Devils Within

by S. F. Henson

  But I don’t know how to do that. My nerves are frayed wires. My emotions are their own shorted circuit. I go from being pissed about the article to disgusted with myself to terrified of what will happen if I’m found to being pissed at Traitor. The feeling that keeps twisting back to the top, though, is anger at myself.

  I’m such an idiot. I knew better than to trust a reporter. I let my damn emotions get in the way. My ridiculous freaking need to be normal.

  I feel scooped out. Raw. I’m angriest with myself for being outside that synagogue in the first place.

  I drop to the edge of the bed and pull at the ends of my too-long hair. How do I keep screwing up so badly? How do I keep missing the right thing to do?

  I shouldn’t have talked to the reporter.

  But really, I shouldn’t have gone after that kid.

  That poor, scrawny kid.

  Reading about what happened to him after the attack hurts. It was easier when I closed myself off. When I could think of my victims not as real people, but as tasks to be checked off a list so that I wouldn’t be punished.

  Now they’re real. This kid is real. His pain, his fear, his internal scars that he may be able to keep hidden but will never shed.

  I did that.

  The hell of it is if the reporter had asked about him, I could’ve let her know what really happened. It probably wouldn’t have mattered. I might not have caused the worst of his injuries, but I didn’t stop them either.

  I never stopped any of it.

  660

  Dr. Sterling convinced Traitor that I need to stay in school. I’m more grateful for that than I thought I would be. School gives me a chance to get away from Traitor and it gives me something to focus on besides all of my sins.

  Traitor stopped driving me, though. I figured he wouldn’t let me out of his sight, but he’s taken a different approach, punishing me by making me get up at an ungodly hour to walk. I’m exhausted by the time I reach school, but I’m actually glad for that, too. I think less when I’m tired.

  This morning, Brandon is already waiting by our lockers by the time I drag in. “Whatcha doin’ next Friday night?” He bounces on the balls of his feet nervously.

  I shove my textbooks in my locker. “Probably a shit-ton of chores.”

  Brandon waves me off. “You can do those anytime.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  Brandon glances around, then lowers his voice. “My brother is coming home. I could use a buffer. Come eat dinner with us.”

  He wants me there to ease a stressful situation. Wrong guy. I’m dirty fingers in a gash. I’ll only make things worse. “Why me?”

  “You’re the only one who knows.” Brandon fiddles with his backpack straps. “I’ll owe you.”

  The idea of favors doesn’t sit well with me, but I feel like I owe him for being so nice to me so this would put us square, and it would get me away from Traitor. He said “no Brandon” but he can’t mean this, right? “Okay, yeah.”

  “Awesome!” His grin takes up half his face. “Oh, and basketball. Today.”

  “I’m—”

  “Nope. The other day you said another time. This is another time.”

  I grab my math book and notebook. “I don’t have any gym clothes with me.”

  “I gotcha covered.” Brandon smirks. “Meet me in the gym after school.”

  “But—”

  He holds up his hands, then turns away, singing some song about basketball. Every few feet, he leaps up and bumps the ceiling tiles with his fingertips. I should’ve said no the first time the guys asked.

  We played a lot of basketball at The Fort. Kentucky is basketball country after all. But games rarely ended well. We played prison rules: a thrown elbow, an overeager rebound, a sneaky screen, and the game suddenly wasn’t so much about who scored the most points as which team could beat the ever-loving shit out of the other one. The free-throw line was a head-shaped blood splatter where this guy called Heavyweight knocked out his own brother for fouling him.

  All day, I picture that rust-colored spot, marking not just the line, but also what happens when dangerous people play dangerous games. Basketball is a beacon for the beast. A giant flashing “unleash here” sign. If I could go home first and wreak havoc in the woods, it might be different, but there’s no time. Not like Traitor would let me anyway, since the woods are off-limits since my grounding. So is Brandon, technically, but since Traitor isn’t picking me up anymore, he won’t know if I don’t go straight home.

  When the final bell rings, I wait in the hallway until it clears out, debating what to do. Left takes me out the front doors and home to safety. Right takes me to the gym and to risk.

  Maybe I should give myself the benefit of the doubt.

  I turn right.

  Brandon’s waiting by the gym door. His baggy basketball shorts and T-shirt with the sleeves cut off catch me off guard. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in something that wasn’t neat and pressed and tucked. “For a minute, I thought I was going to have to come get you.” He tosses me red shorts and a gray T-shirt with PROPERTY OF THE BULLS printed on the front in blocky red letters. “Snatched these from Coach’s office. Get changed. You’re on my team.”

  The locker room is an all-red horror that doesn’t ease my worries. The walls already seem smeared with blood. I find an empty locker and shove my stuff inside. The gym clothes are baggy. Every few steps I have to stop and pull the shorts up.

  “Well, don’t you look like you’ve got spirit,” Brandon says when I come out of the locker room.

  I’m tempted to say screw it, change back, and head home, when Pencil Guy throws a basketball at me. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Juvie.”

  I dribble a couple times then shoot a jumper. It bounces off the rim and shoots off to the side. “I haven’t played in a while.”

  “No shit,” another guy says. He’s the other one Brandon is always running around with. “He better not be on our team, Bodyguard.”

  “Better you than me,” Pencil Guy says, shooting a three-pointer that swishes through the net.

  Eight of us showed up. I’m with Brandon, his other friend, and a Mexican dude from math class. Pencil Guy, a thin, dorky-looking black kid with glasses, a ginger from my homeroom, and a buff blonde guy are on the other. I recognize Blondie as the guy Maddie has been all up on since the parking lot fight.

  It quickly becomes clear that these guys don’t mess around. They weave between one another, running plays as complex as Mrs. Roger’s knitting pattern. I try to keep up, half-heartedly shuffling up and down the court with them, but I’m more in the way than anything.

  They’re a fluid unit. A team. Watching them makes the counselor’s team comment on my first day seem even more ridiculous. The only teamwork I’ve been a part of has been hunting minorities with a pack of racist lions, which hardly counts.

  I should walk off the court now. How could Brandon ever think I’d fit in with these guys?

  The Mexican kid throws up a brick. It ricochets off the backboard, almost smacking me in the face. My hands fly up on instinct and catch the ball before it takes my head off. I shoot without thinking. The basketball bounces off the white square on the backboard and drops through the hoop.

  “Atta way, Juvie.” The Mexican claps me on the back as he runs to the other end to set up on defense.

  A smile breaks out across my face before I can stop it, and an electric thrill thrums through my fingertips.

  It couldn’t hurt to stick it out a little longer.

  I have to figure out something else to call that guy, though. I can feel his shadow smiling when I think of my teammate as the “Mexican.” I can’t let the grease of his thoughts stain the only good feeling I’ve had all day.

  Blondie dribbles down court. The Mex—the math class guy—darts in front of him, steals the ball, and lays it up in our basket.

  “Nice one, Mateo!” Brandon slaps his ass as he runs by.

  “Yeah, good job, Mateo,
” I say, smiling again. The shadow shrivels inside me like a raisin. I jump for a rebound and pass it to Other Friend. I still don’t understand the plays they’re running, but at least I’m adding to the team.

  This isn’t so bad. I’m not sure what I was worried about.

  I sink another couple layups and a mid-range jumper and hit a stride. I’m not terrible. Especially for not having played since The Fort.

  Brandon shoots from outside, and my body naturally swings into position, boxing out the ginger. He juts his bony hip into my side and chops my arm, cracking his hand against my funny bone. Jagged barbs of pain shoot through me and the beast springs to life.

  I shove him hard. “What the hell, man? Foul!”

  The ginger sprawls under the net. The ball swooshes through and bounces off his head.

  I tense.

  He’s going to come up swinging. The adrenaline starts to pump. The ginger rolls over, a red spot on his knee. I move into a fighting stance. Shit. This is what I was afraid of. This is where it all goes to Hell.

  The guys all stop and stare at me. “Whoa, Juvie,” Pencil Guy says. “Take it easy.”

  Brandon lays a hand on my arm. I shrug him off. He’s the last person I want to hurt if the ginger comes at me.

  Other Friend extends a hand to the ginger. “You all right, Griff?”

  His knee is skinned, but he seems fine otherwise. He stands and backs away with his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, Rainey, I’m good. Sorry about the foul,” he says sheepishly.

  “No,” Pencil Guy snaps, glaring at me. “It’s basketball. Fouls happen. Fights don’t.”

  I stand there, stunned. My body isn’t sure what to do now, hanging on the edge of fight or flight, now quickly tipping toward flight.

  “My bad,” I say. “That’s … that’s how we always played. I thought …” Embarrassed heat burns my cheeks. I screwed up. No way they’ll want to keep playing with me.

  Blondie squeezes the ball between his palms. “Damn, Juvie, you did have it rough.”

  All their expressions soften. Ginger—Griff—extends his hand. “No hard feelings, man. Just, tone it down in the future, okay?”

  I shake his hand and he grins.

  “So, are we gonna play or what?” Griff says.

  Blondie inbounds the ball to the Dorky Guy and everyone else takes off down the court.

  “Come on, Nate,” Brandon calls. “Don’t tell me you’re already winded.”

  I shake off my daze and trot after them. Pencil Guy throws an air ball and the Dorky guy and I lunge for it. His sharp elbow catches me in the ribs. He jets in front of me, grabs the ball, and thunks it off the glass and through the hoop.

  “Nice hustle,” he says. “You’ve got good reflexes for a tall guy.”

  My ribs sting, but the urge to fight swirls away like blood down a drain. I would’ve cut someone for doing that at The Fort. Then again, the people at The Fort meant to hurt you when they played. These guys don’t. They just want to have fun.

  I inbound the ball to Mateo and follow him down the court.

  We play to twenty-one and my team loses four of the five games, even after we mix up teams. By the time we’re done, I’m dripping with sweat and exhausted, but energized. The hollowness I’ve felt since talking to Ms. Erica is replaced with … warmth. Happiness, almost.

  I’m standing on the side with my hands over my head when a towel hits me in the face. “Not too bad, Nate,” Fletcher says. By the end of the games, I figured out that Pencil Guy is Fletcher, the other black guy is Ellis, and Blondie is Scott. It feels weird to think of these guys by their names after so long. Until now they’ve just been “Brandon’s friends” in one big lump.

  “Thanks.” I wipe my face with the towel and drape it around my neck.

  “Yeah, man.” Scott stops beside me. “You need to work on that jumper, but you’ve gotta nice layup.”

  “And pretty good rebounding,” Griff says, smiling. “You’d make a good forward.”

  Rainey tosses the ball in a canvas bin. “You should think about joining the team. Practice doesn’t start for another few weeks.”

  Joining the team. The warmth expands through my chest. Then I snap back to reality. “I don’t know. My uncle probably won’t let me.”

  “He seems like a nice guy,” Ellis, says. “He and Bev fixed our roof last spring after that big tornado. They didn’t even charge us full price. Said they were helping out neighbors affected by the storm.”

  Sounds about right. Traitor helps everyone except me. He’d only let me play if he thought it would hurt me and help someone else.

  I drop my towel in the basket by the locker room door. “I don’t exactly have the most freedom.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot about the whole juvie thing.” Fletch shoots his own towel like a basketball. It lands beside the clothes basket with a wet thump. “Just tell him it will be good for your rehabilitation.”

  Rainey glances at his phone and his face goes pale. “Shit, man. I gotta go. Ma’s gonna have my hide if I forget to pick up Beth from cheerleading again.”

  “Drop me off on your way home?” Fletcher asks.

  “Only if you promise not to hit on my sister again,” Rainey says, scowling.

  Fletcher picks up his towel and dunks it in the basket, then trails after Rainey. “I can’t help it if she’s hot.”

  Everyone else follows them until it’s just me and Brandon. “That went well,” he says.

  I shrug.

  “You really should think about joining the team. We could use another forward.”

  “You’ve met my uncle. You really think he’d let me?” Not to mention it goes against the whole stay out of the public eye thing.

  “Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think.” Brandon pushes the dirty clothes basket into the locker room. “Talk to him. He might surprise you.”

  “Absolutely not.” Traitor scowls at me. I see Skunky raise an eyebrow over the screen of the laptop that’s balanced on the edge of the kitchen island.

  “Hear me out,” I say.

  “Nope. You do know what grounded means, right? It means you can’t do the things you want.”

  “It’s not like I’ll even play much. I’ll probably just sit the bench.”

  “Then what does it matter?” He swigs his beer. “Tell you what, keep your ass in line and maybe I’ll let you go to a game. You’ll get the same experience on the bleachers as the bench.”

  “No, I won’t.” It’s not the same at all. I’m already a bystander in my own life. I want to do something, to be part of something. And as much as I hate to admit it, a long buried part of me wants to belong somewhere. Here. With normal guys—guys who aren’t deeply screwed up. “I want …” I struggle to put it into words Traitor can understand without giving him too much of myself. “I want to be part of a team.”

  I didn’t even realize how badly I wanted this until he said no.

  Traitor’s deep-set eyes are shadowed by the awnings of his eyebrows. One is open wider than the other. Mom used to do the same thing when she lectured me. I hate that he’s wearing her expression.

  He gulps down the last of his beer and plunks the empty bottle on the counter. “The answer would be no, even if you weren’t grounded. I swear, it’s like you want The Fort to find you.”

  “How? How is wearing matching clothes and sitting on a chair going to lead The Fort to me?”

  “Team pictures, newspaper write-ups, TV coverage if the team does well.” He counts off each thing on his fingers like they’re charges against me. “This is the exact opposite of what I told you to do.”

  “I’ll be sick on picture day. And there’s just as much chance of me landing on TV on the bench as there is in the crowd.”

  “Okay, then you can’t go to the games, either,” he says.

  Now I’m getting pissed. This is ridiculous. “You wanted me to fit in.”

  “Not like this.”

  “But if I’m careful—”

&nb
sp; “I said no!” he yells.

  “Dell,” Skunky warns, closing her laptop.

  Traitor throws the empty beer bottle away. “I’m your guardian, Nate. And I say you can’t play. End of discussion.” He jerks the fridge door open, knocking the glass jars in the door together like poor man’s wind chimes. He never drinks more than one beer a night, but he grabs a second and snaps the cap across the room. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor. He turns the bottle up and guzzles it down.

  “Seriously?” Skunky slides off her stool and throws the abandoned bottle cap in the trash. “Take it easy, Dell.”

  “I’m a grown man. I can have two beers if I want,” he snaps.

  She crosses her arms. “Not what I meant.”

  Traitor lowers the bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “The boy has to listen to me, Bev. The rules are in place for a reason.”

  Skunky shoots him a pointed look. “I know, but do you really think this is the way to enforce them? Besides, it’s just basketball. It might be good for him to channel his energy.”

  I start to respond and end up gaping at her. Is she on my side?

  “Channel his energy?” Traitor says. “Yeah, he’ll channel it right into someone’s face.”

  “He hasn’t hurt anyone yet, Dell.”

  Traitor tips his beer to his lips. “Yet,” he says before taking another gulp.

  The beast perks up inside me. “Why do you hate me so much?”

  Traitor turns his head to me so fast I’m certain he gave himself whiplash. “Sure you want to talk about hate?”

  My jaw clenches. “Oh, so it’s back to that,” I say through gritted teeth. He has to be kidding. I can’t live a normal life because I had the bad luck of being born in Hell? The darkness swirls in my blood like creamer in coffee. I choke it down, leaving a bitter taste on the back of my tongue.

  “It always comes back to that.”

  The hollowness inside gnaws at me. It’s a black hole in my stomach, chewing up everything good and swallowing it in an eternal vacuum, leaving only darkness. Only beast.

  I move closer to Traitor on instinct, my hands curled into fists. “How can you expect me to move on if you won’t let it go?”