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“Don’t you dare say it,” Carl cuts him off, his lips quivering as he holds back a new fit of anger.
After a moment, Lee glares at him. “So it’s like that with me, too, huh? I can’t say what I want? I can’t tell you the truth? Here’s another truth, Dad: That garage is … is b-beautiful.” He can barely get the word out, his fear of his dad strangling his throat. “Toby is gifted. I wish I was h-h-half as gifted as he is.”
“I swear, boy …”
“Swear all you want,” growls Lee. “It don’t change the truth.”
A stinging silence fills the air. When it becomes clear that the two of them have a whole other conversation that needs to take place, I abandon my position by the counter and head for the back door. “Where you think you’re goin’, boy?” my stepdad asks in an oddly soft, listless tone.
With a foot out the back door, I turn to him. “This is me giving you space to have time with your son … and also giving you what you ultimately wanted all along: me, gone.”
Something sad flickers in Carl’s eyes. It’s like victory, but with a note of bitter defeat.
That’s how I leave the two of them. I go into my shed, stuff a bunch of things into my backpack, then head out the door. I don’t give myself a moment to wonder if what I’m doing is right. I don’t listen to the thoughts racing through my head, either. I just keep walking, one foot in front of the other, backpack slung over my shoulder, paint stains—now dry—on my fingers, shirt, and pants.
I make it to Biggie’s, then suddenly realize I can’t go in. What would happen if Mrs. Tucker got ahold of me—and the truth of my home life? She’d make me stay with her. She’d talk to my mom. I can see a domino effect of drama resulting, and before I even woke up tomorrow morning, all of Spruce would know my business.
That pushes me further down Main Street to the arcade. I toss my backpack to the floor and engage in exactly one single game of Mortal Kombat II, but I don’t even come close to my own high score. My heart isn’t in it. My mind is elsewhere. And across the arcade, I spot those same group of prepubescent kids, including Kirkland, who are probably still trying to figure out my super-secret cheats. Of course, their presence doesn’t improve my mood.
Pushing out of the doors, I drop my ass on the curb, dejected, numb to the bone, and stare at the movie theater across the street sulkily. I could try reaching out to Kelsey, who might be an ideal confidant in this situation. She already knows a lot, she’s always on my side, and she’s fun. But she lives on the outskirts of Spruce, practically a stone’s throw from Fairview, and not within walking distance. Also, I don’t want to impose on her dads, who’d have to come out and pick me up. And then what? Do they even have a spare bedroom for me to sleep in? Would I occupy their couch? For how long? I just don’t feel comfortable doing that to the Kings.
That’s when I pull out my phone, thumb to a certain name, and stare at it, long and hard: Vann.
I type out a text, then delete it. And then I try again, this time taking well over ten minutes to pick and choose every single word, then delete that one, too. No, I can’t even talk to Vann. I can’t risk him going to my house and beating up my dad. Of course, some logical part of me knows he wouldn’t really do that, but …
Well, given his track record, do I really know he wouldn’t?
And besides, the same problem happens there that would if I went to the Tuckers. Vann’s parents—who already have all of their fingers in every social circle from one end of Spruce to the other—would cause an even worse rumor mill when they happen to mention who their lovely new houseguest is. And everyone would know I’m now living with the crazy, destructive, trouble-chasing Donovan Pane, and everyone would arrive at their conclusions about my clearly unbalanced mental state.
I’m trapped, no matter what I do, no matter where I go.
Isn’t there somewhere I could just stay where I’d be treated like nothing special, and everyone in Spruce could just forget me?
The obnoxious honk of a truck, like an angel answering from Heaven, stirs me from my thoughts. I look up to find an old pickup in front of the movie theater. Someone familiar is in the driver’s seat, his arm hanging out the window, showing the proud Spruce High colors of his varsity letterman jacket. When he looks my way, we lock eyes, and I’m unfortunately graced with his identity.
