
Alex’s calm cracks. He can handle quite a few things, he knows that. But he doesn’t want to hear this guy talk to him about Andrew. He doesn’t want to imagine, he doesn’t want to rethink Andrew’s expression when he confirmed what Alex suspected.
He doesn’t have a plan. Just this one.
Alex’s fist flies directly into Drake’s nose. He immediately feels something crack against his knuckles, and a wave of burning satisfaction bursts through him. His fingers stretch to grab the knife still hidden in his sock, then wrap around the handle.
Lola’s lessons are engraved in him, in his skin as in his memory. The weapon’s weight is familiar, its movement predictable; he just needs to aim and dive.
And that’s exactly what he does.
The streets are deserted and the park dark, so no one hears Drake scream. His body twists as if moving away could remove the blade stuck between his thighs and repair the damage, but it’s worse. The knife is exactly where Alex wanted it to be, doing damage that will be very difficult to repair. Drake screams again, struggles, and once the first wave of pain passes, he turns his head towards Alex leaning on him.
But he doesn’t find Alex’s gaze. He finds Nathaniel’s.
And a smile stretches his lips.
“I would have preferred a more definitive solution, but unfortunately I don’t have time to hide your body.”
Drake’s face is wrinkled with terror, his eyes wide open. His irregular breathing does not seem sufficient to fill his lungs.
“Damn…” Drake hisses. “Dude you’re fucking sick —”
“I will say things slowly, to be sure that you understand well. If the paramedics are alerted in time, then they will surely succeed in stopping the bleeding. Otherwise…”
He shrugs.
Drake stirs, tries to clear himself, but Nathaniel holds him in place and slightly moves the blade to prove his words. A new cry resonates in the cabin.
“W-What do you want?” he sobs. “Fuck, why are you doing this?”
“No idea? Really ?”
Drake’s expression collapses. “He... he lies. If it’s AJ, if he told you things, he lies, and…”
Nathaniel shakes the blade again. “Shh,” he whispers slowly. “Shut up. I don’t care what you can say, and I don’t have time to hear you.”
He must act quickly. It’s undoubtedly the only thing he can do for Andrew, before disappearing forever, and he wants to make sure to go all the way.
“Here’s my deal. I’ll give you your phone back, and let you try to call 911. You may never be able to even piss properly again, but you will survive.”
His smile doubles again. He feels it pulling on his cheeks, his teeth uncovered.
“You can even talk to them about me if you want, even though I really don’t advise you to do that. It will put you on the radar of people much more dangerous than me. And if you find that the situation is not great right now, I assure you that you do not want to face them. Do you understand?”
Drake’s head begins to shift. All the colors of his face have been aspirated, leaving only a ghostly and greenish tint.
Nathaniel slaps him.
“Stay with me, will you? I’m not done.”
The man inspires deeply, his wide eyes finding the path of Nathaniel’s gaze. He repeats, “So, do you understand?”
Drake nods.
“So, I’m saving your life. I’m making sure you can see the sun again, and trust me it’s not my favorite option. In return, I think you’re guessing what I’m going to say. You will never be able to use that again anyway.”
Another cry from Drake, and Nathaniel rolls his eyes.
“But that’s not enough, so listen to me carefully. You won’t touch him anymore, you won’t look at him anymore. You will find a way to distance yourself from him, and I assure you that I will make sure you do. You will never look at anyone like that ever again.”
The blood imbibes the seat and fills the air with an iron smell that immerses him in his memories. Oh, how Lola would be proud. How his mother would like to kill him. It doesn’t matter if he is exactly the son that Nathan would want him to be, right now; it’s worth it.
His mother was wrong. He can’t look away.
Drake nods, his eyes shining. He must never have been in such danger, despite a military life. He never faced consequences; Nathaniel imagines very well how he must constantly feel, this power, this superiority. The idea of his satisfaction with Andrew, in front of his fragility, makes him want to puke.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I…”
“Come on. It’s almost a game, isn’t it? I thought you liked them?”
Drake inspires, trembling. He stumbles, “I... I won’t touch him again. Ever. And I won’t... I will leave, and I promise.”
Nathaniel refrains from spitting on him. “Good.” He takes out the phone that he discreetly stole from him a little earlier.
“Good luck.”
The knife still in place retained most of the bleeding. He removes it with a sharp motion, and swings the phone on the carpet at his feet. Drake’s scream is swallowed by the way he closes in on himself, crying.
“Thank you for bringing me back,” Nathaniel adds before slipping out of the car.
He changes his clothes with those he had hidden in an alley near their apartment. His mother hasn’t come home yet, but when she does, she finds him awake on the couch, TV off. Their bags are ready, everything is.
They disappear at dawn, and Nathaniel leaves Alex with Andrew.
“Foxes,” Neil breathes, voice toneless. “Palmetto university.”
David Wymack’s presence involves those of the two people whose paths he must not cross. Neil runs before even realizing it.
His heart threatens to burst in his rib cage. He shouldn’t have trusted Hernandez, but not being able to count on anyone anymore is exhausting. Before, there was his mom, and despite his anger and fatigue, she would never have abandoned him. It was at least something real in his life, something true; he has been so many boys, but each of them had a mother.
Now he is Neil.
And Neil isn’t sure who he is.
David Wymack lets out a surprised cry behind his back, but Neil ignores him. He rushes to try to reach the corridors, certain to have a far better chance in his escape with the back door. Shit, he was careless. The idea of playing may be the only thing that still makes him want to live, but it unfortunately finds itself on a scale, equal to the fear that Neil’s father eventually gets his hands on him.
Nathan would tear him to pieces.
Neil walks through the locker rooms, and catches a shadow in the corner of his vision. The next second, his lungs stop working and the blow of a racket violently sends him to the ground.
His vision darkens. His ears start to whistle.
When the world becomes coherent again, his eyes meet the dark gaze of Andrew Minyard, standing right next to him.
Neil’s heart stops.
“Quick,” Andrew comments.
His gaze is exactly like it was years ago. A little more solid, perhaps. Neil read the articles, everything he could find from the moment Andrew appeared on the front stage of the Exy world.
The greatest goalkeeper anyone has seen in years. Obviously.
“Quick,” he repeats. “Especially to escape. Some things never change.”
Andrew recognizes him. Well, great. Neil’s not going to lie to himself. He nods, “Quick, but not that good, apparently”
Neil straightens up in a grunt. A grin stretches Andrew’s lips.
“If I had let you go, Kevin would have harassed us for weeks. He’s annoying.”
Kevin Day, who is not there. Where did Andrew leave him? What did he promise him so he could stay alone in front of the door while Wymack talked to Neil?
Neil sighs, “No risk of you nicely letting me go, then?”
“Save your strength. You’re not going anywhere.”
His words are as much a threat as a promise. Neil studies his expression, tries to understand what happened during the years he was away. For him, his meeting with Andrew changed almost everything.
He allows himself to believe that if Andrew remembers him, it’s because the feeling’s mutual.
Neil could insist. Andrew is smaller than him, and even if he has to be stronger, Neil is faster. And more trained. A blow to the right place would hold him down long enough to allow him to run away.
The problem is that Neil’s not sure he has the strength. He doesn’t know how many escapes he has in him, how many times he will be able to start everything from scratch. Someone holding him back is, distressingly, all he ever wanted.
And this is Andrew.
“Damn, Minyard,” Coach sighs when he sees them. “What did you do again?”
“Nothing at all, coach. I’m chatting with the new recruit. We need to convince him, right?”
“I would be surprised if anything you have to say would convince him.”
Neil’s gaze meets Andrew’s. What he sees inside, it’s furious emotions, wisely submitted to silence. There is always the smell of cigarettes, and something else that must belong to him, because it hasn’t changed over time. Andrew is always the same; he says little and lets what is not said speak for him.
You’re not going anywhere.
Andrew raises an eyebrow.
“I’ll sign,” Neil answers to his silent question.
He is so tired.
No matter what awaits him, he feels right now that maybe it will be worth it. He just hopes that Andrew will not be dragged down in his fall. “I’ll sign,” he repeats. “And we’ll see.”
He was never good at planning things, anyway.