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“Alex,”Pascalwarns.
“Pullover.”Ipull off my seatbelt and grab the door handle.
“Beck,I–”
“Pullover, ‘Lex, beforeIpunch you in the face.”
Hebumps the truck onto the gravel shoulder, braking abruptly.Ishove the door open and jump down, almost slipping and falling into the empty irrigation ditch.
“Whereare you going?”Alexcalls after me asIstart to walk back the way we came, butIdon’t turn around.Ican hearPascalcalling him a string of names as the door closes and they pull away.
WhenIcan’t hear the engine anymore,Isit down on the edge of the ditch and rest my head on my knees, trying not to hyperventilate.Ihave no idea how much time passes as the sun blasts my back and flies buzz around my head.
Calvin’ssuch a good fucking kid.Hedeserves the world.Dallascan be his incredible trans role model, whileScoutandRomeshow him what it means to rise above poverty and abuse.I’mjust the boy who was stupid enough to let himself be lured in by a fucking bike, who can’t do anything but watch it happens all over again becauseIwas never brave enough to save myself.
Ifumble my phone out of my pocket and callDallason instinct.
“Where’dyou go?” he mumbles sleepily.Ican picture him splayed out on his yoga towel, fighting not to drift off again in the middle of some pose.
“Where’sCalvin?”
“Huh?”Hisvoice gets clearer. “Areyou okay?”
“Pleasetell me what he’s doing right now.”
Hesighs, followed by clunking as he moves around. “Hejust got up.Itlooks like he andRomeare in the yard playing fetch with the dog.”
“Good,”Imumble, closing my eyes. “That’sall.I’llwalk home now.”
“Whaton earth is wrong with you?” he murmurs, his voice full of worry.
“I…”Forcingmyself to sit up,Iblink at the blue sky that emerged from the crystal clear sunrise. “I’mreally fucking sad.”
Hepauses a moment. “Okay.Iwant you to letScouttrack your phone and wait for him to come pick you up.Ihave the world’s most romantic hug for you; if you can’t wait,I’llgive it toScoutand let him deliver it.”
Icrack up in spite of myself, exactly like he knewIwould. “You’rea brat.”Despiteeverything,Ifeel a little less likeI’msuffocating.Ihave a home, and the people there love me, even ifIdon’t deserve it.It’ssmall, in the face of how fucked up this world is, but it’s real.
* * *
Scoutdoesn’t pressure me to talk about it.Hejust cranks up “CallMeMaybe”, my favoriteKidzBoptrack, and does all the motions while he sings along andIstare wearily at the road.Heknows thatIfind his obnoxiousness comforting; it’s been my anchor for over ten years.
Whenwe hit the driveway, he turns the music off. “Wemanaged to lureTheointo the kitchen with coffee.Dallastold me to pass on the message that if you can’t go in there without yelling at him, you should use the front door.”
“I’mnot mad,”Isigh, slumping back in my seat.WhenIsearch for my anger, allIfind is creeping weight in my chest that makes me want to crawl into bed and never get out. “ButIneed to talk to him.”
Hescrunches up his face in thought. “Thatwasn’t covered in my instructions, soIofficially wash my hands of this responsibility.Fairwarning,” he adds, watching me carefully. “Bothof our boyfriends think we should askCalandTheoto live with us, at least until they get on their feet.They’vebeen hinting at it all morning.”
Justlike my anger, the part of me that should care seems to be gone, buried under that crushing sadness. “Whatabout you?”
Shrugging, he digs out a cigarette and lights it. “IadoptedRoman, you adoptedDallas.Maybeit’s their turn to adopt someone.Likelittle birdies leaving the nest.Exceptno one leaves our nest because we’re too codependent to function apart.Someoneshould probably warn the new kids about that.”Hewants me to laugh, butIjust shake my head.
Aswe get out of the car,Ipause at the corner of the house to watchRomanandCalvinplay.Everyonehas a clear job:Romanthrows the rubber ball,Tubbslazily watches it fly past with no attempt to give chase, andCalvindoes all the legwork of finding it and bringing it back.Heseems to be having the time of his life, with no clue that this isn’t how fetch is supposed to work.Maybehe’s never had a dog.
Theolifts his head warily whenIcome through the door.He’shuddled in a chair against the wall, gripping a steaming mug in both hands.Basedon the shadows under his eyes, he slept even less thanIdid last night.
Tryingto act casual and get my thoughts in order,Iopen the fridge and study the contents.Exceptthere aren’t any contents, because we’re poor as shit.SoIjust close it again and stare out the window.
“Yourbathroom isn’t soundproof,” he says finally.Hisserious, refined voice sounds ragged but emotionless. “Iheard what you said last night.”
