Strolling out of Senior Year English as the last bell rings, my head is down to search for the keys to Alan’s motorcycle. I’ll probably ride around the red sandstone mountains for an hour to give him and my mom some extra time alone. He didn’t say that’s what he wanted, but he didn’t have to. He threw these to me when I left for school today with the hopes I’d get the message.

He’s about to ride his truck across country and won’t be around for two whole weeks. She’ll miss him. Can’t have that.

Scooping my finger through the ring I flip it in jingling circles, about to enter my high school parking lot. Man, am I looking forward to this ride. One of the perks of Mom’s new relationship. That, and he’s not an abusive dickhead like the last guy.

But a disturbing conversation catches my attention, slows me down.

Those are male voices snickering.

Some guy is arguing with them.

Wait.

He’s pleading.

Drawn by the need to know, I turn on my heel and alter direction. It’s coming from around the other side of the building where our drama class is held. Still can’t see anything, but there’s a distinctive sound when knuckles clash against skin. It jars me to my toes, gets them slamming the pavement in quicker steps. I know that thud, the grunt of pain that follows, oh too well from my mother’s last boyfriend long before Alan came along.

When I walked out of the shower, down the hall to my room with a towel around my scrawny hips, I heard her gasp. Didn’t know she’d returned for her forgotten phone or I would’ve covered up the bruises on my back and chest with her robe, deflected why I was wearing it with a joke. But that sound she made, the horror in her voice shot ice down my spine. The truth was out. Couldn’t hide anymore what had been going on, or just how bad it had gotten. Shame followed as she inspected me, even though it wasn’t my fault Carlo got off on hurting people who weren’t big enough to fight back. I was thirteen; two years after my father died and left a hole in our lives.

She demanded to know, “Why didn’t you tell me what he was doing to you?”

“He said if I did he would hurt you instead.”

Mom crumbled, covered her head with her hands, sobbing. I hugged her and she clung to me. She called the police, acted like everything was normal so he didn’t run. They took him away that night.

We never talked about it again. I hit puberty the following year. Wish it had come sooner. Wish I’d said something to somebody, but I was just a kid. Too small to fight back, too proud and scared to tell anyone I was getting beaten. That was four years ago. I’m six-two now, and I hope I run into Carlo again.

My hurried strides transform into a sprint as I hear, “Why are you doing this to me?” followed by a snickering, “Because we like it.”

I know that second voice—he’s in my grade. I shout, “Kyle, leave the kid alone!” before I even see who I’m defending.

“This freak?” he sneers, backed up by two of his loser friends. “Mind your own business, Sean, we’re busy.” I slow down, take in the scene in seconds.

Kyle’s got a sophomore cornered. I’ve seen the guy around— a ‘metal-head,’ keeps to himself, part of the drama club because he runs the theater’s lights. I’ve seen him carting equipment around that’s too heavy for him. He’s skinny, heroin-thin, but not a druggie. Going through a growth spurt? Too poor to eat enough? I never gave the reason why he’s an outcast much thought before because who cares?

Well, I care now.

“Leave him alone!”

Kyle sneers, “Or you’ll what?” and his eyes go dead before he turns and kicks the sophomore in the balls with all his strength, rips the boy right up the center.

I lose my shit. Launch myself at Kyle. Take him to the ground. Asphalt rips his skin as we slide. His friends are stunned I actually did something. Most people wouldn’t. They take off—fucking cowards. But Kyle’s into it. He has a dark soul that never wants to bend. Like a tornado he fights back with punches that land.

But I’m on top of him.

Won’t let him get the advantage.

I thunderclap his head, punching both sides at once.

His eyelids droop, and he loses consciousness.

My chest reaches for air, head spinning left to right, searching for the sophomore, see if he’s okay.

But he’s gone.

Escaped.

Around the corner comes the Principal followed by the students who ran to get him.

“Shit,” I mutter as he reacts to the scene. “This isn’t what it looks like, Mr. Dobbs.”