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And all I can think is…
I found you.
CHAPTER SIX
Sky blue?
No. Too blue.
Cornflower?
No…closer, but no.
Cadet blue?
No, too gray.
I make it halfway through our math lesson—the first lesson of the day—before I’m racing for the bathroom in the corner of our classroom to throw up.
Kids snicker before Mrs. Bloom, our teacher, hushes them, but it’s too late. I heard them.
My belly’s on fire.
Mommy picks me up from the nurse’s office. We leave through a side door so none of the other kids see us. She gets me buckled up in my booster, shuts the door, and rounds the front of our minivan to climb into the driver’s seat. The car rumbles to life, and with it, the radio comes on. She immediately turns it down to low hum, but doesn’t immediately start driving.
“Bad morning?” she asks gently, twisting around so she can look at me between the seats.
I shrug, twisting my lips together, not sure what to say.
It wasn’t all the way bad.
But I don’t tell her that, because then I’d have to tell her what happened by the swings, though I’m pretty sure Principal Gibson or the nurse told her when they called her. By now, Mommy’s aware kids are bein’ mean to me. She didn’t know last year, but that’s ’cause I kept it secret. Izzy knew, and she handled it like she handles everything…
Well, she thought she did.
Clay and his sidekicks know better now than to do it when she or Waylon or even teachers are around. Today’s the first time since Izzy punched Clay in the nose last year, that they got caught in the act…
She didn’t hurt him or make him bleed or anything when she did that. But she got in a lot of trouble, ’specially since I made her promise not to tell anyone why she punched him. She lied and said he pulled her hair, when the truth is he pulled mine. And called me a little fag boy.
I still don’t know what that means.
I don’t think I wanna.
Whatever it is, can’t be good. Words that get spit out like that never are.
In the car, Mommy sighs deeply, her lips thinning into a flat smile. She nods. “Okay. Okay.”
Ducking my head, I stare at my dirty jeans, and squeeze my hands together between my knees. I have a cut on my hand from where a piece of mulch dug into me. It burns.
My feet kick dully against the back of the passenger seat. Mommy turns to face front, pulling on her seatbelt, and gets the car moving, pulling it away from the curb and onto the street.
This is already the third time since school started last week that she had to come pick me up early because I was throwing up. I keep waiting for her to yell at me, but she never does. She just sighs, like maybe she’s just tired of it. Tired of me.
I think she thought it would get better this year—that I wouldn’t be so sick now that I see Mary Ann.
But it’s only getting worse.
I overheard my parents the other night talking about how maybe holding me back was the wrong decision. I hoped maybe that meant they’d call the school. But then I heard them say things like “too young” and “maybe he just wasn’t ready.” Which doesn’t make sense, since Izzy’s the same age as me and she was ready…
