by West, Dahlia
“Fucking dummy!” Granger hissed. When that didn’t get a reaction or an apology out of Jonah, Granger reached out and shoved him in the shoulder.
Jonah was already big for his age by this point and had a reputation at school—fairly earned—for knocking out people’s teeth.
Granger seemed not to care about that, though. It was Jonah’s experience that guys with the most to prove were the ones who used their brains the least.
So, Jonah didn’t stumble when Granger tried to shove him. He didn’t even lose his balance.
Granger’s rage went from red to white-hot.
Jonah could see it in his eyes.
The kid moved forward again, fist curling.
Jonah was prepared to take a punch.
“Fag,” Granger half-whispered as his arm reared back.
Someone gasped. Probably not at the word, but at the fact that Granger was going to take a swing at a guy who had at least twenty-five pounds on him.
Jonah didn’t care, though. After that, he saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing else. Before Granger could finish his arc, Jonah pounced.
Their bodies collided—a wrecking ball versus a teacup. Granger went down hard with a thud on the polished wood floor. Sneakers squeaked as the kid tried desperately to get out from under Jonah.
The first punch landed squarely on Granger’s jaw. Jonah hoped it would break so he couldn’t talk any more shit.
Probably some time went by before Mr. Greene finally made his way over. Probably it was Mr. Greene who pulled Jonah off a squeaking, crying, snotting Aaron. Probably it was an hour or so before Mrs. Stark appeared in the doorway of the principal’s office to collect him.
Jonah had lost track.
When he saw her face, though, he felt a rush of guilt wash over him. She walked him to the car, saying nothing, which might have been worse. He wished she would yell, scream, even hit him. He ducked into the car, hoping she would say something, at least.
Then she did, and he wished she had stayed quiet.
“Why, Jonah?”
Those two words made his gut twist. He couldn’t answer. What would he say? How could he make her understand? It was humiliating anyway and he’d never tell her the truth.
He’d come to like Mrs. Stark, her happy smile, her full-sized meals that never left him hungry and wanting to go back to school just so he could eat again. The Starks were the first truly good people he’d ever known.
As he stared at his feet, feeling too guilty to meet her gaze, an idea occurred to him. It was wrong to lie, especially to Mrs. Stark, but Jonah felt it was the only viable option. “He made fun of my shoes,” he mumbled.
Mrs. Stark turned her head to look at him, mouth forming an O in surprise. Her eyes skipped down to Jonah’s feet and she saw what he saw—torn, scuffed leather, laces that had broken and been knotted together. Jonah couldn’t remember how long he’d had these shoes that hurt his feet these days.
It had never seemed right to mention it to Mrs. Stark. It was obvious that they didn’t have a lot of extra cash floating around. Jonah could’ve used his stash of illicit gains. He’d held onto it for almost two years. But then surely Mrs. Stark would have asked where the money had come from to buy new shoes.
But the excuse was given, and Jonah felt relief that she believed him. He could put the whole day behind him now, as he did with so many other days past. Or so he thought.
Mrs. Stark put on her blinker and turned into their neighborhood. No one was around in the middle of the day. Jonah preferred it that way. He wished he could quit school and just stay home, though he doubted Mrs. Stark would let him. She might not even let him stay at all.
Maybe she was tired of him solving his problems with his fists and planned to take him back to Mrs. Plank. He couldn’t very well blame her if that was the case. She parked the car and walked him inside. “Clean your room, please,” she sighed.
Jonah’s room was spotless except for a few pairs of dirty socks, but he nodded anyway. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m going to the store,” she announced suddenly. “Spaghetti and meatballs?”
He looked at her, surprised. It was his favorite. A last meal, perhaps? But she was smiling at him. Only the tight corners of her mouth gave any hint that she was disappointed in him.
Jonah felt even worse. He fought, she tried to get him help. He fought, she made him dinner. Was this woman’s kindness truly unlimited? He didn’t want to test it. “Okay,” he half-whispered.
Mrs. Stark left the house and Jonah stood in the living room, staring at the slightly worn carpet and his even more worn out Nikes. Mitigating circumstances, that’s what it was. The kid had conjured up a fear that Jonah knew existed inside himself but never acknowledged.
He looked at his hands, quick to lash out at anyone who challenged him. Maybe it was time to call out and fight one of his own demons, instead. He turned on his superglued heel, not to his bedroom, but toward the garage. Once inside the cool, shaded, concrete cave, his gaze fell upon the shelving that lined the side walls. He darted to the steel rack of storage boxes and carefully eased one out from the top shelf.
Two years ago, when he’d first decided to stay with the Starks, he’d searched their house from top to bottom, looking for anything bad—drugs, kiddie porn, whatever they might be into but kept secret from the world like so many other families.
He’d never found much. Just an old box in the garage with Mr. Stark’s Playboys. The old man wasn’t into kids, and for that Jonah was eternally grateful. He lifted the top and reached inside, taking the first magazine off the top of the stack, not really caring who was on the cover. He stuffed it into the back of his jeans and pulled his shirt down over it.
Back in the house, he headed straight for the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Here in the light he got a better look at his score. There was a redhead on the cover, no one he’d ever heard of before. She also looked like no girl he knew, and for that he was also grateful.
With trembling hands, he set the magazine down on the toilet lid and opened it carefully. There were curves, so many curves. Not like Sienna or any of the girls at school. This was a woman, flesh and blood, well, on the page, anyway. After a few moments, he allowed his fingers to dance over the images.
Brown eyes, blue eyes, the pages turned. Green eyes. He skipped them, because Sienna’s were green. Not the same shade as this girl right here, but too close for comfort, nonetheless.
Jonah couldn’t be into kids. He had vowed to kill himself, to slit his wrists with his pocket knife, if it ever came to that.
He wouldn’t touch a kid. He’d die first.
But could he be gay? In his twelve years, he’d never let himself think about this. Or ever really wanted to. Sex was evil—pure hell, to his mind—and he’d never pictured himself wanting it or wanting to have it with anyone. Not by choice.
He ignored every hard-on he’d ever woken up with. And if they wouldn’t go away on their own, he boiled his dick in a blazing hot shower, making them go away.
He wasn’t gay. Looking over the pages, he allowed himself to get hard. To prove to himself that it was women he wanted, if he wanted anything at all—which he didn’t, couldn’t.
Women, not men. And, more importantly, women, not girls.
Blood rushed to his belly and lower still, and he felt relieved, somewhat, that he was something approaching normal.
It was all he allowed himself, though. His hands twitched as he reached for the shower instead of his zipper. He turned the water on full blast, hot as it would go. He moved the Playboy out of the way so it wouldn’t get wet and then stripped to ease himself into the shower.
Pain struck him everywhere, as it always did. And he sank back into the familiar.
When he was better, he turned off the water and stepped out. His skin prickled, red and welting, tortured anew by the cool air of the bathroom.
He dried off, yanked on his clothes, and stuffed the magazine back into his pants. On his
way out the door though, he froze as Mr. Stark entered the house from the front door. Home early from work, which happened sometimes.
Jonah spun, panicked, and fled to his room. Breathing hard, his eyes darted everywhere, looking for somewhere to stash the illicit rag. His gaze lit on the mattress and he darted to it. He lifted it and shoved the Playboy underneath.
He pounced onto the bed, as though his own weight would keep the secret buried where it belonged. Without realizing it, he must have dozed off, because he startled when there was a knock at the bedroom door. Unwilling to get off the bed, he called out, “Umm… yeah?”
To his immense relief, Mrs. Stark, and not Mr. Stark, came in. Jonah was so happy to not be busted for stealing the titty-rag that he failed to notice she was carrying a box.
Beaming proudly, Mrs. Stark slipped it onto Jonah’s bed. He stared at it for a moment, unblinking, unfeeling. When he couldn’t bring himself to lift the lid, she did it for him, revealing a brand new pair of Air Jordans, shoes that probably cost more than six months’ worth of foster-care checks.
He stared at the box, cheeks and ears flushing bright red. There was no way Mrs. Stark could afford these, but Jonah was afraid to speak up, afraid that his lies would be unraveled at the sound of his own voice.
Because he couldn’t tell the truth, he couldn’t say ‘Thank You’ either. But Mrs. Stark must have taken his silence for gratitude. She patted him on the lower leg and turned away. “Dinner’s at seven,” she told him before shutting the door quietly.
Jonah sat on his bed with the shoes in his lap. His fingers didn’t seem to be able to work the laces. The idea of wearing them felt so, so wrong. When the clock clicked over to seven, he pushed them away and headed out to the kitchen where spaghetti and meatballs awaited.
Ava wrinkled her nose at it. She didn’t care for tomatoes.
Mrs. Stark patted her on the head. “This is for Jonah. Tomorrow we’ll have mac and cheese.”
Jonah slid into the chair, eyes on Mr. Stark, who nodded at him. Somehow Jonah could tell that the old man knew. He knew, but he wasn’t saying anything. Mr. Stark ate his spaghetti and meatballs (not his favorite, either) in silence and then disastrously stood up at the end of the table. “Gonna work on the Harley,” he declared as he gathered his plate and fork.
Jonah watched helplessly as he deposited his empty plate in the sink and headed for the garage. There would be no hope of returning the stolen magazine this evening. Jonah only hoped he could sneak it back tonight after everyone had gone to sleep.
He ate quickly, going back for seconds, not because he really wanted to but because Mrs. Stark had gone to the trouble. And for the shoes. He’d never forget about those shoes.
He washed the dishes for her. It was the least he could possibly do, he supposed, and disappeared back into his room. At his desk, math homework was laid out before him but it might as well have been a buck-naked redhead, because that was all he could think about.
His eyes darted to the mattress, maybe to see if there was an unholy hole burned into it by now. There wasn’t. There was no sign of anything at all.
He wanted to forget about that magazine, about everything. He finished up his homework and turned off his desk light. The room plunged into darkness and he was comforted by it.
He turned his chair to face the window.
Across the lawn, out there in the dark, Sienna’s bedroom light was on. She was probably asleep, or almost. As he sat in the dark, relief seeped into him, and a renewed sense of purpose. His problems were solved. He wasn’t gay or a kiddie-fucker or even a violent kid—not really.
Mitigating circumstances.
He’d return the magazine because he didn’t need it anymore. He knew who he was. He had a job to do, to watch over the little girl across the yard. And he’d do it for as long as he was able.
Unfortunately, he fell asleep at his desk, failing at both tasks.
The next day, Jonah raced home and went straight to his bedroom. The coast was finally clear and he intended to return the stolen magazine to its rightful place in the garage before Mr. Stark discovered it missing. He lifted the mattress and felt under it with one hand. His fingers found their purchase, but the texture was strange. Rough, not smooth. Hard, not soft.
Puzzled, Jonah lifted the mattress even higher, struggling under the weight of it. He peered down underneath it and his heart nearly stopped.
The Playboy was gone.
In its place was something else. A book, not a magazine. A blue cover peeked out instead of a dolled-up sex kitten.
Nervously, checking behind himself even though he was alone, he eased it out while admonishing himself. He’d left the top of the box off. He realized it now. That’s how Mr. Stark knew Jonah had been rooting around in his girly magazines.
But instead of a slap (or something worse), Mr. Stark had made an exchange, it seemed.
Jonah lowered the mattress and lifted the book up. Gold letters flashed in the sunlight streaming in from the bedroom window.
Treasure Island.
Chapter Six
In the morning, his body ached in ways that were just unnatural. Jonah’s usual lukewarm shower had to be hot to work out the pain and stiffness in his muscles. There were a few more bruises than he would’ve liked. He’d taken a few shots that he should’ve deflected. Normally he’d prefer to stay in bed all day until his shift started, but he had things to do, and promises to keep, so he headed for the dresser instead of the bed at the center of the room.
He dressed quickly in jeans and a T-shirt, and headed down the stairs and out the back door of Stark Ink. It was a quick trip across town, having, as usual, slept through the early morning traffic snarl that clogged downtown.
Jonah slid his Harley into the driveway of the Stark house on Peachtree Lane and shut off the engine. It was barely heating up outside and the blacktop of the street was not yet shimmering in the baking sun that would be overhead in just a few hours. He hopped off the bike, pocketed his keys, and slipped into the cool, darkened house.
He knew Calla was out, because her Mustang was nowhere to be seen. Adam’s Charger was gone, too.
Jonah didn’t mind, though, because he wasn’t here to see either of them. He strode down the carpeted hallway and stopped at the closed door of the master bedroom. He knocked softly, but when he didn’t get an answer, he went for the knob.
The old man was still in bed, sitting upright, though. His head was tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. His glasses had slid all the way down his nose.
Jonah frowned and stepped farther into the room. “Pop?” he called as he reached the bed.
The old man opened one eye and peered at him.
Jonah shook his head, admonishing his father. “You shouldn’t sleep during the day.”
“I wasn’t. It’s just my eyes are tired.”
Unfortunately, his eyes weren’t the only thing that looked tired. In the year since Mom had died, Pop had faded, not only mentally but physically as well. He seemed to be deteriorating a little more each day. New lines appeared on his face, new gray hairs on his head. He’d lost some weight.
Jonah crossed the room and slipped the book from the old man’s hands. Upon inspecting the cover, he saw, “The Count of Monte Cristo. Huh. I’ve never read this one.”
Pop grunted, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I read it for you,” he muttered.
Jonah looked up at him. “What?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” The old man set his glasses on the nightstand, settled back onto his pillow, and put his hands behind his head. “You take over for a while, will you? So I can rest my eyes.”
Jonah lowered himself into the chair he’d placed beside the bed a few months ago. Reading to Pop had become a weekly activity, one that Jonah didn’t mind. The old man had given Jonah his very first book. Unable to have anything approaching a normal father/son relationship, the old man had started a different kind of dialogue, one in written form. It had endured all
these years. It seemed only right to help Pop continue to enjoy the activity he loved so much.
Young Edmond Dantès’ life bore a few similarities to Jonah’s. Both had an ailing father and a young woman they’d do anything for. Edmond’s life seemed to have taken a sharp turn for the worse, though. Jonah hoped his own future wouldn’t fall apart as spectacularly before it even started. When he looked up from the well-worn pages, the old man’s breathing seemed a little too even. “Pop?” Jonah inquired.
“I’m not asleep,” Pop muttered. “Told you, my eyes were just tired.” He stretched and rubbed his face. “I think that’s enough for one day.” When he lowered his hand, he peered at Jonah. “You seem different,” he said. He waved a wrinkled hand over his own face. “Those piercings on your face, they’re gone.” He looked a little closer and spotted the bruises on Jonah’s knuckles. He frowned. “Now there’s a blast from the past.”
Jonah wore full protective gear at the gym and was generally pretty lucky in the ring, as well. It had been a long while since he’d sported any serious bruises. There was nowhere to hide it, so he shrugged it off. “I fight at the gym, remember?”
He hated lying but he hated having the old man worry even more.
Pop grunted. “Do you win?”
Jonah bristled. “More than I lose.”
A slow grin spread across the old man’s face. “Guess that’s all that matters.” He patted Jonah’s good hand. “She worried for you the most, you know. That you’d be alone in your head for so long that you’d never want to leave. Not sure I helped with that.”
“I think you did.”
“Gave you a happier place to go, is all.”
Jonah squeezed the old man’s hand lightly. “It was more than anyone else ever did.”
“And that’s a damn shame. Jonah, I’m sorry as hell for the way things were for you, but I’m not sorry you’re my son. I’ll never be sorry for that.”
