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Then my thoughts are on Toby again. I imagine him sitting at this table with me, just as my father requested. Nervously cutting a bite of steak with his hardworking hands. Giving short glances at my parents, curious, timid. Blushing adorably each time he’s asked a simple question. Maybe he would have just come off the farm where I’m pretending he works, sweaty and red-faced, muscles in his arms sore from his day’s work, a total dream boy.
Imagining just that brief moment makes everything bearable.
“I already made a friend,” I state.
My father makes a musical hum of approval. “Why haven’t I heard of them? Here I am, going on and on. Who are they?”
I didn’t mean to say it aloud. It’s not even that true. Maybe I just want to get my dad off my back. “He’s in a few of my classes.”
“What’s his name?” my mom asks crisply, coming alive.
Here’s where the real fun begins. “Toby Michaels,” I answer her calmly, remembering his full name from the roll calls.
She pauses, troubled for a moment. “No, I don’t remember a Michaels. That isn’t one of the names here in Spruce. Is there no one in your classes with the last name McPherson? Or Evans?”
“Or Strong?” suggests my dad, picking up on my mom’s hints.
I struggle not to roll my eyes. They roll anyway. “Well, he’s my friend. Toby. Not a Strong or an Evans or a whatever. First guy I met. Seems nice. Acts normal. Wouldn’t harm a fly.” The words pour out in an unimpressive drone. “Not a … Not a single rebel bone in his skinny body. You’d be so proud of me.”
My father, not picking up on a note of my sarcasm, nods with approval. “Sounds like a nice young man. Will you invite him over sometime? Maybe this weekend?”
“Now wait a minute …” my mother softly interjects. Yep. It’s clicking. “You said Toby …? Is this …” She sets down her glass and squints at me. “Is this the boy you defended in the lunch room? The one for whom you went to the principal’s office?”
I take a measured breath, then nod.
“No.” She eyes her husband across the table, then fills him in. “This so-called ‘new friend’ is the kid that was being teased in the lunch room. And he’s the reason Donovan went to the principal’s office. No.” She folds her napkin and gives a snappy shake of her head. “You’ll make other friends.”
“Toby is not the reason I went to the principal’s office,” I say right back, annoyed. “I’m the reason.”
“People are power,” my mother states, repeating herself from before, “but you need the right people, otherwise you will get lost to the fold all over again, just like in New York. Donovan—”
“You don’t even know him. He’s quiet and shy. He appreciates art, and …” I can’t believe I’m defending someone I barely know to my parents. “He’s a good person, Mom.”
My dad lightly adds a useless, “He doesn’t sound bad at all,” to the discussion as he continues to cut his steak. Another curt noise from my mother’s throat, and he sets down his knife to face me. “Well, it’s also important to have influential people among your social circle. For instance, I just met Mayor Raymond today. The Mayor of Spruce! A bit of a dull conversationalist, but still, I—”
“Yeah, well maybe I can be the influential person in my social circle,” I cut him off. “Maybe I made a statement yesterday that I don’t tolerate bullying. Or is it that you want me to befriend these bullies? These people you say are … oh, what was it?” I turn my harsh eyes on my mother. “The ‘next Tanner Strong’ …? This town is doomed if that jock Hoyt is really the future of this place.” I get up from the table and toss my napkin at my plate.
“Donovan,” clips my mother’s voice coldly.
I’m up the stairs and back in my room, the door shut before I can hear another word from my parents. In the dark, I march over to my desk, sit at it, click on the lamp, then get right back to work on my drawing. I blacken the wings even further, daring for the shadows to consume it. Art is the only thing that tempers my fury.
It’s a whole hour later that a set of knuckles softly touch my door. As expected, it’s my dad’s head that pops in. “Son?”
I keep my back to him as I draw. I don’t respond.
“Are you working on something?”
“Just a thing,” I finally reply, then turn around. Only his facial hair is lit by the desk lamplight, making him appear like a floating mustache at my door. “Mom still mad at me?”
He slides partway into the room. “We spoke. Again. At length. She’s downstairs working on some things. Do you remember when we moved from California to Chicago? Our first move?”
