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Gabriel had found his feet, and stood back from the paved walkway, his hands still in fists. His breathing was quick, his eyes dark. Michael stood beside Nick, closer to the porch, his stance tight, ready for Gabriel to make a move.
Chris clung to the darkness by the driveway, having no idea whose side he was on.
After a moment, Michael straightened. “Was that on purpose?”
Gabriel stared right back at him, baring his teeth a bit. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah,” said Nick. He sounded pissed. “It does.”
Some of the arrogance leaked out of Gabriel’s expression. His shoulders dropped. He glanced at Nick, then at Chris, as if assessing damages.
Then his eyes swung back to Michael. “Not all of it.”
Michael drew himself up, as if readying for another fight.
But Gabriel didn’t move. “You’re not our father.” His voice was low, even, punctuated by the rain. Lightning flashed somewhere in the sky.
Michael flinched—almost imperceptibly, but Gabriel saw it and smiled.
Nick went to his twin’s side. “Stop. Just—come inside.”
Gabriel shrugged him off and started for Michael, stopping right in front of him. “You’d make a shitty father, anyway,” he said. “But that’s okay. That’s not what you’re supposed to be.”
Michael held his ground. “Yeah? Just what am I supposed to be?”
Gabriel gave a humorless laugh and turned for the house. “Come on, guys.”
“Hey!” Michael’s tone was sharp. “Just what am I supposed to be?”
Gabriel turned in the doorway. “Our brother, ass**le. Our brother.”
He walked into the house, Nick right behind him.
Chris looked at Michael, standing there in the rain. Michael looked back.
Then Chris broke the eye contact, walked past him, and followed the twins.
CHAPTER 6
Chris wasn’t in school on Thursday. He was noticeably absent from Becca’s third-period English Lit class, and he wasn’t in fourth-period World History, either. He wouldn’t be missing much. Mr. Beamis looked like he could have been there when they commissioned the Model T, and his class usually gave her a chance to do a Wite-Out manicure.
But today brought a new student to the front of the room, and Becca raised her eyes from her nails. Old Man Beamis did a clear double take.
Make that a triple take. The teacher put a hand on the edge of his desk.
The new kid was a lot to look at. He’d certainly crossed that line from boy to young man, with a defined jaw, high cheekbones, lean, muscled arms, and not an ounce of baby fat—all pros. Sandy blond hair drifted across his forehead, broken by a clean streak of white, right in the center of his bangs.
Who dyes their hair white? she wondered.
But it didn’t stop there: One ear had piercings all the way up. The other only sported two—the same number in his left eyebrow. Green eyes matched the tee shirt he wore, staring unflinchingly at the students watching him. His black jeans hung loose, suspended by a chafed leather belt. About fifteen bracelets encircled one arm, crude loops of twine that each held a small rock of a different color. He had a few small tattoos on his forearms, and one on the side of his neck. They looked like foreign symbols, the kind girls got on spring break, something that was supposed to be meaningful in one word, like peace or wisdom but really said Do me.
Beamis read the note the kid handed him, but didn’t bother to introduce him to the class. God forbid someone should interrupt his lecture. He hurriedly shooed him to the empty chair in the middle of the room—Chris’s usual seat. It was one row over and two desks down from Becca. The new kid dropped into the chair, and his backpack dropped to the floor beside him. She could see the marking on his neck now—not Asian, but no language she could identify. She could also see a black ring on one finger, a twine ring on another.
Tommy Dunleavy—who sat two rows over and liked to flick suggestive notes onto Becca’s desk—coughed, “Fag!”
The boy didn’t react, just pulled a blue spiral notebook out of his backpack. Then a pen.
Tommy tried again, his cough a little louder, his epithet a little meaner.
