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Beckswallows, staring at his hand, then glances at the door. “Bebrave for me,”Imurmur, so only he can hear.
Hiswhole body as stiff as a board,Beckshakes the leader’s hand in awkward silence.JustwhenIthink he’s never going to speak again, he bursts out so suddenly that it startles bothSantiagoand me. “Whatlife skills shit do you guys teach?Becausethis kid–” he jabs a finger inCalvin’sdirection “–doesn’t want to make fucking birdhouses.Hewants to be a blacksmith, and forge fucking knives and shit.”Whenhe runs out of words,Beckturns his head and stares out the window, his jaw flexing.
Santiagohas probably seen a lot, because he just smiles kindly. “Wehaven’t done blacksmithing, but my cousin has a forge just north of town and he loves to teach.Ican try to hook you two up with him.”
Slowly,Beckdrags his stare back to the man and meets his eyes for the first time. “Really?WhatdoIhave to do?”He’sterrified that they’re going to make him come to a certain number of meetings or pull out some other list of demands that force him to change faster than he’s ready.
“Justone thing.”Theman shoots me an understanding glance. “Ialmost cut my thumb off today trying to slice some cheese for my sandwich.Formy own safety,I’dappreciate it if you could bring me a new knife in a couple of months.Somethingsharp, and so big that my wife complains about it.Yeah?”
There’sanother long pause asBeckglances at me, thenCalvin.Inspite of everything we said, he grabs my hand impulsively in a tight, sweaty grip.Finally, he lifts his chin and takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
Eventhough he sits in the back of the group with me and doesn’t participate,Beckis still so exhausted by the end that he sleeps all the way home.Herefused to leave the building until he had the address and phone number of the blacksmith.Thescrap of paper sits crumpled in his palm as he snores quietly against the window.
Whenwe pull up to the house,Calvinruns inside to tellTheoabout all the knives he’s going to make. “Hey, look.”Becktaps his window.Isquint past him, but allIcan see is dirt.Someyards have a dozen different varieties of roses; ours boasts a stunning array of rocky dirt, dusty dirt, clay dirt, and anthill dirt.
“Idon’t see anything.”
“Comeon.”Hisenergy returns as he scrambles out of the car and waits impatiently for me to catch up.Snaggingmy hand, he tugs me along the front of the house to my disastrous failure of a flowerbed.Somehowthe only dirt we don’t have is the kind that grows things.ButthenIsee it, straggling up between two chipped pieces of brick–a spindly green stem.Itdoesn’t even have a bloom.Whenthe hot, dry wind rushes around the corner of the house, the fragile leaves flutter but don’t break.
“It’sa weed.”
“Butyou planted the flower seeds here,” he protests.
“That’sdefinitely not a marigold.I’mnot being metaphorical.It’sliterally a weed,Beck.”
“Oh.”Hecocks his head at it. “That’scool.Weshould move the rocks to give it space, but not untilImake a cage to help hold it up.Whatstore do you buy weed food from?”
“Ithink weed food is called poison.”
Heprods me hard in the ribs.Thebreeze plays with his pale hair and the reflection of the sky tints his green eyes blue as he grins. “Don’tyou dare poison him.I’mnaming him after you.”
Iwanted a riot of yellow and orange flowers, and this is whatIget.Mymom is going to pull up our driveway in a month and see nothing but one massive, extraordinarily well-tended weed.
Butthis is what we do.Welove the things that shouldn’t be alive.Wefight the rules of nature, because fuck whatever says that we have to stay the way we were born.Thethings that should poison us just make us stronger.Eventhough we shouldn’t be here, in a place meant for something beautiful, we find the cracks and we grow toward the light.
EPILOGUE
BECK
“It’sjust not the same,”Scoutcomplains, snuggling deeper into the lounge part of the sectional, with pillows consuming almost his entire upper body. “It’snot trailer-Christmas.”
Iglance aroundMs.Santra’sliving room.There’sa real fire crackling in the fireplace, letting off the smell of smoke and pine.Sevenstockings decorate the mantel, each monogrammed with the first letter of our names, and a douglas fir covered in delicate icicle-shaped ornaments stands so tall in the corner that there’s no room for a star at the top.
“Whatpart do you have a problem with?”Dallasasks from where he’s sprawled in my lap with my arms wrapped around him. “Isit not drafty enough for you?Icould open some windows.OrshouldIget some spiders from the garage and put them in the oven to give your ham the right flavor?”
Scoutsticks his lower lip out thoughtfully and fishes another cookie out of the massive pack ofOreosAnjaliput in his stocking. “Maybeit’s just thatIhave to wear pants here.”
Romanpats the top of his head. “Thedoctor says you’re going to live.”Ilove when that boy absolutely roasts someone in his quiet, sweet voice.Noone ever expects it, not evenScout.
Iknow what he means, though.ScoutandIhave done trailer-Christmasfor almost ten years, and there’s something bittersweet about a beautifully decorated house, stacks of real gifts, the smell of a holiday feast coming from the kitchen.Wespent our whole lives dreaming about aChristmaslike this, coming to terms with making our own traditions.Havingit thrown in our laps all at once like this is a lot.
“Ifyou don’t take the corners slow, you willnevercross the finish line.It’sjust physics.”
Dalchuckles at the sound ofTheo’sexasperated voice in the next room.AnjaligotCalvinone of those race tracks where you attach the cars and drive them with little controllers.Everyminute or so, we hearwizzzzzfollowed by acrackasCalvin’scar flies off the turn and slams into some piece of furniture.Theostill spends a lot of his time with us gruff and distant, even after six months, but we’re used to it now.Allwe need to see is how hard he works to contribute, all the questions he asks aboutCalvin’stransition, and the way he always ends up helpingDalcook orRomanwalk the dog.
Everydamn year, wherever we haveChristmas, the presentsIpicked get opened last.Igo crazy trying to be patient, and this yearI’mall jittery about it too becauseIdon’t know ifIdid a good job.Ibump my knee againstDallas’ ass until he notices me. “Canwe go give your mom her thing now?”Iwhisper.Thebrush of my lips against his ear makes him shiver as he sits up sleepily and nods.
Tryingto act casual,Ipull a newspaper-wrapped package out from under my jacket on the arm of the couch and carry it into the kitchen.Everyoneelse gave their gifts this morning, butIwas too embarrassed to do this one.Idon’t want to sit there in front of everyone, wishingIcould sink into the floor asAnjalipretends to like it because she doesn’t have a choice.
