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She reaches up, unbuttons his shirt, slowly. He takes in a sharp breath. Closes his eyes for a minute. Then opens them. “Janie,” he says.
His button-down is on the floor.
She pulls the T-shirt up. Just a little. She watches his eyes. He pleads to her with them.
Janie slips her fingers under his T-shirt. Touches the warm skin at the sides of his waist. Feels his shallow breathing quicken. Draws her hands upward.
Feels the scars.
He draws in a staggering breath and turns his head to the side. His lip shadow quivers on the wall. His Adam’s apple bobs below it. “Oh, Christ,” he says. His voice breaks. And he is shaking.
She lifts the shirt, pulls it over his head.
The burn scars are bumpy like peanut brittle. They pepper his stomach and chest.
She touches them.
Traces them.
Kisses them.
And he’s standing there. Weeping. His hair floating up with winter static. His eyelashes, like hopping spiders in the dim light. He can’t take it.
He bends forward.
Curls over like a sow bug.
Protecting himself.
Dropping to the floor.
“Stop,” he says. “Please. Just stop.”
She does. She hands him his shirt.
He mops his face with it.
Slips it back on.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “No,” he says, and shudders in gripping sobs.
She sits next to him on the floor, leaning against the couch. Pulls him to her. He lays his head in her lap and curls up on the floor while she pets his hair. He grips her leg like a teddy bear.
11:13 p.m.
Janie wakes him gently, fingers through his hair. She walks with him to his bedroom. Lies down beside him in his bed, just for a few minutes. Puts his glasses on his bedside table. Holds him. Kisses his cheek.
And goes home.
BUSTING OUT ALL OVER
December 6, 2005, 12:45 p.m.
She waits at his table in the library.
He meets her there.
“I have to work tonight,” she whispers.
“After?” he asks.
“Yes. It’ll be late.”
“I’ll leave the front door unlocked,” he says.
She goes to her usual table.
And he designs a new dream, just for her.
6:48 p.m.
A man checks in at the front desk of Heather Home. He looks around, unfamiliar. She recognizes him, though he’s tinged in gray now. Older. Lined.
“I’ll show you,” Janie says. She leads him to Mr. McVicker’s room.
Knocks lightly on the door. Opens it.
Old Johnny McVicker turns toward the door.
Sees his son.
It’s the first time in nearly twenty years.
The old man rises from his chair slowly.
Grabs hold of his walker.
His dinner tray and spoon clatters to the floor. But he doesn’t notice. He’s staring at his son.
Says, way too fast, “I was wrong, Edward. You were right. I’m sorry. I love you, son.”
Edward stops in his tracks.
Takes off his hat. Scratches his head slowly.
Crumples the hat in his hands.
Janie closes the door and goes back to the desk.
11:08 p.m.
She parks her car at her house and sprints through the snow to his.
“I was wild,” she says when she slips in the house. “You shoulda seen me with the bedpans.”
He waited for her. And now he hugs her. Lifts her up. She laughs.
“Can you stay?” he asks. Begs.
“If I go home in the morning,” she says. “Before school.”
“Anything,” he says.
Janie finishes up her homework, shoves it in her backpack, and finds him. He’s sleeping. He’s not wearing a shirt. She crawls into his bed and marvels silently at his stomach and chest. He breathes deeply. She settles in.
For now, anyway.
He knows she might have to go away.
Get away from his dreams, so she can sleep.
But when he dreams the fire dream, and meets her behind the shed, kisses and cries, begging for help, she reaches for his fingers in her blind, numb state and takes him with her into it, so he can watch himself.
She shows him how to change it.
It’s your dream, she reminds him.
And she shows him how to turn the man on the step, the man who carries the lighter fluid and the cigarette, into the man on the step whose hands are empty, whose head is bowed. Who says, “I’m sorry.”
When they both wake, the sun streams in the window.
It’s 11:21 a.m. On a Wednesday.
They exclaim and laugh, loud and long. Because there’s not one single parent between them who gives a damn.
Instead, they lounge on a giant beanbag in the computer room together, talking, listening to music.
They play truth or dare.
But it’s all truth.
For both of them.
Janie: Why did you tell me you wanted to see me that first Sunday after Stratford, and then you didn’t show?
Cabel: I knew I had to hit that party—I was going to come back early. I didn’t know we were going to hold a fake bust. I got sent to jail overnight, just to make me look real. I was devastated. Captain let me out at six the next morning. That’s when I left the note on Ethel.
Janie: Did you ever sell drugs?
Cabel: Yes. Pot. Ninth and tenth grade. I was, uh . . . rather troubled, back then.
Janie: Why did you stop?
Cabel: Got busted, and Captain made me a better deal.
Janie: So you’ve been a narc since then?
Cabel: I cringe at your terminology. Most narcs are young cops planted in schools to catch students. Captain had a different idea. She’s not after the students, she’s after the supplier. Who happens to be Shay’s father. And she thought this was a good way to go—since he’s starting to sell coke to kids at the parties. And implies he’s got a gold mine somewhere. I’ve got to get him to say it on mic.
Janie: So you’re a double agent?
Cabel: Sure. That sounds sexy.
Janie: You’re sexy. Hey, Cabel?
Cabel: Yeah?
Janie: Did you really flunk ninth grade?
Cabel: No. (pause) I was in the hospital, most of that year.
Janie: (silence) And thus, the drugs.
