by Megan Hart
“Hi.” He looked still thinner than when last I’d seen him, but perhaps it was the black attire. The dark hue could have been the reason he looked paler, too. He held out a plastic bag from a local bookstore chain. “I brought you something.”
I took the bag and looked inside, then pulled out a new copy of The Little Prince. “Oh, Gavin. You didn’t have to.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I did. The other one got ruined, and it was my fault.”
I waited until he met my eyes before I answered. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He shrugged again, shuffling his feet. “Yeah, it was. I made her mad. I shoulda cleaned my room, like she said.”
I didn’t say anything. Mrs. Ossley had a right to expect him to clean his room. Not a right to throw books at his head.
Gavin looked up. “I thought, maybe…”
“Actually,” I said, so he didn’t have to fumble, “I’m repainting the dining room. I could really use a hand.”
He followed me inside, and I stood in front of the blue wall. Gavin looked it up and down, tilting his head like a curious puppy. After a moment he smiled, too.
“I like it.” He nodded in approval.
I looked at it. “Yes. Me, too. I want to do the others this color, and the moldings in gold. And I bought this.”
I showed him the rubber stamp in the shape of a star. “I’m going to stamp stars all over it, in a pattern.”
“Wow, Miss Kavanagh, you’re really going all out. Elle, I mean. You’re really going crazy.”
“A little crazy,” I agreed. “Or maybe a little less crazy. I guess we’ll see.”
He looked so sad for a moment, my own smile turned down. He ducked his head and pulled off his sweatshirt, then went for the paint can to pour some out into a tray for his use. I watched him move. He scuttled, hunched, and I thought how having books thrown at one’s head might make anyone prone to ducking.
We put on some music, and we painted. We got a little silly. When I used the end of a paintbrush to serenade Gavin with a cheesy boy-band drama song, he actually laughed out loud. I joined him. Every stroke of my roller laid down paint and seemed to lift me up a little farther.
I made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch, comfort food I hadn’t eaten in ages. He devoured his and demurred when I asked if he’d like more, but I got up to fix him another sandwich, anyway. His wrists looked as if I could break them with a glance.
“Hasn’t your mom been feeding you?” I kept my tone light, but the question was serious. I didn’t turn from my place at the stove. Confessions are easier given in anonymity.
“Mom’s been too busy with Dennis to cook much. And work. She’s been busy with work, too,” he added, like admitting his mother’s new lover took up all her time was something to be ashamed of.
It was, I thought, but not for Gavin. I slid a second sandwich onto his plate and dipped the last of the soup into his bowl. I sipped from my can of soda while he ate.
“Dennis moved in, huh?”
He nodded, head down over his food.
“How do you feel about that?”
Gavin didn’t look up. “He’s okay.”
I sipped more cola. This wasn’t my business, what went on next door. A fifteen-year-old boy was capable of making himself a sandwich if he had to. He didn’t need his mother to cook him three meals a day, and I knew the house wasn’t bereft of groceries because I saw their garbage cans overflowing with trash every week.
“And how are you?” I asked the question gently, watching the way his shoulders tensed at the question. “I haven’t seen you much lately.”
“Been busy,” he mumbled. “Hadda go to summer school.”
He tore apart the remnants of his sandwich but wasn’t eating it. I didn’t want to press him. Gavin was my neighbor, a nice kid, nothing more, and still my mouth opened and questions came out.
“Have you been reading a lot?”
“Yeah.”
That, at least, urged another smile from him. “What have you been reading?”
He rattled off an impressive list of science-fiction and fantasy novels, some of which I knew and others I’d never heard of. He started eating again. When we’d finished, he helped me clean up the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. We turned the music back on and got back to painting.
My house is old, and I haven’t yet fitted it with central air. The dining room doesn’t have windows, and painting’s hard, sweaty work. I saw the marks on Gavin’s belly when he lifted his shirt to wipe his face.
Four, five, six of them. Straight red lines, the skin around them puffy and irritated. Not cat scratches, unless from a cat with extra toes and a wicked sense of aim.
And I could no longer ignore it. Because once upon a time, I had needed someone to push me for answers I was afraid to give, and nobody had. Princess Pennywhistle might have been able to defeat the Black Knight on her own, but I’d needed help and none had been given.
“Gavin. Come here.”
He turned, the roller in his hand full of paint. Something in my face must have made him nervous, because he blanched. He put the roller down.
“What?”
I gestured. “Come here.”
He did, with reluctance. His face had gone sullen. Guarded. He crossed his arms over his chest. We stared at each other for a moment before I reached over and turned off the music. The silence between us was very loud.
“Lift up your shirt,” I told him.
He shook his head. I put my hand on his arm and my heart cracked at the way he winced. He didn’t jump away from me, but I felt his muscles straining.
“I just want to see, Gav.”
He shook his head. We were at a stand-off. He wouldn’t acquiesce, and I couldn’t force him to. I didn’t ask again, but I also didn’t let go of his arm. My fingers curled loosely enough on his biceps that he could have pulled away without effort, but he didn’t. After another minute, he lifted the hem of his shirt to show me the wounds.
I kept my face neutral, looking at them. “These look sore.”
“They’re not too bad.” His voice shook a little. Beneath my hand his arm had gone as hard as rock.
“Have you put anything on them? You don’t want them to get infected.”
“I…I don’t…” He trailed off.
I put my palm flat against them for a second. “The skin’s hot. That’s not a good sign. What did you use?”
“A piece of glass.”
I gave his arm a soft squeeze and stood up. “Come upstairs with me and we’ll put something on them.”
I went to the stairs, leaving him to come after me. I was almost convinced he wouldn’t. That he’d flee. He followed me to the bathroom and sat obediently on my toilet while I opened my medicine cabinet and pulled out some antibiotic ointment, hydrogen peroxide and some bandages.
“Take your shirt off, it might be easier.”
He pulled the T-shirt over his head and I put it on the sink. Faint white lines criss-crossed his chest, upper arms and stomach, though the only fresh cuts were on his belly. I cleaned them carefully, and though he hissed when the peroxide bubbled on his skin, he didn’t pull away. I smeared them with ointment and covered them with bandages, but I couldn’t make them disappear.
I sat on the edge of my tub, facing him. “Want to tell me about it?”
He shook his head, but again made no move to get away or even put his shirt back on. I capped the bottle and tube and threw away the bandage wrappers. I washed my hands. He still didn’t get up. His shoulders shook, and I thought he must be fighting not to cry.
I didn’t know how to do this. Be a confidante. I didn’t know, exactly, how to make someone else’s pain seem bearable. Faced with his tears, I was the one who wanted to flee. I put my hand on his shoulder instead.
“Gavin” was all I managed to say, and he burst into the terrified tears of a child.
Somehow I put my arms around him as he wept. His face was hot on my neck. He was so t
hin the bones in his shoulder blades hurt my hands, but I didn’t let go.
“She never touches me,” he whispered in a voice thick with shame and self-loathing. “She never hugs me or tells me she loves me. But she’s always all over him.”
I rubbed the knobs of his spine, trying to get him to stop crying. “Why do you cut yourself?”
He sat up, wiping his tears and leaving grimy streaks on his pale skin. “At least then I feel something, man. I get to feel something.”
“Do you tell your mom about it?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “I tried to, but she didn’t want to listen.”
I handed him his shirt and he shrugged into it. I handed him a tissue and he blew his nose, then wiped his eyes. He tossed the tissue in the trash without looking at me.
“Why do you think your mom doesn’t hug you?”
“Because she hates me,” he said. “I don’t know.”
I had no good answer for him. I wasn’t the best person to be giving advice about mending relationships with mothers. I ran a washcloth under cold water and handed it to him.
“Wash your face.”
He gave me an embarrassed smile, but did, then folded it and hung it on the edge of the sink. “Are you gonna tell my mom?”
“Do you want me to?”
He didn’t answer at first. “No.”
“Gavin, I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to hurt yourself anymore, okay? There are better ways to deal with stress and anxiety.” I ducked my head to try and meet his gaze. I felt so old, all at once. Old and ineffective, telling him how to fix his life when I couldn’t fix my own.
He shrugged. “Booze. Pot. No, thanks. My old man was a super pot head. I don’t want to be a stoner. I’m trying to feel something, not go numb.”
An astute observation from a fifteen-year-old boy.
“Cutting yourself isn’t good, either.”
He shrugged, looking down. “Are you gonna tell my mom or not?”
“What do you think she’ll do if I tell her?” The edge of the tub was hurting my butt, but I didn’t get up.
He shrugged again. “Dunno. Nothing. Yell.”
“She might not yell,” I told him. “She might try to get you some help.”
He looked up at me, eyes bleak. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“No, Gavin.” I shook my head and reached for his hand. “I really don’t. I know sometimes it can be easier to do things you know aren’t good because it distracts you from the things that hurt.”
He looked down at his hand, covered by mine. “She’s getting married to him, and then she won’t bother with me at all except to yell at me.”
“Your mom loves you, Gavin. I’m sure she does, even if she doesn’t act like it.”
He snorted and pulled his hand away from mine. “Not all moms love their kids, Miss Kavanagh. It’s a fact of life. Everyone wants to think they do, but they don’t.”
I knew that, too, but saying it aloud was too depressing. I was the adult here. I needed to find the magic words that would make him feel better. I couldn’t find them.
“I should go,” he said at last. “She’ll have a cow if I don’t clean up the living room before she gets home.”
I nodded and sat back, watching him. “Gavin, you know if you ever need anyone to talk to, you can talk to me. Okay? About anything.”
He shrugged, still looking down. “Okay.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Anything.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He got up and pushed past me, leaving me behind, hoping I’d done enough and knowing I hadn’t.
Chapter 13
I worked hard on the dining room and finished it in a couple of days. Gold trim shone against the dark-blue walls, decorated with gold stars. Along the top, just under the crown molding, I painted a quote from The Little Prince. “All men have the stars, but they are not the same things for different people.”
I liked the way it looked. Bold. It complemented the furniture in a way the stark white I’d originally planned never could have. The room I’d once hated more than any other in the house became my favorite.That blue room gave me the courage to call Dan and invite him to go to the annual Susquehanna Art Show with Marcy, Wayne and me. It was an apology for not taking him to meet my mother. Neither of us mentioned the days that had passed without speaking. I wasn’t sure he’d want to come, but he seemed to like the idea of meeting my friends.
We arranged to meet by the life-scale statue of the man reading a newspaper on a park bench, but a delay with the bus had made me late. Consequently, I saw them before they saw me. Marcy and Wayne held hands, chatting, comfortable in a way I envied.
“Elle!” Dan waved and trotted over to me. “We were wondering where you were.”
I wasn’t sure if he’d hug me, but he did. “The bus got stuck in traffic. I see you’ve met.”
He put his arm around my waist. “Yeah. I took a chance that the gorgeous blonde was Marcy.”
Marcy tittered and leaned against Wayne. “He tried convincing me you told him that, Elle, but I didn’t believe him.”
I hadn’t, of course, described Marcy as gorgeous. Blond, yes. Bubbly, certainly. Likely to be wearing stiletto heels and a tank top, definitely. In contrast to her casual attire I felt overdressed and a little grungy. Worried about being late, I hadn’t bothered to change.
“Hi, Elle.” Wayne reached forward to kiss my cheek. “Good to see you.”
“Hi.” I nodded.
Dan took my hand and squeezed it before linking our fingers. The action made me look at him, but for once he didn’t seem to be reading my mind. I didn’t pull away, though the possessive action made me a little nervous.
“Should we eat first?”
It took me a moment to register Dan was asking me. Marcy and Wayne looked expectant. Like it was up to me what we should do first? Like I was in charge?
“I guess so.”
“Great, I’m starved.” Dan squeezed my hand again.
This man had licked whipped cream from my nipples. I didn’t need a shrink to tell me holding hands in public shouldn’t have been an issue. Marcy and Wayne held hands. So did dozens of other couples walking past us.
But they were couples, pairs, lovers. And that was not us, Dan and me. He was a habit, a ritual, a way to pass the time. We were not a couple, oh, no. Not like Marcy and Wayne, not like the boy with the dreadlocks with the girl wearing a Ramones T-shirt. No. We were not a couple. Were we?
“Elle?” Dan’s brow creased. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I said, though I wasn’t.
There were enough people to count, and I did that, dividing the total number by two. Couples. Two by two. Like something out of Noah’s fucking ark…
“Elle? You look pale. Do you want to sit down?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. Just need a drink. Let’s get a drink, okay?”
I let Dan lead me through the crowd, Marcy and Wayne close behind us and Marcy chattering away even more than she does at work. I was grateful for the steady stream-of-consciousness gabble she spouted, as it left very little room for my own comments. Grateful, too, for the strawberry lemonade Dan bought and handed me.
I sipped it and he brushed my hair off my shoulders, his eyes still crinkled a bit in concern. He had, at least, needed to let go of my hand to buy the drink, and I made sure to hold it with both hands so he couldn’t take it again.
Foolish. Stupid. I knew it. I did. I knew my reaction was unreasonable, but the heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing. Blaise Pascal said that, and I’ve always found it to be true.
I’d invited him here. What’s more, I wanted to be there, with him. Holding hands. A couple. My panic was unfounded, and I let it fill me anyway because I wasn’t sure how to stop it.
“Oh, look.” Marcy pointed. “Let’s check out the wind chimes over there.”
She and Wayne moved off ahead toward the stand where uniq
ue wind chimes made from kitchen utensils danced and clattered in the breeze from the river. Dan stayed with me, close but not touching me unless the crowd pressed us together. He put a hand to my elbow to help me cross a large tree root protruding from the grass, but then took his hand away again.
Marcy bought a wind chime. Wayne teased her. She solicited my opinion on it, and I told her I liked it, which I did. Dan sided with Wayne, who said it was ugly. They all laughed, and after a moment, I followed suit.
My eyes caught Dan’s, and I saw a question there, but it wasn’t the time for him to ask and so I pretended not to see.
We ate. We visited the stands. We tossed pennies into glass cups for chances to win cheap trinkets. We bid on silent-auction items.
If I was quiet, that was normal for me, and Marcy made up for it with her squeals and chatter. Dan and Wayne seemed to hit it off, standing together and talking about sports and other male-bonding topics while Marcy dragged me over to look at a display of truly hideous glass clowns.
“This one looks as if Bozo and Ronald McDonald had a love child and raised it in a toxic waste dump.” Marcy pointed to one sad creature with the astounding price tag of twenty-seven dollars. “Jesus, Elle, what would you do with something like that?”
“I’d buy it for my mother,” I told her.
“She likes glass clowns?”
“No.” It was my first genuine smile of the night. “She’d probably hate it.”
Marcy shook her head. “Shit, girl, remind me not to get on your bad side.”
“Oh, Marcy,” I told her. “Don’t you know? They’re both bad.”
I’d meant to sound joking, but I’d looked toward Dan as I answered and the words sounded flat.
She gave me a funny look, her eyes shifting toward our men before meeting mine. “What’s up, girlfriend?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head.
“He seems nice,” she offered.
“He is.”
She looked at the men again. Wayne was gesturing, about what I couldn’t begin to guess, but Dan was laughing. “So then…what?”
“Nothing,” I insisted.
My smile must have convinced her, because she linked her arm through mine and giggled.
