by C. G. Drews
‘Avery—’
‘Yes, I’ll look after Avery.’
no no no don’t touch him
‘But I need to see him again.’ Sam’s voice is panicked.
Evans doesn’t notice. Or care. ‘You will eventually. For now you need constant supervision and completion of your mental health assessment.’
Sam digs fingers into his hair. He’s ripping apart. ‘I need air,’ he whispers. Then louder, ‘I need the window down. I’m going to … I’m going to be sick.’
This gets Evans’s attention fast. He pulls up at a red traffic light and twists in his seat to where Sam hunches in the back. Sam must look white enough that Evans flips the lock off in the front so Sam’s window can zoom down.
Sam unbuckles his belt and puts his whole head out.
‘Sit back down,’ Evans commands. ‘Put your belt on and—’
But Sam’s already climbing out of the window.
Evans gives a startled exclamation and whips off his own seatbelt, but Sam’s been running away for years and he knows how to be fast and light and unexpected.
He hits the road in a crouch and then springs forward. Pain instantly explodes through his guts, but he ignores it, running down the row of growling cars waiting for the lights to go green.
Evans yells at his back.
Horns blare.
Sam runs.
‘You can’t afford to do this!’ Evan shouts.
Sam tucks his head and swerves amongst cars. His shoes hit the sidewalk. He’s through an alley and climbing a fence and across someone’s backyard before the pain slices, white and blinding, through his stomach. He buckles to his knees in the grass and grabs his stomach.
Get up. Keep running. You have to get out of here.
Sobs rip from his throat and he picks himself up, pushes on, climbs another fence, and falls flat on his face in stones and weeds. When he gets up this time, his shirt sticks to his side. Blood blooms across the white like spilt paint.
He’s good at running away. Come on, he’s good at this, he can still do it.
He loses himself in backyards and old roads and he walks and walks until his stomach can’t take it any more and he throws up. It’s like ripping stitches. It’s like the knife going in again and again. He throws his tie away.
Keep walking.
His legs know the destination even before his mind does.
Walk, Sammy, just walk.
They said they would help.
But they lied, of course they lied, no one wants to help Sammy Lou, the boy with fists full of cut glass and violent desperation.
The sun bathes the world in dusky blues and pinks. It hits the sprawling butter-yellow house and turns it into glittering gold – the only gold Sam couldn’t quite properly steal. His muscles throb and his ribs splinter and all the hope left in him bleeds out.
He slumps into the gutter in front of the house.
And sits.
Just like old times, when he had a mouthful of apologies but none seemed good enough.
It’s late enough that everyone will be home. Jeremy is probably cooking – it’s his night, isn’t it? – and Jack will be loitering uselessly about the kitchen because as much as they deny it, those two stick together.
Toby is probably drawing on a wall.
Grady is reading and bossing everyone around.
Dash will be jumping on the trampoline in the backyard with the neighbour kids, mud on their knees, while they practise speaking Elven.
Moxie is
Moxie is
Moxie is
Moxie hates him.
His brain shuts down, because thinking of her just spills him into reams of fabric and buttons and knotted threads while she laughs at him and snatches the needle away to do it herself. While they whisper for hours about everything and nothing and he learns her deepest fears and her best days and memorises every fleck of colour in her eyes.
Sam rests his face on his knees. He is an empty boy and when people see what he truly is, they hate it.
This house will never be his.
A rattling van pulls into the driveway and the engine shuts off with a crunch. A breeze brushes through the gnarly rosebushes and chills Sam’s neck. It tastes of cooler days and the end of summer.
It had to end.
Boots hit the footpath behind him.
He keeps his face pressed in his knees.
‘Sam.’
The voice is softness and sorrow.
Mr De Lainey drops down into the gutter beside Sam. He doesn’t touch him. Sam tips his head sideways, just a little, to see Mr De Lainey’s sawdust-covered work trousers and cement-splattered boots. He doesn’t look at his face. Can’t look. He never wanted those disappointed eyes on him.
Why did Sam come back?
‘You’re bleeding.’
‘It’s fine,’ Sam whispers into his knees, arms still wrapping himself into a tight ball. ‘It’s not bad.’ It hurts like his skin has been peeled off and stitched on inside out. But it doesn’t hurt as much as being in front of the De Lainey house again.
‘You’re lying.’
Sam shrinks into himself a little further.
But Mr De Lainey’s voice isn’t angry. He stated a fact and now he stretches out his dusty legs on the road, like he’s ready to sit for a good long while.
‘I know you’re looking for something, Sam,’ he says. ‘I know you found it here. And I want you to have it, you hear me, son? I want more than anything for you to have this.’
‘This,’ Sam repeats into his arms. ‘A family.’ His voice dries in his throat. ‘A home. I really want a … h-h-home.’
‘But you can’t steal it.’
‘I know,’ Sam whispers. I know I know I know.
‘You have to build it.’
Sam peels his face away from his legs, his lashes wet and heavy. He meets Mr De Lainey’s eyes, ready for that crushing wave of disappointment.
But the gaze before him is just sad and tired. Dirt stains Mr De Lainey’s face, proof that he knows how to build what he wants.
‘And I’m going to help you build it.’ His voice is quiet, calm as summer. ‘It’ll be slow and we’ll have to go backwards to set some things straight. You can’t build a house in the sky, Sam, you have to have two feet on the ground. No more hiding and running. You need help, real help. And I can be here for you, every minute.’
‘They’ll take me away.’
‘We’ll get you back. The right way.’
Sam takes a deep breath and slowly, the last shreds of his stamina falling away, he leans sideways until his head rests on Mr De Lainey’s shoulder.
The De Lainey father scoots closer and pulls Sam into his arms. He’s all sawdust and sweat and he holds Sam like he knows how to keep boys who are slipping.
They stay like that for a minute or a year.
Then Mr De Lainey pushes to his feet and pulls Sam up, carefully checking the bloodstain on Sam’s white shirt. ‘We’re going inside to get this cleaned up.’ Not a question. ‘And then you can let me know what we’re doing. I won’t stop you if you leave. But if you stay, we’re building properly, starting with a phone call to your social worker. I confess I’ve been asking about you and already have his number.’
Sam nods, his words in knots.
He trails behind Mr De Lainey, past the rosebushes and the mess of toys in the front yard. Sam falters on the steps and Mr De Lainey quietly points to the tall front window, which throws golden sunlight all over Moxie’s sewing table. The top of her head is visible, bent over cloth and needles.
‘I don’t want to go in,’ Sam says.
‘I’ll bring the first aid kit out then.’ Mr De Lainey gives Sam’s shoulder a squeeze and goes inside.
A wave of hellos and the smell of pasta and fryi
ng onions pour out. There’s the squeak of Toby’s tricycle and the slam of Grady closing a book. The sewing machine shuts off.
Sam takes a step towards the window. Another. Another. He raises a trembling hand and
taps the glass.
Moxie looks up.
She’s wearing a striped yellow shirt and overalls, her long legs bare and streaked with coloured markers thanks to a day with Toby. Her hair is caught in a frizzy bun. A scowl fits over her lips, all vinegar and suspicion.
When she sees him, the scowl falters. Her lips part in surprise. He lets his forehead rest against the windowpane, wondering if he has anything to say after he told her to leave.
Then she slams down her handful of cottons and storms away.
He tips back from the window and looks at his fingers as they unravel like he’s a boy of spun wool. He pushes away from the window. He deserves that. This. All of it.
He should just walk away now.
Steal another house.
Disappear.
But he
doesn’t
doesn’t
doesn’t
want to.
Then suddenly Moxie is sweeping out the front door, rainbow strips of fabric falling out of her pockets. Her eyes burn and the vinegar frown is gone, replaced with something like longing. Something like fear. She doesn’t walk to him, she flies.
Her hands are at his face, tracing his jaw, his cheekbone, his lips.
He expects a slap.
Instead she puts her arms around his neck – carefully, like she knows he’s unravelling. And she hugs him.
His arms slip around her back. She is endlessly warm, like hugging waffles with honey.
‘I’m angry,’ she says fiercely. ‘I’m angry at you but I also care so much. I told you that, didn’t I? You’re making me care when I said I was done with that.’ She pulls away from him, her eyes bright. ‘How dare you get stabbed?’
‘I’m nothing,’ he says. ‘I’m nothing and I’m from nowhere and I don’t want to hurt you.’
She shakes her head. ‘Things hurt. People hurt. Life hurts. I don’t want you to disappear, Sam.’ Her hands slide away from his neck. ‘I hate that you lied and I hate that you’re running. But I don’t want this to be the end.’
Sam takes a shuddering breath. ‘I’m sorry.’
She glances down then and sees his shirt. She gives a sharp intake of breath. ‘You stupid beautiful boy. Go sit on the steps. Right now.’ Then she spins and runs inside.
Sam does as he’s told.
She returns with a first aid kit and a clean shirt, which Sam thinks Mr De Lainey was probably fetching but got rapidly relieved of. She throws the lid open and rummages for clean bandages and tape. Then she unbuttons Sam’s shirt. Blood soaks her fingertips.
He’s so cold.
She peels off his old bandages, wiping it clean as best she can. ‘I think you’ve busted a few stitches.’
‘I kind of ran across the city.’
‘Typical boy with a pea-sized brain.’
He nearly smiles.
She tapes a fresh bandage on and he tries not to think about her hands on his feverish skin and how fiercely tight her lips are as she concentrates. She bites the tape off and then hands him the T-shirt. He gets stuck lifting his arms high enough. She helps.
‘You lose it when someone else is getting hurt,’ she says suddenly.
Sam tugs the shirt down so the bandage and his sins are covered. It’s Jeremy’s shirt, a superhero emblazoned on the front. Ironic.
‘I’m sor—’
‘No, don’t say sorry again. Tell me what you’re going to do now.’
‘I’m a bad person, Moxie.’ His voice is stripped raw. ‘I’m not Goldilocks. I’m the monster in the woods. I can’t stop myself. I-I-I get so close to killing people whenever they touch Avery. And I don’t like it … I hate it. I hate it. I deserve jail. I deserve it if you never speak to me again.’
‘You can do monstrous things and not be a monster.’
‘I don’t w-want to be this.’
‘Then we’ll help you not to be.’
‘It’s too late.’
‘No, you listen here, Sam.’ She sits down so close to him, her leg crushed to his. She takes his hands and their fingers fit together.
He aches.
‘Life punched you to your knees when you were little, so you freaked out and fought back. None of this is right or good or – or fair. It’s so, so unfair. But I won’t stop forgiving you.’
‘Everybody leaves.’
Her thumb brushes the bruise on his cheek. ‘I’m not leaving.’
She pulls his chin down and their mouths meet. It’s not the lit skin and wild beauty of their other kisses. It’s salty tears and bloody memories and empty boxes. She tastes of longing, he of tears.
She stops kissing him and wipes his cheeks with her palm. Her eyes are wet when she smiles. ‘You’re going to make me cry again and then you’ll be in trouble. I hate crying.’ Her nose touches his and their lips brush again—
And then a body thumps into the gate and there’s a disbelieving curse.
They look up.
Avery hangs over the front gate, his shirt soaked with sweat and chest heaving. His eyes are wild as explosions and wars and he grips the fence like it’s the only thing keeping his exhausted legs upright.
‘Sammy.’ He gasps for breath. ‘I ran all the – way – over here – to rescue – you—’ He sucks in a ragged lungful of air. ‘And you’re just kissing – in the sunset? You little jerk.’
Moxie looks like she’s holding back a laugh. ‘Finally I get to meet Avery properly.’
Avery grabs his knees and wheezes. ‘I’m going – to – puke – on you – Sammy. In just – a second.’
Several curious faces crowd the open De Lainey door. Clearly they were giving Sam and Moxie a moment but – the moment is officially over.
Jeremy squeezes past the others on to the veranda. ‘Hey, the return of the second Sammy.’ He nudges Jack. ‘He looks like a wild sort of elf. No! A lost boy from Peter Pan.’
Jack snorts. ‘I think he swam here.’
‘I ran,’ Avery growls. His eyes shift from one face to the other, not sure who’s joking or who’s the enemy.
Mr De Lainey appears, wearing worn jeans now with a baby on his hip. ‘Reece De Lainey,’ he says calmly like every day battered boys tumble into his yard.
Avery seems to have regained his breath. He attempts the gate, fumbles the latch, kicks it, and then just climbs over. He walks cautiously up the path, eyes like snake slits and fingers flicking his thighs. Typical Avery around new people: scared and wanting to curl in Sam’s arms – but teeth bared to bite if it’s not safe.
‘Sammy,’ he says, ‘we need to—’
‘We’re about to have dinner,’ Mr De Lainey says. ‘And then Sam’s deciding if he’s going back or not. You can stay too.’ He folds his arms and leans against the veranda rail. ‘Do you want a job?’
‘A w-w-what?’ Avery looks like a frightened rabbit.
Sam snaps his gaze to Mr De Lainey. What is he doing?
‘I work in construction,’ Mr De Lainey says. ‘I have my own business. I’ll hire you as a paid apprentice and you can sleep here.’
Sam understands.
The De Lainey father gets it. He’s seen Sam in tears with clenched, bloody fists and knows that the surest way to save him is to save his brother.
Avery just stares. He’s abandoned trying to still his hands and they spin in circles by his sides. But he sets his jaw and doesn’t shrink away. Like he’s trying to make up for fifteen years of leaving Sam to look after himself.
‘What about Sam?’ Avery says. ‘They’ll take him away – they’ll … no-no-no—’
‘Yes.’ Mr De La
iney doesn’t lie or manipulate. ‘I’ll go downtown first thing and get a lawyer and start things moving to get Sam’s custody if I can.’ He rubs his jaw. ‘That’s if Sam chooses to go back to court. Either way, the job and bed are yours.’
Avery doesn’t know how to respond. He looks at Sam and then back to the De Lainey father.
Finally he swears. ‘You really mean it.’ He swears again, confusion in every syllable.
Jack gives a low whistle. ‘I cannot wait to see Dad handle this.’
Mr De Lainey just smiles and pushes away from the veranda. ‘Dinner’s in five minutes. Avery, come inside and get some water. Do you like pasta?’
The twins shove their way back inside, both talking at once about how about their dad can fire them if he’s hiring Avery and then they can spend every afternoon swimming.
Judging it safer with everyone gone, Avery crosses the remaining ground between him and Sam. He turns fierce eyes on Moxie – like she’s the one taking Sam away.
Well, she did. Just a little.
She matches his look, blade for blade. ‘You better stay for dinner or my dad will transform into a mother hen and shed feathers everywhere.’
‘What?’ says Avery.
‘It’s a joke,’ Sam says. ‘You’ll like their food. They don’t always mix everything.’
Avery scuffs Sam’s shoe and glares, his hardest punishment since they were kids. ‘You shut up. You scared me to death, you know that? They’ve got cops out looking for you and that asshat Evans nearly strangled me because he thought I abducted you.’
Sam takes a deep breath, the hollows in his chest filling in.
All his people are here.
Everything he loves.
‘Would you?’ he says. ‘Would you stay? If I … if I had to go to prison for a while?’
The tightness around Avery’s mouth loosens and his eyes bleed a sadness so deep. ‘We could steal a car and drive away—’ His words snap in half suddenly, like he gets it. Sam is tired. Sam can’t do this any more. ‘I’m going to get a drink of water.’ He jogs up the remaining steps and walks into the butter-yellow house.
It folds over him.
Sam’s shoulders sag a little, like he’s held himself on high alert too long. He leans his head on Moxie’s shoulder and they watch the sun steal the last golden rays and pin a thousand stars in the sky. Dishes and voices clash behind them.
