by Evie Harper
Tears prick my eyes and I nod.
My aunt kisses my forehead and then heads upstairs for her shower.
My mind riots at how wrong this is. How can a child be beaten and there’s nothing we can do?
I pull the potatoes out of the cupboard and begin peeling them in the sink. My thoughts scatter and determination to find a way we can help the boy filter through me: kidnap him, help him run away, tell my teachers at school maybe?
I’m placing the peeled potatoes on a plate when I hear the distinct sound of a screen door slam closed, and it’s not mine. I hastily drop the last potato to the plate and race over to my back door.
I search the boy’s yard, but can’t see him anywhere. I slowly open my door a fraction and look more to my right, but still nothing.
I open the door wider, looking through the fence down the side of his house through the fence, but still nothing, no sound or sight of him.
Stepping outside, I walk to the side of my house. I’ll pretend I’m playing. I grab my basketball and take quick strides beside my house as if I’m going to the front yard to bounce the ball on the cement driveway. Meanwhile, I’m giving myself a headache from facing forward, but focusing my eyes toward the left hoping to see the boy. I’m halfway to the front yard when I hear crying. I slow to a stop and face the fence.
I look through the white posts and see a set of stairs that lead to a door, but no sign of the boy. I take a few more steps and then stop when I see shoes on feet which disappear under the stairs. I freeze, unsure what to do.
Then suddenly, my mouth is moving, and I say, “Hello.”
The crying stops instantly and I see the boy’s legs still.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
The boy’s head pops out from behind the stairs. His face is puffy with red eyes and his black, medium-length hair is all over the place as if it’s been yanked on. He sniffles, but doesn’t say anything, just the same blank expression as the first time I saw him.
Sitting down at the fence, I start talking, “I was going to bounce my basketball.” I throw the ball up in the air. “Do you like basketball?”
It seems to work because he comes out from under the stairs, walks to the fence and sits across from me. However, he sits down weirdly, as if straightening his back would hurt. His face scrunches up in pain when he adjusts his position and then stills.
“I like basketball, but I’ve never played it. Only seen it on television. Have you played before?” the boy asks in a hoarse voice.
My eyes grow wide with surprise that he spoke to me. “You’ve never played basketball? I play all the time at school with my friends.”
He looks around, uncomfortable, and replies, “I’m home schooled so I don’t have any friends.”
I’m not sure what to think so I ask, “What’s your name?”
“Joseph, but you can call me Joey.” His eyes light up a little, and he smiles at me.
My heart thumps wildly, and I feel as if I have a million butterflies fluttering around in my tummy.
“I’m Alexa, but you can call me Lexi,” I say, returning his smile.
“What do you do when being homeschooled?” I ask. I’ve never known anyone who’s been homeschooled before.
Joseph shrugs and winces in pain. “English, math, history, kickboxing and science.”
“Kickboxing, as in hitting another person?”
He nods and narrows his eyes curiously. “Don’t you all learn kickboxing?”
“No, well, not at school. Parents take their kids to lessons outside of school if they want to learn something like that.” I throw my ball up in the air again and ask, “Are you good?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” he replies in a distant voice while staring at me strangely.
I cock my head to the side, ready to ask him what he’s staring at when I hear a woman shout his name.
“Joseph!” she shouts again.
Joey sighs and then stands awkwardly. “I have to go in now.”
He looks around, seemingly unsure how to say goodbye.
“Is that your mom?” I stand with him.
He shakes his head. “That’s our maid. I have to go, bye.” And with that, he limps away and into his house.
I decide in that moment, I will be Joey’s friend. I will be his first.
~~~
Laughing at the fence with Joey, we play I Spy. I think back to the first time I met him four months ago and remember how distant he was. Now he laughs, jokes and sometimes reaches through the fence to smack my hands playfully, but actually, I think he wants to hold my hand, but I know he would never tell me that. He might be friendlier, but he’s still secretive. However, when he let's go, he’s funny and his smile creates warmth inside my chest and that nice feeling causes me to grin back at him.
After our first encounter, I started bouncing my ball outside in front of the house every day until a few days later, I found him sitting against the fence, watching me. I would go over and sit and talk with him and as time passed, we spoke longer and grew more comfortable with each other. Joey asked me about my school days and who my friends were. He asked me what happened to my family. He nodded through my story and said a quick “sorry” before hurriedly changing the conversation. I get it; he’s not good at feelings.
I haven’t heard him scream again like that horrible day but I still hear his father yell quite regularly, but Joey seems to be fine. He never has bruises on his face, arms or legs, so I think his father mostly yells. I hope so anyway.
“I give up. If it’s not your front gate, then what else could be in your yard that starts with an F,” Joey says, eagerly wanting to know the answer.
“The front door,” I say excitedly.
“That’s not fair. That's not in your front yard,” Joey throws back in a skeptical tone.
“Yes, it is. You walk through my front yard to my front door.”
“That is not right.”
“Is so.”
“Is not.”
“Is so.”
We have a staring contest for a moment before we both burst out laughing.
Breathless, Joey says, “Okay, my turn now.”
~ One month later ~
My heart thunders in my chest.
Another scream.
I’m racing through my house.
Another scream.
My hair whips my face as I turn the corners sharply.
I come to a halt in the kitchen and grab for the phone. I dial 911.
“Police or Ambulance?”
“Police, please hurry,” I yell at the operator.
Another operator picks up the call, and asks, “What is your emergency?”
“My next-door neighbor, he’s screaming. I think his father is beating him. Please, he needs help.” I cry into the phone.
Another scream.
“Can you hear that? Oh, my God, please hurry!” I shout this time.
“A car is on the way now, two minutes and someone will be there. Stay on the line so you can keep me updated,” the operator instructs me.
Another harrowing scream.
I start sobbing and sadness floods my chest because I can’t do anything to help Joey right now.
I hear my front door open and shout, “Aunt Ash!”
Bags hit the ground and she races to me, obviously sensing the panic in my voice.
“Lexi? What’s wrong?” Her eyes are wide, searching my body and the room for a threat.
I hand her the phone. “I called 911.”
Another scream.
My aunt flinches when she hears it.
I clench my fists and shout, “Argh. I can’t handle it. He’s hurting him!”
My aunt’s face falls, and I watch as she fights back her own tears and puts the phone against her ear.
I walk to the front window and stand, waiting for the police to arrive, while distantly listening to my aunt talk with the operator to confirm our address, and the address where the screams are coming from.
Another scream.
Anger boils inside of me, and I kick the wall. He doesn’t deserve this.
The police sirens sound and I race out through my front door and over to the patrol car. I sense my aunt right behind me as I’m yelling at the officer to barge into Joey’s house to save him.
The two police officers walk up quickly to Joey’s front door.
My aunt wraps her arms around my body and pulls me back toward our front yard while she tries to calm me.
A woman answers the door. She's tall, with brown hair and a tired, dazed look upon her face. She invites the officers in and then my aunt forces me back inside our house and tells me Joey will be fine now. I shake my head because he won’t be. No one could be okay after taking a beating like that.
Twenty minutes later, the officers are at our front door telling us Joey is fine and what we heard must have been a movie they were watching over there.
“No.” I shake my head, confusion and rage surging through me. “He was screaming in pain. Did you see him? Did you search his body, look under his shirt. He winces when he sits and walks. I think that’s where he gets struck.”
Nevertheless, it was no use. They wouldn’t listen or didn’t want to.
My aunt tells them goodbye and slams the door in their faces.
I turn to her with utter confusion and shock on my face. My aunt hugs me as I stay frozen in bewilderment. “I know, my sweet girl.” My aunt rubs my back, trying to calm me once more. “When you’re older, you’re going to understand that people with money and power get away with things most of us would go to jail for. It’s just how the world works.”
Abruptly, there is a loud knock at our door.
My aunt opens it, and we find a man dressed in a suit with no jacket, his top buttons undone, showing a white undershirt, and his belt sitting loosely on his hips. He has black hair and looks exactly like Joey.
“Yes,” my aunt says in a low, pissed-off voice.
“I don’t bother my neighbors, unless they bother me.” The man’s voice is tight and controlled. “That’s the third time you’ve called the police on me. If it happens again, I’ll make you regret it.” He finishes on a sneer while his furious eyes bore into my aunt’s.
Aunt Ash takes a step back and places me behind her.
“Do we understand each other?” the man asks, his voice rattling with anger.
“Yes,” she states quickly, her voice shaking.
She closes the door hurriedly and quietly races to the window, where we both watch as the horrible man turns and leaves, walking back to his house.
That night, my aunt makes me promise to never call the police on Joey’s family again. I promise. Joey is my friend, but I can’t lose my aunt. She is all I have left. Her terrified expression tells me all I need to know. The man is serious about his threat.
The weeks following Joey’s father’s intimidation, my aunt doubles our locks and puts our house up for sale, but no one ever comes to view it. I would peek out our living room window as Joey sat at our spot by the fence, waiting for me. I didn’t go out when I saw him, and not because my aunt told me not to. In all the years, she never banned me from Joey. I just didn’t know what to say to him.
Finally, after three weeks, I can’t take not talking to Joey any longer. I peer out the window and find him again sitting, waiting for me. I venture outside and sit across from him. We stare at each other for a long moment before he asks to play I Spy, and that’s what we do. We go back to normal, and we never speak about his beating or me trying to save him.
~ Fourteen Years Old ~
For years, I’ve been hearing his screams. Every time I do, I crawl under my covers, cry and grieve for the humble, funny boy next door, who loves to talk of the universe, planets and the sun. He’d look at the sky and all I’d see was desperation in his eyes; he wanted to go up there, to escape.
Returning home from school, on my way to the front door, I see Joey laying down on the ground at our spot by the fence.
“You’re early today,” I say with a smile on my face, but Joey doesn’t respond or move.
I walk over to him, and it’s then I see the blood on his face, neck and his blue T-shirt.
I instantly drop my bag and race to the fence. I sink to the ground and thrust my arms through the fence to touch him, to make sure he’s breathing.
“Joey,” I say, terrified as I shake his arm.
His face is red and puffy like I’ve seen so many other times before, but never have I seen blood on him.
“Joey?” I shout with a cry.
Then suddenly, he grasps my hand and opens his eyes.
My whole body sags with relief and I bow my head as tears fall down my face to my chest. “God, you scared me.” I lift my face to his. “What happened?” I ask, breaking our silent vow never to speak of his beatings.
Lazily, he replies, “I’m fine. I just need you right now. Just... hold my hand, please.” He sounds breathless and sleepy.
A cry releases from my mouth, and I tighten my hold on his hand. "Okay. I will. I promise to never let go.”
I sit outside holding his hand for hours. Now and again, I would check that his chest is still rising and falling, and sigh in relief.
I know my aunt will be home from work soon, and she will know what to do. Joey’s right here, covered in dried blood and bruises; that’s proof. Maybe we can take him to the hospital or snap some pictures, something to prove what’s happening inside that awful house.
Lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice the two women walking toward us on Joey’s side of the fence, until they are right next to us. One I know as his nanny and the other woman, I remember she answered the door for the police. Joey’s mom maybe? A cry explodes from her when she spots the blood on Joey, so I assume I’m right.
The nanny gives me a nod and begins to lift Joey off the ground with help from the mother.
I release my hand, and his arm drops limply by his body.
“Why won’t he wake up?” I direct the question to the nanny.
I’m surprised when she answers me. “Pain meds, girl, they make him sleep heavily.”
Joey’s mom dashes the tears away from her face and lifts Joey’s arm up over her shoulders.
We all hear him groan in pain, and I whimper with him, hating that I’m so helpless to do anything to save him.
His mother must hear me because she turns to me and says, “Thank you for being there for him, and thank you for..." she pauses and then continues, “just thank you for everything.” Her words are soft, almost as if she’s afraid to speak to me, a child.
I snap, unable to comprehend how this woman’s mind works. How can she let her son be abused and not do a thing about it, and then thank someone for helping him?
“I hate you,” I say to her. The words come out like a snarl.
All she does is nod. She shows no emotion whatsoever. Her face reminds me of the very first time I saw Joey, blank, nothing there.
Sprinting inside, I fall on the couch and cry. When my aunt arrives home, I tell her everything. I even apologize a hundred times for what I said to Joey’s mother, fearful his father will retaliate.
But retaliation never comes, and a week later, Joey is back sitting by the fence. I head outside, angry. I want to know why this is happening, why isn’t someone helping him, why hasn’t he run away?
I approach the fence with quick strides, fisted hands and narrowed eyes.
Joey looks up from picking at the grass, his expression sad and broken.
I sit down and snap, “What the hell happened to you, Joey? Oh, no, don’t even worry about answering that, I already know your father beat you so bad you were covered in blood,” I furiously whisper the last part.
Joey’s eyes close tightly and he throws the grass from his hands angrily. He knows the time has come to explain it all to me.
“Yes, my father’s an asshole and he hits me, but they’re lessons I need to learn.”
My eyes grow w
ide from his explanation and his swearing. I’ve never heard him curse before.
“Joey, parents don't beat their children to teach them a lesson. They might smack them as young children, but then as you get older, you lose the television for a week or playing outside. In the real world,”—I extend my arm—“parents don’t hurt their children like this, only monsters do, and they usually go to jail for it.”
“I don’t live out there, Lexi,” Joey replies, his voice rough and thick. “I live in this house with my father who just so happens to be owed a lot of favors by politicians, who just so happen to own the police. This is my life. I’ve got no other.”
“Run away, then. That would have to be better than living like this.”
Joey laughs, but it’s with a defeated tone. “If I ran away, my mother would pay for that, possibly with her life. And you, you’re the first person he would come to, looking for me. He knows we speak. He thinks I’m learning how to talk to girls, for the future. My father has plans, things set in place. If I were to run away, disappear, he would turn his anger on you and your aunt.”
“We can handle ourselves,” I lie, but Joey sees right through me and my shaky voice.
He sighs, lies down on the ground and looks toward the sky, “Lexi, can we please drop it? I’m not running away, a few more years and I will be big enough that he won’t be able to touch me, and then things will change.”
I lie down too, and stare into the sky with Joey. I don’t reply. What is there to say? He won’t save himself, and I can’t save him. All that’s left is for me to just be there for him.
Joey puts his arm through the fence and extends his hand to me, and I take it. Instantly, my body warms from his touch. We spend the afternoon picking pictures out of the clouds.
Life at our fence returns to normal, for a little while anyway.
~ Present Day ~
The bed moves and Nick pushes the blankets off his body as he rolls over. His breathing regulates, and he falls back into a deep sleep.
Aunt Ash would have loved Nick. He was the type of boy she always told me to go for. She hated how attached I was to Joey, because when Joey was in pain, so was I.
