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“Dwayde…” I say softly because I’m about to deliver a blow. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin’s lawyer contacted me today.”
“They want to see me again?”
“Yes.”
Fresh and bright panic explodes across his face. “I have to get out of here. I have to go where they’ll never find me.” He takes a quick step back and Mick reaches him first, puts a hand on his shoulder, staying him in place.
Dwayde lives in a nice, middle-class neighborhood and goes to private school, but he grew up on the streets. Running at the sign of trouble is second nature.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Mick crouches to bring himself at eye level with Dwayde. “This is where you belong. Understand?” When Dwayde doesn’t respond, he takes his chin, and firmly repeats: “Understand?”
Dwayde nods.
“Good, then let’s sit and talk this out,” Mick says despite his antipathy toward our plan.
Dwayde drops his backpack and slowly, mechanically, takes a seat. Victor and Isabelle flank his side and Mick pulls out a chair next to me. I inhale a hitch of breath, affected by his nearness, my body innately reacting to his scent, to the memory of him loving me all night long.
But my priority is the boy staring down at his lap.
“Dwayde?” I pause and wait for him to lift his head.
“I’m not going,” he asserts defiantly, his eyes bouncing from Victor to Isabelle. “I won’t see them ever again. And you can’t make me.”
“We’re not going to make you, sweetie.” Isabelle puts a hand on his forearm. “Dee and Ms. Sanchez have already told their lawyer that.”
“But the lawyer can try to make me, right?” He turns back to me. “That’s what you said before.”
“Their lawyer can go to court to try to get a judge to agree that the Franklins should be able to see you.”
“I don’t care what any dumb judge says, I still won’t go.”
His insolence is understandable. He has every right to be surly when his life keeps getting turned upside down. But I have to break through the defiance to make progress.
“The judges in these cases aren’t dumb, Dwayde. They are actually very smart and care about making the best decision. That’s why they need all the facts. That means we will have to explain in some detail why you don’t want to see the Franklins.”
“I told you I don’t know them.”
“You could get to know them.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I don’t like them.”
“What makes you not like them?”
“I met them and they sucked ass.”
Isabelle winces, but under the circumstances doesn’t scold him for his language.
“I got the impression you didn’t like them even before the visit.”
His sullen gaze drops, and he starts drawing patterns on the table with his fingers.
“It would really help if you could tell me anything,” I cautiously probe. “Like even things Joyce may have said about living in Kentucky.”
“She just liked to run her mouth.” He grows more agitated. “Who cares what she said?”
