Thursday, March 15 7:02:08 p.m.
FROM: Robert Ellis <[email protected]>
TO: Rev Fletcher <[email protected]>
SUBJECT: RE: Leave me alone
Where did you come up with “Rev Fletcher”?
Regardless, I’m glad to hear from you. If you wanted me to leave you alone, you wouldn’t have sent me an e-mail at all.
He’s right, of course.
You’re afraid.
She’s right, too. This e-mail seems to double down on the fear.
I can’t believe I showed her the letter. I’m halfway home before I realize I never asked her name. She goes to Hamilton, but I don’t even know what grade she’s in.
Not like it matters. I’ve long since abandoned any hope of a relationship with a girl.
I keep thinking of her eyes. The way she saw right through the anger and uncertainty and pinned me down with two words.
You’re afraid.
And then I proved it by running.
I am such an idiot.
My phone chimes with a text. It’s Kristin.
I wince. It’s Mom.
I expect her to be checking up on me, because I’m sure Dad told her I was playing the role of petulant teenager after school. To my surprise, she’s not. Well, not really.
Mom: Are you coming home soon? We’ve got an emergency placement. I’m getting things ready now.
I stop in the middle of the street.
An emergency placement means a kid needs immediate foster care. Geoff and Kristin are certified for special needs infants and toddlers, so we get a lot of those. Some kids stay for short periods of time—maybe the parents were in a car crash, or there was a medical emergency, and it takes time to work out the legalities of who should take custody. Some kids stay longer—like if the mother has been arrested or is in rehab. The last baby we had stayed for nine months. The spare room has been vacant for less than a week—but it never stays empty long.
Normally, I’d rush home to help.
Tonight, my twisted emotions are in the way. I keep worrying about my father, wondering when something is going to snap inside me. Wondering when I’m going to turn vicious and cruel, just like he did.
I want to text Declan to see if I can crash there, but our last text exchange sits on the screen, making my insides twist. I can’t explain myself without talking about my father. I’m not ready for that. He wouldn’t mean any harm, but it’s his personality. Declan ignites. I extinguish.
I’m probably not being fair to him. Everything seems upside down.
Maybe I’m overreacting. I can go home. I can sit on the couch and make faces at a baby.
I can forget about my father for a little bit.
Once we got an infant who was four days old—the youngest baby I’ve ever held. Her mother had a seizure during childbirth, and died a day later. We kept the baby for six months while the grandparents battled in court over who would get custody. We saw her first smile, fed her the first spoonful of baby food.
Kristin cried for days after she was taken away.
She always cries after they’re taken away. Even when it’s only twenty-four hours.
Then she wraps her arms around my shoulders and says they’re so lucky they get to keep me forever.
That’s never made me uncomfortable until this very moment, when I realize what a monumental secret I’m keeping from them.
My father’s letter burns a red-hot brand into my brain.
I hope you’ll make me proud.
I can’t tell them.
A police car sits in front of my house when I turn the corner. That’s not uncommon, especially with an emergency placement. I come through the front door, expecting to hear a baby or toddler crying, but the house is oddly quiet. Maybe it’s a really little baby, asleep in a carrier.
Low voices speak down the hall, by Geoff and Kristin’s bedroom. I begin to climb the stairs.
Geoff appears from the hallway. “Rev,” he says quietly. “Come downstairs. Let’s talk.”
I hesitate, and our confrontation over the Pyrex bowl flashes to the forefront of my mind. My father’s letter is hot in my pocket. “I don’t—I’m sorry I yelled.”
“It’s all right.” He comes down the steps and claps me on the shoulder gently. “You’re allowed to be a teenager. Are you okay?”
No. “Yes.”
“Come on downstairs. I need to talk to you.”
He heads into the lower level, but I hesitate on the landing, staring down at him. Suddenly I’m seven, staring down another flight of stairs, not knowing what I’ll face at the bottom.
“Rev?”
I blink and I’m me again. “Sorry.”
I still haven’t heard a baby cry upstairs—and it has to be a baby, because toddlers make an insane amount of noise. Geoff sits on the couch and gestures for me to do the same.
He looks like he wants to have a talk.
“I’ll save you some time,” I say. “I know what sex is.”
He smiles. “You’re funny.” A pause. “Bonnie called earlier. They needed a spot for an emergency placement.”
Bonnie is a social worker. She’s close friends with Kristin. “Mom texted me. I saw the police car.”
“His name is Matthew.”
“Okay.” I’m waiting for him to drop the hammer, because bringing a new kid into the house isn’t a sit-down-and-talk-about-it event. I’m used to it. I usually like it.
“Matthew is fourteen.”
I freeze. “Oh.”
I’m not sure how to react. They’ve never taken in a teenager before. The oldest kid we’ve ever had was nine, and he stayed for one night after his father fell down some basement stairs and his grandmother couldn’t catch a plane into Baltimore until the morning. I turn the idea over in my head and imagine I should be glad I won’t need to change any diapers.
I’m not opposed to an older kid living here. At least I don’t think I am. Part of what I love about Geoff and Kristin is how they welcome everyone.
But as soon as the thought enters my head, doubt crowds in with it. Another teenager will mean someone with questions and judgments about our family. About me. I felt it the instant that girl beside the church realized who I was. Everyone at school knows who I am, even if it’s only distantly. It’s hard to hide your freak status when you wear long-sleeved hooded sweatshirts in the dead heat of summer. It’s harder to hide that you’re adopted when you’re white, and your parents are black.
Not that I’ve ever wanted to hide it. But people talk.
“Matthew has been in four foster homes over the last year,” says Geoff. “He started a fight this afternoon, and the family called the cops. No one pressed charges, but they don’t want him living there anymore.”
Four foster homes over the last year? I’m not sure what to say to that.
“What happens if he doesn’t stay here?” I say.
Geoff hesitates. “He’d go to Cheltenham. He’s already got two strikes with group homes.”
The juvenile detention facility. “Wow,” I say softly.
“Bonnie doesn’t think he’ll be a problem,” Geoff continues. “And you know Kristin would open the door to every child in the county. But I want to make sure you’re okay with it.”
“I’m okay.”
Geoff leans in. “Are you sure?”
I have no idea. My emotions are scattered in a million different directions. I’m not sure about any of them.
“He can stay.” My voice is rough.
“Rev. I need you to be honest with me.”
He’s talking about Matthew, not the letter hidden in my pocket, but the words make me flinch.
I need to speak to cover it up, because I can see Geoff’s expression shift in response. “It’s fine,” I say quickly. I have to clear my throat. “It’ll be different, but it’ll be okay.”
Then I look up. “Where’s he going to sleep?” The spare room is made up for younger children. There’s a toddler bed and a crib, with a dresser, a changing table, and a rocking chair. The color scheme is peach and white, with alphabet letters stenciled along the ceiling. Aside from the rocking chair, there’s not a single piece of furniture in that room that would support a teenager.
Geoff sighs. “That’s part two of why I needed to talk to you.”
This is not my first time sharing a room. Declan spends the night all the time. Geoff and Kristin put the futon in here specifically for him. Geoff said it’s only until Saturday, when he can buy a full-size bed, but by law, Matthew needs a bed, so here he is.
It’s after midnight. He’s not sleeping.
Neither am I.
He’s smaller than I expected, though he’s got some muscle. Geoff said Matthew started a fight, but he clearly wasn’t the one to finish it. The entire left side of his face is a mess, swelling and bruises running from temple to jaw. His cheek split and bled at some point, and flecks of dried blood cling to his face where it was probably too painful to scrub. His movements are stiff and careful. I wonder who he fought with.
I’ll probably wonder for a while. He’s said exactly two words to me.
“Hey” when Kristin introduced us.
“Okay” when I told him where he could put his things, which he carried in a white kitchen trash bag.
And that’s it. He brushed his teeth and climbed into bed. Fully clothed. Jeans and everything.
I’m not in a position to judge. I’m wearing long sleeves and sweatpants.
After Geoff’s description, I expected … something else. Belligerence. Anger. Defiance. Some swagger.
Matthew is quiet, but watchful. He’s watching me now, peripherally, though his eyes are focused on the ceiling. Tension has settled over the room like a too-heavy blanket.
“Go to sleep,” I say quietly. “I’m not going to mess with you.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.
My phone pings. Declan.
Dec: How’s your new roommate?
I texted him earlier to let him know what was going on, but I never answered his first text about what was wrong. Now it sits above our more recent messages, a giant elephant in the room. On the screen. Whatever.
I stick to the matter at hand.
Rev: Quiet
Dec: What’s his name?
Rev: Matthew
Dec: Is he going to school with us tomorrow?
That’s a good question. I always ride to school with Declan. I’ll have to ask Kristin.
“Are we locked in?” Matthew’s voice is rough and low.
I look over. He’s finally broken his staring match with the ceiling.
I don’t understand his question. “Locked in?”
“In the bedroom.” His eyes flick to the closed door. “Are we locked in here at night?”
It takes me a second to work through what he’s implying. I set my phone down. “No.”
“Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?”
“Yes.” I try not to let my voice show what an unusual question this is, but also that I’m just answering his question, not giving permission. It’s a lot to demand from a three-letter word.
While he’s gone, I look back at my phone.
Rev: He just asked if mom and dad lock us in the bedroom at night.
Dec: wtf
Exactly.
I bite at the edge of my lip and study our text messages. Maybe I’m imagining a distance between us, but I hate hiding something from him. It’s hard enough to hide from Geoff and Kristin.
But now that I’ve kept this monumental secret, I’m not sure how to unravel it.
While I’m deliberating, I realize that Matthew has been gone for a while. I haven’t heard water run or a toilet flush.
I slide the phone into my pocket and pad barefoot out of the room. The bathroom door is open, the lights off. Geoff and Kristin’s bedroom door is closed. The entire house is dark.
Silence swells around me. I head down the hallway, to the kitchen.
Then I spot him, down on the landing, staring at the door—which is locked with a double-cylinder dead bolt. You need a key to open it from the inside.
I stop at the top of the staircase. “We are locked in the house,” I whisper.
He whirls and flattens his back against the door. There’s a knife in his hand.
My brain does a double take.
There’s a knife. In his hand.
It’s a paring knife from the kitchen block—but it’s still a knife.
We have never had a toddler go for a weapon.
This has been the longest day. I almost say so, but then I look at his face and realize his day has been longer. I got a letter. He got a busted face.
I have no idea what to do. Yell for Geoff and Kristin? Would they send him to juvie? Do I cut him some slack, or do I end this right here?
I consider how I found him. He was taking the knife and going out the front door. He wasn’t coming after me. He wasn’t going after anyone in the house.
In another minute he probably would have tried for the back door—which slides and locks with a simple latch—and he would have been gone.
I drop to sit on the top step. “I told you I’m not going to mess with you.” The words are meant to reassure him, but I’m also reminding myself. I could mess with him. I could mess with him a lot more than whoever messed with his face.
These thoughts link me with my father, and I force them out of my head.
“Put the knife down and go back to bed and we can pretend this didn’t happen.”
Matthew stares up at me and says nothing. His chest rises and falls quickly.
I don’t move. I can be patient.
Apparently, so can he.
Ten minutes pass. Twenty. I lean my head against the wall. His breathing has slowed, but he hasn’t changed his grip on the knife.
Thirty minutes. He slides down against the door until he’s sitting on the welcome mat. I raise my eyebrows, but he holds my gaze and keeps the knife in his hand.
Fine.
An hour passes. The silence has turned heavy. Against my will, my eyes begin to drift closed.
His must, too.
Because that’s exactly how Kristin finds us, sound asleep, at six o’clock the next morning.