Day 2103

Day 2103

 

“Evan?” Victoria asks me at lunch, and her tone is so subdued, so hesitant, that I look up in surprise. It’s not in her nature to be reluctant about anything. But there she is, looking nervous and worried, twisting her hands in her lap….

“Yeah?” I reply, my stomach clenching painfully. I hope nothing’s wrong�"but it sounds like it is. She’s not in trouble, is she? No one’s hurting her, right? If they were, well…I don’t know what I’d do….

“Have you been feeling better lately?”

I blink. “What? Yeah, why?” Is that it? This is about me? She shouldn’t worry about me, I’ll be okay, it’s her she should be looking after.

“I just wondered,” she mutters, looking away. More strange behavior. This is so frustrating. How am I supposed to help if she doesn’t tell me what’s wrong? And if it’s something I did to worry her, how can I make it up to her if she doesn’t say something? “Um…what are you doing this weekend?” she adds in a slightly clearer voice.

This freezes me in place: is that what this is about? Is she…does she want to do something? Like a date? “Nothing,” I say quickly, trying to sound offhand, like it doesn’t bother me either way.

“Oh. Okay,” she replies, then lets it drop.

Come on…say something, anything…I thought you wanted to go out? Why would you say so otherwise? Come on, I’m waiting…this is taking forever….

“Evan?” she finally asks again, after a very long wait.

“Yeah?” Come on, ask me�"please? I promise I won’t take it the wrong way. Or, at least, I won’t admit to it.

“Um…I don’t know how to say this….”

I can feel my heart pounding in my ears; I’m leaning forward, but I’m not in control anymore; my body’s moving on its own. I can’t even feel my body anymore. “What is it?” I ask her hoarsely, trying not to sound too desperate.

“I just…well, if�"if one of us had to…go away…we’d still be friends, right?”

I lean back, my heart sinking. That’s it? What does that even mean? “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I moved or you moved, couldn’t we still be friends?” she says carefully, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers. Just like Kylie does�"I note that with a small jolt, then wonder why I noticed that at all. Bigger issues, Evan.

“Yeah, I�"I guess so�"why? Your dad isn’t thinking of moving, is he?”

“Well…no, but…I don’t know,” she mumbles, shrugging. “Maybe.”

“Oh…that’s….” I struggle for something to say, even though I know exactly what to say: that’s freaking terrible. It sucks. She can’t leave me already! She’s only lived here for like three months! What am I supposed to do if she moves away and I never see her again? What should I do, write her letters? What use is that? Letters are nothing compared to the real thing! And if she leaves, I’ll never get to tell her that I…that I like her. And I’ll never get to kiss her. Or do anything else for that matter�"if I ever figure out how.

“That sucks,” I finally tell her, because that’s what you say, isn’t it? When you can’t say anything else?

“Yeah,” she sighs, looking away, bringing her knees up so she can hug them to her chest.

She looks really pretty today. The cold doesn’t bother her that much, so she’s still going around in normal clothes: today it’s leggings and a sweater long enough to be a dress. Her hair’s twisted back in a clip, and she’s wearing pearls. She looks really beautiful, like…not like a model. They always seem like they’re looking down on you, like they know you think they’re beautiful but they’re only going to mock you for it. Victoria’s not like that. She looks like…an angel. A goddess.

Even when her lips are all pale and rough, I still wish I could kiss them. Or hold her hand, maybe. Or touch her at all�"somewhere. Anywhere. I don’t care. I’d kill someone to be intimate enough with her that I could get away with a casual touch on her shoulder, or whispering something in her ear.

Man, this is so crazy. What am I thinking? She could have anyone she wanted. Any guy at all. Who’d turn down someone who looks like that?

“Hey Evan?” she says suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. “What’s your grandmother like?”

I fight back a grimace�"much as I love Nana, I’d rather not think about her right now. Mixed signals, you know. “She’s, um�"she’s really great. The best cook ever. And really sweet. And she always makes you feel special, and like she hasn’t seen you in a million years or something, and like you’ve made her whole life just by coming over.”

I miss Nana so much. I wish I could visit her more often, but Dad only takes me over there maybe twice a year. I guess he thinks I don’t want to go see her, or that I don’t deserve it. Or maybe he’s the one that doesn’t like her�"though every time I see them together, he treats her like she’s made of glass and diamonds and could break at any moment.

I hate him for that. It’s number two on my list of reasons to hate his guts�"and for the record, here’s the top 5:

 

5) Not letting me have friends

4) The hitting, esp. breaking my f*****g fingers. They still hurt.

3) Making fun of me

2) Being so freaking nice to his own mom, but not to me

And/or: Never letting me visit her

1)    I don’t want to talk about it

 

“Where’s she live?” Victoria asks me.

“Um…in Gardnerville. In a nursing home.”

“Oh…why doesn’t she live with you? Or…um, never mind, that sound kind of….”

“It’s fine,” I reassure her. I didn’t mean to look so pissed off. It’s not about her, though, it’s about Dad again. I’ve wondered, too, why Nana can’t live with us�"I mean, she’s his mom, he should want to watch out for her, right? But he got really, really pissed off with me for asking. I think the real reason is that he doesn’t want to have to control himself around her; she’s already kind of suspicious, even though he’s tried to convince her that we are actually just fine, and we love each other, and such. Sick. Even if he weren’t a jerk, I still wouldn’t want to do stuff with him, it’d be way too weird.

But I can’t explain that to Victoria�"so I give her the reasons my Dad gave me. “Well, she’s pretty comfortable where she is�"it’s a nice place, and she’s got lots of friends. I don’t know if she wants to leave.” This is a lie. But only a partial lie. She does get along with everyone there. It’s impossible not to love her. “And she’s…well, she’s in a wheelchair, so she’d find it hard to get around in our house….”

“Oh! She is? What happened?” Victoria asks, concerned.

I just shrug at this. “I don’t really know. I’ve never asked,” I say. This is also only half a lie. From an argument I overheard once between her and Dad, when they thought I wasn’t listening, Nana’s husband�"I refuse to call him my grandfather�"did that to her. But I’m not sure of this, and I can’t even imagine why, because Nana is the sweetest. Good thing he died like twelve years ago, or I’d kill him myself.

“What about your mom’s parents?” asks Victoria after a minute’s silence. “Are they…?”

“Yeah, they’re dead,” I lie again. “My dad’s mom is the only one I have left.” This is another subject I once asked Dad about, then instantly, and for a long time afterward, regretted it. Simple enough question, right? “Where are Other Grandma and Other Grandpa?” (I was, like, nine; give me a break). But he overreacted, big time�"I still have a scar from that. Damn, he used to be scary. I mean, he still is, but at least he’s not three times my size, and at least I sort of know how not to make him mad.

I still couldn’t say where Mom’s parents are, but I think they’re still alive. She used to call them sometimes when I was little. Like on Christmas. And she’d ask me if I wanted to say hi to them, but I was too nervous to take the phone from her, so I’d just latch onto her and mumble something. It always sounded, to me, like she didn’t like them much�"like she was always trying to avoid a fight. And maybe they didn’t like her much, or me, because they never sent anything, or visited.

“Oh…I’m sorry.” I can tell Victoria is regretting all the questions. What’s with them, anyway? What’s it matter to her?

“It’s okay. Um. Why’d you ask?” I want to know. These are spy questions, not friend questions.

“No reason,” she mumbles, but she won’t look at me. Suspicious. I glare at her for a minute, but she doesn’t say anything more, so I let it go.

A few minutes later, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. Victoria still doesn’t speak to me�"freaking weird, what’s wrong with her?�"but, as I’m getting up, she reaches for my arm, and as I jerk away from her, by instinct�"really, not the smartest move�"she….

…hugs me.

What the hell?

She lets go too fast for me to ask what her problem is, or why she’s acting so weird, or what the hug was supposed to mean…or even to push her away. Or decide if I even want to.

Then she lets go of me and hurries into the building, eyes on the ground.

She’s freaking scaring me.

For some reason, I can’t shake this nervous feeling, like a pain in my stomach, something like…like fear…. But that’s stupid, what’s there to be scared of? I just�"why is she acting like this? I don’t like it when people start acting�"start being so�"It makes me feel dizzy, like something bad’s gonna happen….

When math class comes around, I’m too stressed to pay the teacher any attention, and it doesn’t help that when she lets us work in groups, Victoria is still acting so weird. And she just shrugs at me and blows me off when I try to ask her what’s wrong. What the hell….

I’m glad to get away from her at the end of the day. I half-run, half-power-walk home, the anxiety building and building until I feel sick.

There’s no reason to be scared, is there? Nothing really happened….

But all the same, I’m scared.

I’m so out of it that when I open the back gate and Kylie runs up to me, I jump and pull away from her, wondering who the hell she is and why she’s here�"and though I remember a second later, it’s long enough for her to catch on.

“What’s wrong?” she asks me at once, but I just shake my head. I couldn’t even begin to explain it. I push past her and go into the house, letting my backpack fall off my shoulders, holding it by the strap. House or homework, first? I have a ton of homework…I should try to get it done, or some of it anyway….

Kylie’s used to this, even if she doesn’t like it, and takes her usual seat next to me at the counter. But she won’t freaking shut up, even though she knows I need to concentrate, I keep telling her�"all the questions, I can’t even listen to her right now�"

“Kylie, shut up,” I finally explode at her. “Seriously�"I’m sorry, but�"I have a bunch of work to do, okay? Maybe you should just go home,” I add guiltily, turning away from her hurt look. It’s not my fault. I tried to tell her nicely.

She sits very still for a few seconds, staring at me, and I know she’s trying to say something�"God, I hope it’s something like, “Okay, I understand. Later,” and not “Why are you being such an a*****e to me? What the hell did I do to you?” (This is paraphrased. I’ve never heard Kylie swear before. At least not in English.)

Then she sighs, and says, in a tiny voice, “’Kay. I was just…I’ll go home now.” She slides off the chair, swaying toward me like she half wants to hug me, then changing her mind and leaves.

I hear the door close and see her dart past the window. “Go-o-od,” I groan to myself, hiding my head in my arms. It was the worst thing she could’ve said. I didn’t mean to, I just�"I have to get this done, and�"but she was just�"this sucks.

I sit up again and glare at my homework. But it’s no good…I can’t concentrate on it….

Maybe if I go away from it for awhile. Do something else. Like clean. And then a brainwave’ll come. Yeah. Maybe.

I shove my homework aside and get the cleaning stuff, slowly shuffling through each room, cleaning everything that looked like it needed it. I’m not in the mood to put too much effort into it, even if I get in trouble for this later; I’m too preoccupied trying to get the part of my brain that’s telling me I’m a huge jerk to shut up�"and trying to ignore this fear eating at my stomach.

In the middle of dusting the banisters, wondering what to do for dinner in Kylie’s absence, and struggling to think through my homework, I feel something really strange�"a current of electricity down my spine, a prickling on my arms. Like someone’s watching me.

Against all logic and common sense, instead of listening to instinct and hiding right away, I look up. A movement at the front door catches my eye.

The front�"?

Nobody I know�"nobody I could trust�"would be at the front door….

I freeze for a moment, and in that moment, the figure outside becomes a little clearer through the fogged-glass windows in the door. It’s a man�"a tall one�"and his knocks on the door are short and curt and booming. I flinch with every one.

He’s not the police. They wouldn’t bother with knocking. But there’s something wrong….

As silently and quickly as I can, I climb the stairs, running on tiptoe down the hall and into my dad’s room. For good measure, I shut the door, though like every other door in the house, it doesn’t have a lock. You’d think he’d want one, but I guess he doesn’t care.

I run to the window, which faces the street. Through the filmy, transparent under-curtain that stays drawn all the time, hiding the room from the eyes of the street, I peer down at our front yard.

Jesus…they came in a cop car. Just a normal one, no sirens, it could have just been stopped at the stop sign across the street…but a cop car. Jesus….

It’s CPS. Gotta be.

S**t. S**t…. What do I do? What are they doing here? Who sent them? And why now? But when I glance at the clock, the last question answers itself: it’s just after six. Most people would be home from work by now, even if they stopped along the way. But they can’t know that Dad hasn’t come home before seven since Mom died. I really doubt that he wants to come back at all, to be honest, but where else is he going to go?

S**t. What am I gonna do? They’re not going to leave, at least not for very long, and if I don’t give Dad any warning�"if I don’t call him right now�"they’ll surprise him, and he’ll�"

Well, he’s going to kill me anyway. But it’s not�"I didn’t tell them! It’s not my fault! I didn’t tell anyone anything! They just�"I don’t even know why�"why are they here? Son of a….

Maybe they just…maybe they come check on everyone who has kids like, every ten years, or something. That would make sense. Yeah. Or maybe Dad told them something.

My hand flies up automatically; I lock my teeth around my wrist and bite down hard to stop the painful shaking in my chest.

F**k. I’m gonna have to tell him. Right now. It’ll be even worse if I don’t. But I can’t�"he’ll�"but he’s going to anyway�"I mean, what are the odds that he’ll get in a wreck or something on the way home, and the police will have to shut up and go away? It’s scary how much I wish that would happen right now.

It’s scary how much I wish I could go with them.

They keep knocking. Persistent b******s. No, I can’t go with them, Dad’ll get me back and then he’ll kill me for sure, and even if they stop him they’ll just send me back to that place, or one just like it, or worse…nice people don’t take foster kids. Nice people have their own kids, or adopt underprivileged babies from China. Foster parents just want the state to give them money, so you know what kind of people they are.

Please just go away…please….

But they’re not going to go away.

S**t.

I know I shouldn’t wait, but I do anyway, taking a long, deep breath, trying to pull myself together. If I start crying when I’m talking to them, he’ll probably just hand me over to them anyway.

Oh God, what if he really…lets them….

No. Quit. Get ahold of yourself, stupid. Now’s not the time.

I grab the phone from Dad’s nightstand (which is almost as empty as Mom’s, aside from the clock and phone, but his drawer has stuff in it�"it must have something in it, anyway, ‘cause it’s locked) and hold it very tightly, building up the nerve to dial the number. I have it memorized, he made me, but that’s not the problem. The problem is that calling him, no matter what’s wrong, means that I’m going to get hit. A lot. He goes to work to get away from me, not have me bugging him.

S**t….

The people knock again.

I dial his number, carefully, button by button. Then I hesitate, clenching my hands to stop them from shaking, and stab at the Talk button before I lose my nerve.

It rings two and a half times. Then there’s a click.

“Thomas Moore speaking.”

Dry, pleasant, official tone. Business voice. The Atticus Finch side of him. He doesn’t know it’s me. He wasn’t looking at the caller ID. I could just hang up and�"but then�"

“Dad?”

There’s a moment’s pause at the other end. And then he hisses, “Evan?” and his tone is such a complete one-eighty from before that I wince. I hear a rustle on the other end, followed by a sound like shutting a heavy door, and then he snaps, “What is it? I told you not to�"”

“It’s�"there’s a�"there are some people here,” I tell him, and though I try to keep calm, I can’t help spitting it all out in a rush, my voice rising slightly in pitch. “In a police car�"I think they’re CPS�"”

“What? When did they get there?” he demands, cutting across me. That’s Dad, straight to the point….

“Just a few�"a few minutes ago,” I tell him, thinking bitterly that it wouldn’t have done any good to call him any later, after all. He would’ve known I was lying. He always does. “I saw them come up and�"”

“How many? What do they look like?”

“Well, I�"I just saw one�"he didn’t have a uniform, he was dressed like�"businessy�"I don’t know�"”

“Where are you? Did he see you?”

“I don’t think so, I didn’t�"I didn’t let them�"”

“Where are you now?” he repeats, losing patience, and I swallow nervously. I’m not supposed to be in his room�"even if he catches me cleaning in here, he’ll get mad, though I have to clean it anyway.

“Your room,” I mutter. “For the phone, and the window’s�"”

“What the hell are you�"get the f**k out of there, Evan!” he says aggressively, but then a second later retracts it: “No, stay where you are. Don’t move. Where is he now? Can you see?”

“Yes, he�"he was knocking on the door all this time, but�"but he just stopped.” I peer out the window again. “He’s walking toward the car. Dad,” I add quickly, fear coating my mouth with a taste like hot metal, “I didn’t tell them to�"”

“Shut up,” he tells me, and his tone is so deadly that I do, instantly. “Which way is he driving?”

“He’s�"he’s pulling out and�"and heading toward Skyland Drive. Toward the lake.”

“He’s just going to drive around and…s**t,” Dad hisses under his breath. In the background, I hear him rummaging around for something. “Evan? Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, sir,” I say very quietly, terrified by the edge to his voice. In another person, I would have called it panic. But with Dad…agitation? Annoyance? No, it’s more than that…it makes me feel sorry for the man in the police car. And makes me wish I could run away, hide from him forever, never have to feel this fear again.

“You stay where you are, and if they come back�"don’t you dare let them see you, do you hear me? You said he wasn’t in uniform?”

“No, sir�"”

“And he was driving?”

“No, I�"no. Someone else was.”

“S**t…Jesus f*****g Christ…okay, I’m coming. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Do not move until I get back, you stay where you are, and this guy�"if he’s with the police, they will break in and get you, do you understand that? They’ll drag you out of the house. Just stay put and let me take care of this.”

I shiver at the way he says take care of this. “Okay�"but Dad, I�"I didn’t tell them,” I say desperately over the sound of his car door slamming. “I didn’t tell, I swear I didn’t�"”

“Oh, you didn’t?” he says quietly, but I can sense the menace in his words.

“No, I�"I don’t know what they’re doing here, I swear I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t think�"everything’s been normal, I didn’t�"”

“Yeah, you didn’t tell them,” he cuts across me, his voice shaking with fury. “Of course not, they just decided to show up because they had a theory and go through all that trouble just to visit, I’m so sure that’s what happened, you stupid child�"”

“I really didn’t tell them!” I insist, hysteria clawing at my throat, feeling as if I might start screaming, or sobbing. Why is this happening to me? I didn’t do anything wrong! “I don’t know why they’re here, I didn’t say anything�"”

“It doesn’t f*****g matter!” he shouts back at me, making me flinch and pull the phone away from my ear. “They’re at our f*****g house, that’s what matters, they found out, or they think they did, and if this is what you f*****g wanted then go find them and give yourself up, you little s**t, I don’t f*****g care! But don’t think you’re going to find anywhere better than where you are, Evan, you can’t, no one will give a s**t about you out there, no one’s going to make them take care of you like I f*****g have to, and that’s how it’s always going to be, so get f*****g used to it, or go crying to the cops so they can bring you to some shithole full of punkasses that’ll rip you to pieces and throw what’s left on the side of the road. I don’t give a damn what you do. But if you want to stay here, you’d better f*****g listen to me, do you understand? You listen to every f*****g word I tell you or I will let them have you. You calm the f**k down and stay where you are until I come get you, do you hear me?”

He hangs up before I can reply.

It doesn’t matter, really. I have no response to that. I wouldn’t have been able to say a word even if he’d wanted me to; it was all I could do to stop myself from crying.

The phone starts up a shrill, angry beeping; I press the End button and let my hand open loosely, watching it tumble to the carpet. Then I sink down after it, burying my head behind my knees.

Don’t cry…don’t start…if they see that I was crying, they’ll be suspicious…. I bite down on my wrist again, but even that is barely enough.

Everything he said…it’s all true. This is the best I could hope for. Here I have clothes, food, school, shelter, everything I could want…I can buy books to read, I can have whatever I want to eat, I can go to the lake, I have so much freedom…. So he’s strict. Whatever. Some people are just like that. But he gives me all this time to myself, to do whatever I want, as long as I get my chores done. Who else would do that for me? He’s right, in a foster home they wouldn’t care about me, I’m not a blood relation, they don’t know anything about me, or want to bother with me. They’d just cut me loose and take the money, and I’d have no protection….

But Dad…though there were times when I thought otherwise, I’m his biological child, the only one he’s got. There’s no denying it; we look similar and even, to my deep shame, act similar, sometimes. And since Mom is gone, we’re all each other has, since Nana can’t, or won’t, live with us. It would just be destructive to split us up, even if we hate each other. Our family’s tiny and broken enough without them separating us, isn’t it?

I didn’t mean to make them come here. I don’t even know how it happened. I didn’t want them to come. I want to stay here, not go somewhere even worse…it isn’t even all that bad here, it could be way worse, and not that much better if you think about it�"I mean, there’s only two of us, so things have to get done, so Dad has to be strict, and I just make him angry, and what if he tells them to take me? They won’t listen to me, they don’t give a damn about me, they’ll make me leave unless Dad stops them, and he might not be able to, and�"and I�"

Why was I so awful to Kylie earlier? Sure, I was stressed, and I had this feeling, and there really was something wrong, but…but if they take me away, I’ll never see her again….

No. No no no no no. It’ll be fine. I didn’t tell, and I guess Dad didn’t send them, so all they have is a guess. They can’t take me anywhere on a guess. I’m not even sure they’re allowed in the house without some real proof. It’ll be okay.

But I start counting anyway…just to be sure.

Twenty minutes, he said. He drives like a maniac, and Gardnerville isn’t far, so certainly no more than that.

Twenty minutes. 1200 seconds.

1199.

1198.

1197.

One thousand and seventeen seconds later, I hear Dad’s car in the driveway; I suppress a shiver and take my wrist out of my mouth, gagging slightly at the taste of blood. Bleh. But it’s not bleeding too badly, I can hide it. I run into Dad’s bathroom anyway, though, and rinse off my arm and my face, just to have some way to focus.

And then I hear him call me�"and he sounds furious. S**t. I guess they’re not here? But they will be, that’s for sure. They’re not just going to give up.

I hesitate, not sure if I should run down, or run away…but there’s really no choice, is there? I have to hurry….

Dad’s waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs; I try to stay out of his reach, but he grabs my shoulder and jerks me forward. “Well? Where are they?” he snaps. “Where did they go?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him truthfully, trying very hard not to let my voice shake. “They haven’t�"”

“Just�"shut up�"” He shoves me away from him, pacing away from me, his agitation contagious. I can feel my whole body tensing up. “Listen,” he says suddenly, grabbing me again; I dodge him the first time, but he’s too fast for me, too strong. “Go upstairs and clean yourself up. You know what kind of questions they’re going to ask, go get ready�"don’t you dare f**k this up, you hear me? Go�"just go to your room�"”

I do what he says right away, without a word, darting back up to my room. I lean against the wall for a minute, counting slowly under my breath, trying to pull myself together.

Dear God…why is this happening…?

Without really any reason why, I drift over to the window, gripping the sill and staring blankly into the backyard. Down there…over that fence is where Kylie will show up, sometimes, when there’s no one around to tell her not to cut through people’s yards.

I could jump down, maybe even without getting hurt, and climb the fence, and start running, and I’d be at Kylie’s house in minutes….

But then what? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

This is all there is. This is all I can do. Just do what he says�"and hope they leave us alone. And that he won’t be that pissed off….

This is gonna be a disaster.

I change my shirt, look myself all over in the mirror, gauging my own appearance, and when it’s as normal as it’s gonna get, I sit on the floor and wait, listening hard. I hear Dad moving around downstairs, but I don’t know what he’s doing. I hear cars on the street�"but which street? Which cars?

And then, after fourteen hundred and seventy very long seconds, someone knocks on the door again.

My heart sinks down into my stomach; I feel myself shiver, and struggle not to be sick. Any minute now�"

I just have to lie, that’s all. A lot.

But how? How can I pretend everything’s okay? It’s never been okay. It would be like pretending to be an accountant, or a woman. How the hell am I supposed to know what it’s like to be normal? What, exactly, am I supposed to be imitating?

Talking downstairs. An icy hand closes around my lungs. Any minute now.

Just lie, and it’ll be okay…you don’t have to tell them your life story, just answer the questions….

How much do they already know? How much are they going to force me to say? I don’t want to talk to them, I can’t, I won’t�"

But then they’ll know for sure.

More talking. Two voices, at least. I can’t separate Dad’s, or hear the words. I wish I could. I wish I knew what to say to make them leave me alone forever.

Just lie. That’s all you have to do. Lie until they get bored and go away. You’re normal, got it? You and Dad love each other. You’re happy. Nothing’s wrong.

“Evan?”

God, I wish it were true.

“Evan! Come downstairs!”

It’s scary how pleasant, how peaceable, his voice sounds.

They’re here.

 

There’s only one guy�"I don’t know where the other one is. He’s tall, blonde, pretty skinny, dressed in slacks and a sweater. His name is Chris Something-or-Other, and he doesn’t look like a cop.

Acts like one, though. All these questions….

After quizzing me about where we were earlier (Dad told him we went out to eat) and school stuff, he stops giving me the weird suspicious look, and starts losing interest. This is a relief�"I was trying really, really hard to make myself seem boring, especially to a CPS agent (which he is, he has a badge and everything). I mean, they probably do this every day, so I bet nothing bores them more than false alarms, right? Maybe they only care if you’re really obvious about it. Maybe that’s why they showed up last time, because I was in the hospital, that’s pretty obvious.

But then he checks a clipboard and turns back to me with new energy. I sigh to myself, recognizing that look.

“So it’s just you and your dad, huh?” he asks me, like I’m six years old. We’re all sitting in the living room; Dad’s next to me on the couch, gripping a mug of coffee and radiating tense fury. I keep trying not to think of how pissed this is making him, or how mad he’ll be when they finally leave…. And I keep trying to convince myself that it won’t be any better if I let them take me. Because he won’t let it happen, he won’t let me go…and even if he did, it wouldn’t be any better. I know that.

Do they even take kids away right off the bat? Or do they arrest the parents first? Maybe that’s what the cop car is for? I bet they just interview the people first, and then come back if there’s proof and take the kid. Yeah, there’s no way I’d be better off admitting to it in that case�"if they left me alone with Dad afterward, there wouldn’t be anything to come back for.

“Yes,” I mumble. Normally I’d get in trouble for staring at my shoes, not speaking clearly, and generally being rude, but I’m pretty sure Dad wants me to act like this: bored, uncomfortable, and confused.

“I see. What happened to your mom?”

Me and Dad both stiffen, and I bite back a rush of anger. He f*****g knows what happened to Mom, he’s got it written down right there, I know he does! He probably knows more than I do. Why would he bring her up like that? In what universe is that okay?

It takes all the strength I have to keep my voice level. “She got sick,” I tell him, but I look up at him this time, warning him.

His expression doesn’t change. “I’m sorry to hear that. What was she sick with?”

I want to snap at him, or yell at him, or demand that he tell me, but I’m not supposed to react like that…. So instead, I frown, blink, say, “Um,” and then look up at Dad, carefully stopping my eyes at his shoulder. “What was it again?”

Dad glances at me, his face expressionless, then turns to the CPS guy. “Complications from a surgery,” he says quietly.

“What surgery?”

I expect Dad to hesitate, at least, and struggle for an answer. But he has one ready. “Pulmonary embolism.”

Ohh. Clever. Very clever, Dad.

The guy frowns, thinking hard for a moment, and in that moment I feel a strange sensation: I know, somehow, that me and Dad are both mocking this man in our heads, triumphant, because if he doesn’t even know what that is, how can he accuse us of lying?

“I’m sorry…I’m not familiar with the term,” the guy finally confesses.

Yeah. We knew. I sit back and let Dad explain�"but he doesn’t. He just gives the guy a blank stare.

“Well, I’m very sorry for your loss,” the Chris guy tells us, his voice flat and weak after the long silence. “Was it very unexpected?”

Dad sighs. “I guess I should have seen it coming,” he says, and for a moment I look up at him, startled�"he sounds really sincere, really�"pained….

But then it’s gone. “She always had problems with her blood, with clotting, and all of that. And she never wanted to see anyone about it. Evan’s the same as her,” he adds, resting his hand on my shoulder for a minute. I suppress a shiver, and the urge to shake it off. Before I can work out how I’m supposed to respond, he takes it away again�"thank God. “Same issue, I mean.”

Double clever. That’ll explain the bruises.

“Oh, a blood clotting disorder?” he asks us, and from his tone I can’t tell if he’s surprised, or if he’s heard that one before. “Did you ever see anyone about that?” he adds, directly to me.

Dad nudges me, just a little�"not enough for the Chris guy to notice. I take a deep breath and shake my head. “I hate doctors,” I mutter. “I’m fine.”

“You hate doctors? Why?”

“Well…and hospitals. They…I mean, that’s how Mom…I just don’t like them.” If that doesn’t shut him up, nothing will.

Thankfully, it does. “I see. Does it hurt, though? Having a problem with your blood?”

“No,” I tell him. “I just get bruised really easily. Like if I bump into something. I never know where they come from.”

The Chris guy nods and makes a note on his clipboard. I want to shove it down his stupid throat. “Do you ever get lonely, Evan?” he asks me as he writes, very casually. I get the feeling that he had to double-check my name first.

“I�"huh? Lonely?” What does that mean? I’ve never heard of such a thing! …Stupid jerk.

“Yes. Since it is just you and your Dad, you know.”

“Oh…no, not really. I mean, I miss Mom, but we’re fine. And I have my friends, and everything.”

“Do you have a lot of friends at school?”

I hate this guy so much. “Yes,” I lie. “I mean, a few, you know. Enough.”

“Who’s your best friend?”

He’s still not looking at me, but I feel like he can see into my head. Like he knows how nervous I am, how hard it’ll be to make up a lie, how much I wish I had something true to tell him….

Well….

“Um�"her name’s Kalah,” I tell him. There’s actually a girl in my class with that name, so my lie’s a little bit stronger. But I should’ve picked a guy�"I can feel Dad staring at me. “She’s in my grade, and she’s really cool, and a lot of fun.”

“Oh, is she? What kind of things do you do together?”

“Well, um, we eat lunch at the same table, with the rest of our friends, and um, talk, you know. Do homework.”

“What about outside of school?”

“Well…we don’t do a lot outside of school. Her parents won’t let her, ‘cause she’s a girl, you know. And we have lots of homework anyway.”

“I see. Do you like her?”

I wish I could f*****g kill this guy. What kind of question is that? Kylie’s like�"she’s like my�"I can’t like her, it would mess everything up…. “No, ‘course not,” I tell him, like it’s obvious. Which it should be.

He lets that one go. “What about your other friends? What do you do with them?”

“Um…hang, out, sometimes….” I try to make it sound like he’s a total idiot for asking, because he deserves it. “If we’re not busy.”

“What kind of things would you be busy with?”

Oh, jeez. “Um, homework, chores, stuff like that.”

“What kind of chores?”

“Um…I clean, and everything.”

“Really? The whole house? This is kind of a big place, isn’t it?”

I know what he’s trying to do, stupid a*****e�"he’s trying to sympathize with complaints I may or may not have, to get me to talk about them. Well, I’m onto him. “Well, yeah, but it doesn’t take too long…and I like it. I hate when it’s dirty.”

“That makes sense. Okay, so you clean, and…what else?”

“Um. Laundry. Sometimes.”

“That’s kind of a lot.”

I shrug. “Not really.”

“What about cooking, and shopping? Who does that?”

“Dad,” I lie automatically. “Mostly.” Never give an absolute answer. People like this douchebag hate absolutism. It makes them nervous about their own fucked-up ideals.

“What kind of stuff do you do for fun, Evan?”

“I, um…I read a lot. And watch TV.” That’s normal, right? “And hang out with my friends, and stuff….”

He nods and makes some notes, like he doesn’t buy it. Then he says, way too cheerfully, “Okay, this is going pretty well…Mr. Moore, would you mind if I talked to Evan alone, for a minute?”

I expect Dad to agree with this at once�"or tell him to get out, I don’t know�"but he doesn’t move. “Actually, I’m not comfortable with that,” he informs the social worker. I recognize his accusing lawyer-voice and try not to wince, feeling a jolt of pity for the man�"before I realize, anyway, that Dad’s not going to take it out on anyone except me. “I don’t understand what all this is about in the first place, but you don’t have to treat him like he’s done something wrong. If there’s a problem, it’s me you should be talking to, not him.”

It’s so weird to hear him say stuff like this…he’s a great actor, it sounds like he really means it. What’s even weirder, though, is that the guy stands his ground.

“It’s just part of the procedure, Mr. Moore,” he says calmly, checking something on his clipboard. “It’s my understanding that you’ve gotten a visit from us once before, so this shouldn’t be unusual for you.”

Oh, s**t. He doesn’t know what kind of trouble he’s getting himself into. “I’m familiar enough with the procedure,” Dad snaps, using his most dangerous voice now. I don’t have to look at him to know how angry he is. But why? “What I’m not familiar with, though, is what a previous visit has to do with anything, especially if you didn’t find any evidence of anything to accuse me of during that visit. And I want to know what you’re doing here in the first place. I think I have the right to know why the government is interfering in my personal life like this.”

“It’s for the safety of your son, Mr. Moore,” the guy protests, losing his nerve a little now. It would be almost funny to watch, if I weren’t going to get in sooo much trouble for it later…. “I’m here to make sure his safety isn’t being compromised.”

“Who said it was? Has someone got a problem with me or my son? Or are you just dropping by on all the M’s this week? I have a right to know why you’re here, especially if it could be some prank pulled on my son or someone trying to take him away from me. He’s my only son, and I’m not having you people trying to separate us�"one misunderstanding was enough, but I won’t tolerate constant harassment from your agency.” He paused for a moment, to let the threat sink in; the CPS guy looked like he’d been slapped in the face. He’s probably used to poor people, or stupid people, who shout at him and make ridiculous demands�"but not to people like Dad, perfectly confident, perfectly eloquent, cold and polished and a real threat if taken to court. Maybe the United States government prefers to use bargaining and reason over shows of force for things like this, but nothing can bury instinct, and I can tell that this guy is scared of my dad for the same reasons I am, even if he doesn’t realize it. Dad is a scary person.

“So what brought you here?” Dad demands, his words clipped and sharp. “Or is there no reasoning behind it?”

After a moment’s struggle, the Chris guy finally gives in, his professional façade slipping a little. “It was a tip-off. Considering your history with us, we had to investigate it.”

“Oh really?” Dad says with quiet menace. “From who?”

“That I can’t tell you.”

“I’m sure it would throw a lot of light on the reason they’d call you people. Who was it? Someone from Evan’s school? Or someone that doesn’t even know him? Well?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s confidential. It’s my responsibility to tell if that person was lying or not, and that’s what I intend to do. Now, Mr. Moore, if you’ll please step out of the room.”

Dad stands up without putting up even more of a fight, though he looks furious. But before he leaves, he rests his hand on my shoulder again. I look up halfway, too scared to meet his eyes.

“If you need me,” he says, “just call me down. I’ll be in my room.”

And then he turns away from me, leaving me, for a minute, confused. He sounded almost…like he meant it…but how could he…?

Oh…I get it. He’s trying to tell me that�"that he’ll be listening, even if they tell him not to. They can’t stop him, really. He’ll know if I say anything incriminating.

I clench my hands together in my lap to stop them from shaking.

Once he’s gone, the Chris guy turns to me with a pleasant smile that I wish I could rip off his stupid face. “He seems really concerned about you, don’t you think?” he asks me.

I hesitate for a moment, not sure if he’s being sarcastic, or just fishing. “I guess so. I mean,” I add in a mumble, “I don’t know what this is about either….”

“We’re just making sure you’re okay. Sometimes parents don’t act like they should, and it scares you so bad that you aren’t sure what you can do, or if there’s a way for someone to help you.”

What is he�"what, does he already know, or something? If he knows, why doesn’t he just say so? Or is he messing with me again? I wish I could f*****g kill this guy.

“But that’s what we’re here for,” he goes on. “To protect kids that are in trouble. I’m just here to make sure you’re not in trouble, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m not,” I protest, trying to sound more confused than anything. “I mean, we’re fine. I don’t see why anyone would call you guys….”

“I’m sure they were just concerned. If they didn’t care, they would have just ignored you, right? Don’t take it like an insult.”

“No, I know, I just…I mean…I don’t know what the problem is. Did I do something?”

“Ah…no, of course not,” he assures me, checking his clipboard again. “It says here that someone called because you were bruised in several places, and seemed very anxious and evasive about where the bruises came from.”

“Bruises? Oh…oh, I know what you’re talking about,” I tell him, nodding firmly. “That’s so weird, I didn’t think anyone that saw would be that worried�"I mean, I just�"I don’t even remember where they came from. Like I said.”

“Oh, so you do have bruises? Where?”

“Um, there’s one on my side, and there was one on my face, but it went away. I think that one was from�"from when I hit it on the kitchen cabinet. But I’m not sure.”

“That sounds like it hurt.”

“It didn’t, I barely felt it. I just bruise really, really easily. Like I told you,” I add, hoping he’ll take the hint.

“I see…but I’m still going to ask you some questions, okay? And I want you to answer them as truthfully as you can. And don’t worry, it’s completely confidential�"not even your dad can hear us. I promise.”

I wouldn’t bet on that one. “But…you’re gonna write it down, right?” I ask him, pretending to be nervous.

“No, not everything you say. I’ll be checking a couple of boxes, that’s all. But if nothing’s wrong, then you don’t have to worry about anyone seeing it.”

That sounds like a threat, somehow. I hate this guy so much. I hesitate, then sigh, for effect. “Fine,” I tell him.

“Good. So…how do you like your dad?”

S**t, hardest one first…how would someone normal answer this? “Um, I think he’s pretty cool. I mean, he’s my dad, of course I like him�"we get along pretty well,” I finish, this time not faking my nervousness. What kind of stupid question is that?

“What about as a person? What I mean is�"say your dad was someone your age, in your class. Would you be friends with him?”

Stupidest. Questions. Ever. “Um, yeah, I guess. I don’t see why not. He’s pretty fun.”

Despite what he told me, he’s taking diligent notes. “Gotcha. And how about as your parent? Do you like the way he treats you?”

“I guess so…yeah. I don’t have a problem with him.”

“Do you love him?”

This makes me freeze up�"but only for a moment. “Yeah,” I say firmly, but I don’t press the point. That’s what a normal kid would do. Or, actually, a normal kid my age would raise his eyebrows, shoot a rude look, and ask, “What the f**k’s that supposed to mean? He’s my dad, not my boyfriend.” But close enough.

“Is he nice to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you talk to him a lot?”

“Um, yeah, like every day….”

“Yes, but what about school? Or girls? Do you tell him about things like that?”

“Um. Sometimes. If he asks. I mean, it’d be kind of weird, talking about girls with….” This is not entirely a lie. More like a dramatic euphemism.

“So your dad’s never talked to you about girls?”

“Well, I mean�"about that kind of stuff, yeah�"but I mean�"I don’t like any of the girls at school, so I don’t know if I’d tell him that stuff….”

“I see. That’s pretty reasonable. It’s really none of his business, is it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t�"I mean, if he asks, I’ll tell him the truth. But there’s nothing to tell right now.”

“All right.” He takes a moment to write something down. “So what’s your dad like? What’s he do?”

“Um…well, he works most of the time.”

“For how long?”

“Like, until five every day…and on the weekends sometimes. And he works in his office at home, too.”

“What about when he’s not working?”

“He watches TV and stuff. And cooks,” I add, remembering an earlier lie. “And we do stuff together,” I go on recklessly. “All the time.”

“Like what?”

Oh…good question. S**t. “Um…like, we went to dinner tonight, and…we go to the lake, and stuff. You know.”

He doesn’t know, but he nods like he does. “What do you do on the lake?”

“Fish. And swim. If it’s not too cold.”

“When did you last go?”

“Um, two weekends ago…oh, and we visited my grandmother too,” I throw in for good measure.

“Your grandmother? Is that his mother?

“Yeah.”

“What’s she like?”

“Really sweet. Everyone loves her.”

“Where’s she live?”

“In Gardnerville.”

“Not here with you?”

“Uh…no, I don’t think she wants to. She’s happy where she is.”

“I see.” He glances down at his clipboard, to change the subject: he didn’t come here to talk about Nana, after all. Or get to know me. Or be a decent human being. “So, back to your dad�"when he gets home from work, what do you do?”

“Me? Um…we eat dinner, and I’ll do homework and stuff, or read, and he’ll watch TV…sometimes we’ll watch it together,” I add quickly, realizing he meant stuff we do with each other. “Like when the game’s on.” ‘Cause I’m totally manly enough to be interested in football.

“Oh? Are you into sports?”

I just shrug this one off. What does he care?

“So what if your dad’s mad at you? What’s he do then?”

I feel something in me halt abruptly at the subject change, but keep my expression carefully controlled�"innocently bemused should work, right? “Um, when he’s mad? I dunno…he’s usually pretty cool about stuff.”

“Really? But what could you do to upset him?”

“Um, a bunch of stuff, I guess.” What kind of stupid question is that?

“Well, say your dad wants you to get good grades, but you don’t. How would he punish you?”

“Um…well, he’d get mad, and maybe yell a little, and I’d be grounded, but that’s it.” Not too perfect, that’s the key�"a real teenager would admit a few flaws here and there. “I mean, he’d help me get better and stuff, too.”

“I see. Speaking of grades, what kind of grades does your dad expect of you?”

Hmm…truth or lies? A lie might be more dangerous�"they might think Dad was encouraging me to be lazy, which might count as neglect. Better tell the truth. “All A’s. As high as I can.”

“Wow, that sounds pretty difficult to maintain.”

“It’s…I mean, he’s strict about it, but I get why. I want to make all A’s too.”

“Do you?”

“Most of the time, yeah.”

“What’s your best subject?”

“Math.”

“Wow, really? Math?”

I was expecting his surprise�"most people hate math. Most people are also idiots. “Yes,” I say blankly. “I’m really good at it.”

“It sounds like you’re very bright. So school isn’t a problem?

I hate this guy so much. Who would find that flattering? Maybe a five year old girl, if she happened to know what “bright” meant in that context. Idiot. “No.”

“Do you have any problems?”

For an answer, I just stare at him, without saying a word�"that’s what he deserves, and I hope he feels at least a little uncomfortable. Stupid b*****d. My life isn’t his business, and of course I have problems, everyone does, and how am I supposed to know which are normal ones?

Maybe I could tell him part of the truth, to get him off my back. Make him see that I’m human, and all. Would he tell Dad? Does it really matter? I sigh, then look away and spit it out.

“Not really…I mean, there’s some stuff, but it’s not really important.”

“Like what?” he demands, rising to the bait.

“Well…um…you won’t tell anyone, will you?” Vulnerability. These piranhas are suckers for it.

“No, of course not�"it’s just between you and me. What is it?”

“Well,” I say carefully, still staring at my shoes, “my friend…I mean, I was really rude to her today. And I feel like I’m mean to her a lot. But I don’t mean to. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“That’s too bad….” The a*****e’s disappointed; it has nothing to do with Dad, after all. “Well, why are you mean to her? What makes you act like that?”

“I don’t�"I mean, I just don’t know what I’m saying is mean, but it comes out that way. I mean it like…I don’t know what I mean. It just comes out, and it sounds worse than I meant it.”

“I see…that happens to the best people sometimes, Evan. But I guess all you can do is apologize to her, right? And if she didn’t notice, then it wasn’t mean after all, but if she did she’ll know it’s not on purpose.”

“Okay,” I mutter, wishing we could drop the subject now. Why did I even bring her up? I could’ve just made up something…I didn’t have to tell the truth.

“It’ll be fine, I promise. And this girl, she’s just a friend?”

“Yeah. We’re just friends.”

“So there’s no one that you like at school?”

I consider telling the truth�"and consider yelling that it’s none of his goddamn business�"but in the end, I just say, “No.”

“You mean none of the girls have caught your eye? There aren’t any that like you?”

Hah! That’s funny. I hate this guy. “No. I mean…they’re pretty,” I clarify, so he won’t think I’m gay or something. “Some of them anyway. But I don’t think I want to date them or anything. And I don’t think anyone likes me. I don’t know anyone who does anyway.”

“That’s fine too…don’t worry, they will. Are you allowed to date?”

“Um…I don’t know. I thought I’d just ask when…when I liked someone. I’m not allowed to have girls over, though. Or, not on school nights,” I amend, because that seemed too harsh.

“Do you think that’s reasonable?”

“I guess. I’d care more if I had a girlfriend, probably.” Why all the girl questions? I hate these people…they always seem to know everything, even if you never told them. This just seems way too personal. What’s he going to ask me next, what I think about when I jack off? I wish he would so I’d have an excuse to punch him.

“Right. And you’ve got lots of friends at school?”

“Yeah, a few.” I believe I already answered this, genius.

“What are they like?”

“Okay. They’re pretty cool.” Thank you, American slang, for teaching me how to say nothing at all and still make it sound legitimate.

“That’s good. What kind of stuff do you do?”

“Hang out. Play basketball, go to movies. That kind of stuff.”

“Oh, okay.” Please think I’m boring. Please, please, please just realize that you’re not getting anything interesting out of me. “And they’re fun?”

“Yep.”

“Good.”

There’s an awkward pause. Maybe he’s finally realizing that it’s useless to keep questioning me.

“So…I have a few harder questions for you, if you don’t mind answering,” he tells me. Yeah, genius, like I can get away with not answering without you assuming the worst. I hate you so much.

“Fine,” I say warily, already tired of this.

“Just keep in mind that it’s just you and me here�"your dad can’t hear you, and no one’s going to tell him anything. Okay? So with that in mind…how do you feel about your mother?”

I scowl at him. “You mean, how did I feel.”

“Oh. Yes…how?”

“She was my mom,” I snap. “I loved her. I miss her.” It’s all I can do not to add, “What the f**k did you think?”

He nods, like he understands. But how could he? He probably grew up with two happy parents, graduated from a private high school and a Christian college, and took up social work to trick himself into thinking that he can save the world or something like that. What next? Is he gonna sell me a Bible?

“How old were you when she passed away?”

“You mean when she died?” I say bluntly, just to make him uncomfortable. “Passed away,” what does that even mean? “Eight.”

“That must have been very hard for you.”

What the…of course it was f*****g hard. Harder than he could ever realize. I just stare at him until he looks away, shifting awkwardly and looking down at his clipboard.

“Do you remember her very well?”

“Yeah. I was eight, not two.”

“Right, of course,” he agrees automatically. Stupid overly-agreeable pansy-a*s b*****d. I wish I could throw him out by his skinny neck. At least it would shut him up for awhile. “What was she like?”

This one catches me off guard. “I…I dunno. She was really nice. And she liked cooking, and taking pictures, and stuff like that. Lots of people liked her.”

“Did you like her or your dad better?”

I just stare at him. I can’t believe this. “We’re�"I’m not supposed to have a favorite parent,” I protest, with all the innocence I can muster.

“Ah…okay. I understand.” Do you? Do you really? “But did you spend more time with her, or your dad?”

“Her,” I say, without thinking�"and then I realize my mistake, and grit my teeth for a moment before clarifying: “I mean, Dad worked and everything, just like he does now, but Mom didn’t.”

“She didn’t work?”

“No. I don’t think so anyway.”

“Do you know if she wanted to work?”

“Why would she want to work?” I ask, with fake bemusement that barely hides my anger. “She didn’t have to, Dad worked enough.”

“That makes sense. Do you know if she wanted any more children? Did she ever say anything like that?”

This freezes me for a moment. You know, I never thought about it, but…Mom used to say, sometimes, to herself mostly, that it would be perfect to have a boy and a girl, one of each. I don’t think she ever meant for me to hear that. Is that a normal thing for someone to say? And, I mean…if she wanted a daughter too, why couldn’t she have just asked Dad? They were married, and all. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal.

“No,” I tell the guy, lying just to make things simpler. “I never heard her say anything like that.”

“So your mom didn’t want a daughter? She was fine with just you?”

“Yeah,” I say belligerently. What was wrong with just me? Mom seemed just fine with it. She didn’t treat me like a girl or anything, but there was nothing that we did together that a girl could do better. Even Dad said so�"but more rudely, and also while implying that she was going to make me way too girly. Jerk.

“Did she often get sick?”

S**t�"trick question. But I know he’s talking about how she died, poking around, wondering how it happened. “Well…sometimes. But nothing really bad. I always thought it was just…girl stuff, or something.”

He tries not to smirk at me. Meanwhile, I try not to reach over and wring his stupid neck. “But maybe it wasn’t?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Did she ever seem stressed, or sad?”

“I…I don’t…I can’t remember anything like that,” I lie, wincing to myself. I hate him so much.

“She seemed pretty happy?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t she be?”

He doesn’t answer, just fires another question at me�"as if asking faster will force me to tell him more. “Did she and your dad ever argue?”

“Argue? Um…sometimes.” I think that’s a normal thing. Like, it would be weird if they didn’t. I think.

“About what?”

“I don’t know. They never did while I was around.”

“So they sent you to your room first?”

Normal answer, what’s the normal answer? “Sometimes. Maybe. Or waited until I was in bed.”

“Did they wake you up?”

“No, I would be awake. They weren’t really loud or anything,” I lie carefully.

“Did it scare you?”

“A little. But they told me it didn’t mean anything. Like they still loved each other.” Parents say that sort of stuff, right?

“So you never saw them fight?”

“No.”

“And your mom never had a bruise or a cut she wouldn’t explain, did she? Nothing like that?”

“No. Dad wouldn’t hit her,” I mutter, hating these questions more every minute.

“What was it she was having surgery for? What was the term?”

“Pulmonary embolism.”

“Did you know that at the time?”

“I think…someone told me, but I didn’t remember until I asked Dad.”

“And he told you everything?”

“More or less,” I say fiercely, trying to give him a hint. “I mean, it’s not something either of us like to talk about.”

He gets the hint, and backs off. But, to my dismay, he launches into an even more difficult round of questions.

“Has your dad ever acted in a way that scares you?”

“Like…like what? I don’t know what you mean,” I tell him, deciding that playing dumb is safest.

“Well…has he ever showed a lot of extreme emotion, or no emotion at all? Things like that?”

“No…well, he…extreme?” I ask him, puzzled.

“Have you ever seen him really angry or really upset?”

“Um…he’ll get…I mean, sometimes. But it’s not scary. Isn’t everyone like that?” Seriously, is there any right answer to that question?

“I see…has he ever shown any signs of violence?”

“Uh…no.”

“He’s never hurt you?”

“No.” But I can feel my lies losing conviction�"I hate lying so much, and I can’t help thinking, if I don’t do this right….

“Never touched you inappropriately?”

Dear Lord, that crap again. At least they got rid of the Ken doll they used last time. “No,” I tell him, finally losing patience. “Look, Dad’s never�"he’d never do any of that. He’s never hurt me. This is a�"a mistake�"I really don’t know what you guys are doing here, but we’re fine.”

The guy sighs, giving me this look that says, So that’s the game you want to play? But then his face goes blank again, and he tells me, “Well, if that’s how you feel about it, then of course there’s no reason to keep pestering you. But now is your chance to talk about anything that’s bothering you�"anything at all.”

“I’m fine,” I say again, but more aggressively, feeling the last vestiges of my temper fly out the window. “Dad’s never hurt me, and he never will. We’re fine like we are.”

“All right, then,” the guy says soothingly, and finally�"finally�"backs off. “In that case, I’ll talk to your dad for a few minutes, and then I’ll leave.”

“Fine,” I mutter, jumping to my feet, happy to get away from him. “I’ll go get him.”

I go upstairs before he can open his stupid mouth again, going straight to Dad’s bedroom. I hesitate outside the door, then force myself to knock. He can’t hurt me right now. Not in front of that guy.

Dad opens the door cautiously, expecting the social worker. But his politely curious expression twists into annoyance when he sees it’s me. “What?” he snaps.

I can’t look at him�"I direct the words to my shoes. “The guy wants to�"” I try to tell him.

He grabs my shirt and jerks me forward, startling me. “Don’t f*****g mumble when you’re talking to me,” he hisses. “I’m not some dumbass from CPS.” When I manage a feeble nod, he adds, “What does he want?”

“To talk to you�"downstairs�"”

Dad shoves me irritably away before I can finish, losing patience with me. I back into the wall as he marches down the hall, watching him smooth his expression into something a little more acceptable.

I brush my shirt down, straightening the wrinkles, making sure it hangs just right. Then I glance at the stairs, and glance at my room�"and then I tiptoe to the top of the stairs and inch down until I can peer around the wall.

They’re not in the living room, but I can hear their voices. I inch down a few more steps, keeping absolutely silent. They’re in the kitchen, sitting at the table; Dad’s pouring the guy another cup of coffee.

I whip my head back and sit pressed against the wall, closing my eyes and listening. This way I still hear everything, but they won’t be able to see me at all.

“So�"Mr. Moore�"Evan seems like a very bright child.”

“Yes, he is,” Dad informs the man�"and though his tone is still a bit surly, I’m surprised. I’ve never heard him speak of me so warmly. And he sounds like he means it. But of course, he doesn’t�"still, it’s impressive that he can lie that well. “He’s very smart, especially in math�"most kids his age hate it. He does really well when he applies himself.”

“Does he?”

“Usually. Or he did in junior high. But high school is very different. I hope he can keep it up.”

“Do you think he will?”

“Mm…yes.” Dad’s a lot better at controlling his voice around people like this guy�"he sounds like he’s talking to a potential client, not someone he called a dumbass half a minute ago, and threatened to sue half an hour ago. “If he doesn’t get distracted by girls, or drinking, or anything like that.”

“Is that likely?”

“No…well, I doubt he’ll do anything bad.” I roll my eyes�"of course I won’t, ‘cause he’ll kill me for it. “But it’s not only illegal stuff that could distract him. I hope he never stops thinking that school is his first priority. So many kids in his class just don’t seem to care at all.”

“Does Evan like school?”

“I assume he does. He doesn’t say very much about it.”

“Does that bother you at all?”

“No. He’s pretty quiet.” Gee, I wonder why, Dad?

“Has he always been that way?”

“Quiet? Yeah. And shy. It’s hell trying to get him to open up about something if he doesn’t want to.”

That’s so…how does he know I’m like that? It’s not just a lucky guess, is it? What’s he going to say next, how I clam up when I get nervous, or never know what to say to people, or�"

“�"I think he gets it from his mom. She wasn’t really introverted, she always had something to say, but she had a lot of thoughts that she…that she just never said aloud, for some reason.” His voice, which was getting steadily quieter, pauses, then picks back up again. “Evan’s the same. He has a lot of thoughts, but he never feels the need to say any of them.”

“To you? Or anyone?”

“I think he’s like that to everyone.”

“Even his mother?”

“Well�"it was different with them. They were so alike that it was like they were reading each other’s minds. He could tell her two or three words and she’d know exactly what he meant. It drove me crazy for awhile�"she’d go on about how brilliant he was, but she was the only one who understood him.”

“What about his teachers? Do they see it too?”

“I doubt they do…he makes decent grades, but if they pay attention to him, it’s because he doesn’t say much, or he looks sick or something. His math teacher called a few days ago and wondered why he never spoke up in class if he knows the answers.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Well, there wasn’t anything to say. He’s just like that.”

“You said they notice if he looks sick…how often does that happen?”

“I don’t know. More often than he’s actually sick, that’s for sure. I wish they would leave him alone, he’s got enough to worry about.”

“So they ask him about these things?”

“Sometimes. And then they call me because he doesn’t know what to say to them.”

Too true, too true…and I always get in trouble for it. Did my math teacher really call? That stupid b***h…. But why didn’t he say anything? He hates getting calls from the school. Or maybe he just hates the bad calls, but doesn’t mind the good ones. Still…weird.

“Why do they think he’s sick?”

“Well…you’ve seen him. He doesn’t get out much, or eat enough I guess, and he’s got that stupid blood disease. Honestly, I could see why someone would call you guys�"probably one of his teachers. But I don’t see why you took it seriously enough to pay a visit. I’ve told the school he’s fine a hundred times.”

“Consider this our way of double-checking. If he really was being hurt, we wouldn’t want to overlook him just because of a technicality.” I’m not sure, but I think I hear a threat in there, somewhere. Or a warning.

Dad seems to hear it too. “Well, he’s just fine, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Hmm. So this blood disease�"what’s it called, exactly?”

“I’m not certain�"like I said, he never wants to go to the doctor for it�"but at his last check up they said it wasn’t anything to worry about.”

“Ah, yes�"glad you brought that up�"about that check up. Our records say that Evan hasn’t had another one for four years.”

Silence from Dad. S**t…I totally forgot about check-ups. How did Dad get me out of those for high school?

“He should have one every year, at least. Preferably twice a year. I’m sure he’s due for a few shots, and his doctor will want to make sure he’s not in any danger from this blood disease, and that he’s eating enough�"”

“He doesn’t need a doctor,” Dad snaps. “He’s fine. He eats as much as he wants to�"he’s just growing, that’s all. He doesn’t have to go to the doctor, and he doesn’t want to anyway, he won’t go, so it’s a moot point.”

“He has to go. Doesn’t his school require it?”

“They want one, yeah. But I can’t convince Evan to go. What do you want me to do, drag him in there?”

“Is he really that scared of doctors?”

“And hospitals, yeah. He hates them. I’m not making him go through that again. Even that check up was pure hell.”

I’m surprised he even remembers that doctor’s visit. I mean, I do, because it was freaking terrifying, especially when they tried to give me shots. I never wondered why he didn’t take me back�"I caused him enough trouble the first time.

“Why? What happened?”

“He freaked out, that’s what happened. Went into hysterics. And he started screaming when they tried to give him a shot, we had to hold him down.”

“But aren’t most kids scared of the doctor? Surely he’s over it by now.”

“It wasn’t like that�"he was nine, not a baby. And he never minded before his mom�"” But then he stops.

“Oh…so he’s scared because of what happened to his mom?”

“I…I guess so,” Dad says quietly. “Yeah, must have been. He thought…he picked up from somewhere that they gave his mom a shot of something, to make her die. No one could talk him out of it, either.”

“Wow…where would he pick up something like that?”

“Who knows…from cruel, ignorant people, I suppose,” Dad says viciously.

Is he�"is he sticking up for me? Is that really�"I mean, he could get rid of this guy without all this, couldn’t he? But it’s like they’re having a real conversation, not just question-and-answer.

He’s a lot better at this than I’ll ever be. I mean, he’s almost got me convinced.

“Maybe Evan’s not scared because of his mom,” the guy says casually. “Maybe his own stay in the hospital is what scared him so much.”

Uh-oh.

“I doubt it,” Dad says, his voice just as calm. “He was scared before that. How did you get his medical records anyway?”

“Your insurance company. We have our ways of getting them to help us.”

“I see…but we’ve already been asked about that. I don’t see why we would have to go through it again.”

“Well, it certainly doesn’t help your case. Plus, the records say he’s been to the hospital again since then.”

“For appendicitis. That’s fairly common, isn’t it?”

“Yes…I just wondered at your timing, that’s all. For most people, the appendix gets inflamed, they go to the doctor, it gets taken out, and there’s no harm done. But Evan’s had already ruptured, and caused a lot of damage, am I right?”

“What are you implying, exactly?” Dad says sharply.

“Well…either he was forced to wait for several days without treatment, until it ruptured under the stress…or it was ruptured due to trauma.”

“I doubt someone hit him, if that’s what you mean,” Dad snaps. “You’d have to ask him about that�"all I know is that he didn’t say anything to me until the day I took him to the ER, and I didn’t make him wait any longer than those stupid doctors did. Like I said, he’s scared of the hospital�"he didn’t want to go at all.”

The guy doesn’t respond to that�"but I doubt it’s because he’s learning not to f**k with Dad. He seems like he’s kind of an idiot.

“So,” he asks, after a pause, “Why did you decide to put Evan in foster care?”

Dead silence. Oh s**t. He dropped the f-bomb.

Finally, in a voice that’s deadly soft, Dad replies, “I suppose that’s on your records too?”

“Yes. He was in foster care for over five months, starting a couple of weeks after your wife died, and�"”

“And then I came and got him,” Dad says fiercely, every word burning with fury. I don’t need to look at him to picture the look on his face. “Is that on your records? Well, is it? I came and picked him up and signed all the papers. There shouldn’t have been any problems with that.”

“No. Just that you put him in foster care in the first place.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Dad snarls, his voice growing louder. “My wife just died, and I had my hands full just trying to sort out her will and figure out what to do with all her stuff and tell her f*****g parents�"I couldn’t take care of him. I could barely take care of myself. Evan deserved someone better than me to look after him. I lost my wife, he lost his mom, and we couldn’t help each other. So I let someone else look after him while I pulled myself together.”

“So you had him put into foster care, knowing full well that most people don’t offer up their children for the program, and most people don’t get their children back? Didn’t you try any other solution? Like his grandparents, your mom or your wife’s parents? Why would you abandon him in such a harsh situation?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Dad says angrily�"defensively. I’m holding my breath as I listen�"I’ve never heard him talk about this before. I never knew why he did that to me. “Emily’s parents didn’t want anything to do with us, don’t ask me why, I don’t know�"and my mother’s disabled. She’s in a nursing home.”

“Is she? How did that happen?”

“It’s none of your goddamn business how that happened! I don’t know what you have to gain from making me look like a bad parent, but you’re not blaming me for that! There was no one else to take him�"that was the best place for him. That’s why it’s there in the first place, isn’t it? Or did you want me to give him up for adoption, or sell him into slavery?”

“So you were always planning to come back?” the guy asks quietly. And for once, I feel a tiny bit of affection for him�"because that’s just what I wanted him to ask. Just what I wanted to know.

“Yes…well, I don’t know…I didn’t think I’d ever get my life back together, not after losing Emily. But then I realized I didn’t have a choice anyway�"her will made it perfectly clear that I had to take care of him….”

Wait, what? Her will? Why would�"I didn’t know she�"but why would she want me to stay with him? Why would she do that to me?

“But?” the social worker asks quietly, and only then do I start to wonder about that pause. Like he was leaving something out.

“But nothing,” Dad snaps. “That’s what her will said, so there was no way around it anyway.”

“So you did it because you had to? Not because you wanted to?”

“Of course I wanted to! What kind of stupid question is that? He’s my son, of course I wanted to take care of him! That just made me get it together a little faster�"I heard somewhere about a six-month deadline, so I had to make sure.”

“A six-month deadline? Do you mean for adoptions?”

“Oh�"yes, for adoptions�"but I thought it might be the same for foster care. And if I gave him up, then waited longer than six months, they wouldn’t let me have him back.”

“With good reason, too. Can you imagine what it must have been like for him?”

“No, and neither can you,” Dad snarls, his voice hard and cold. “I already said I didn’t have a choice. And it didn’t bother you people then. I answered all of this last time, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I suppose you did…Fine then. So you love Evan?”

“Yes,” Dad says firmly, surprising me. It was a lot easier for him to lie about it than it was for me. Maybe it’s easier if your feelings are cut-and-dried hatred, instead of a painful messy clusterfuck of confusion and frustration.

“What about when he gets in trouble?”

“So what?”

Ooh. Good answer, Dad. “How do you punish him?”

“I send him to his room and ground him.” His voice has just the right measure of annoyance, impatience, and resignation.

“Ground him from what?”

“Going out. Watching TV. Stuff like that.”

“Going out with his friends? Do you know them?”

“I know of them. I’ve never met them.”

“Why not?”

“Evan usually hangs out with them at school, or they go out and do things on the weekend. They don’t come over here. I mean, they’re welcome to, if his homework’s done, but he’s never asked about it.”

“Do you think he would do that sort of thing behind your back?”

“No. There’s no need to. He can reach me at any time to ask me.”

“But would you say yes?”

“If his homework’s done, if he’s not out late on a school night, and if it means he’s not alone with a girl, then he knows there’s no problem.”

“What’s wrong with him being alone with a girl? Don’t you trust him?”

Dad scoffs quietly to himself. “Not particularly. He’s fourteen, after all. I’d just rather he have a girl over when I can keep an eye on them, that’s all.”

“Has he ever asked?”

“No…guess he’s not interested yet. I’m waiting for it, though.”

“Is he allowed to have a girlfriend?”

“Well, I guess I can’t stop him. Yeah, he’s allowed, as long as he follows the rules.”

“Does he know that?”

“Yeah, he knows.”

“What about extracurriculars? Is he involved in any of those?”

“No, he doesn’t want to. He’s not interested in any of them.”

“What is he interested in?”

“Reading, mostly. And math. He’s pretty boring, for a teenager.”

What’s weird isn’t him being mean. It’s him being only slightly mean, for the first time in the whole conversation. Is this how he is around other people? Is it really just me he’s so awful to? I mean, I know he wouldn’t hit someone his own age, or yell at them, but surely a little harshness or something….

“So he actually likes math?”

“Yeah, he thinks it’s fun.” Again, I didn’t tell him this. I didn’t tell anyone this. How does he know about that, yet stay so ignorant about Kylie?

Jesus, I hope he doesn’t know about Kylie. Or ever, ever, ever find out.

“That’s pretty unusual.”

“Not really. It’s the opposite of English, right? So if you’re not an English person, you like math. That’s how I was at his age.”

I suppress a gag at this, pressing my hand over my mouth. No f*****g way I’m anything like him. I’m not. Not even teenager-him, because teenager-him grew up to be a fucked-up abusive monster.

“Well…Mr. Moore, I noticed a couple of things about Evan that worry me. I thought you might be able to shed some light on them.”

There’s a short silence, wound as tense as a piano wire. I wait, frozen in place.

“Oh?” Dad says carefully.

“Yes. A couple of…I guess you’d call them compulsive behaviors. Or indicators of something a lot more serious. I noticed that he’d check his watch every few seconds, for instance…more than most people would, even if they were running late. Does he always do that?”

Another silence. Then Dad says, with no emotion at all, “Yes.”

“Why do you think he does that?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never asked. What’s the problem? It’s just a watch.”

“It’s not really that, it’s just that an obsession with time can be part of a much bigger problem, like OCD. And that wasn’t the only compulsive behavior I noticed. He’s almost constantly moving his hands, touching his wrists, things like that�"and he seems very anxious, or keyed up maybe. And sits very still, and has an unusually stiff posture�"not very common for someone his age. And he never looked either of us directly in the eyes. Not once.”

What the hell. Do I really do all of that? I never noticed.

“So what?” Dad says angrily, surprising me yet again�"to stand up for me, sure, but so fiercely? What’s the point? Or is he just being defensive? “He’s always been like that. He’s just nervous, that’s all�"what, did you think he’d be happy to see you? Last time you people were here, you had him convinced that he was going to be dragged off somewhere! Why wouldn’t he be nervous?”

“No, I understand that�"it’s just that it could be a bigger problem than that. Maybe a caffeine overdose?”

“A caffeine�"?! He doesn’t even�"what’s the big deal? So what if you think he acts weird? He’s just fine, he’ll tell you so himself.”

“He just seems very anxious…maybe even depressed. It’s hard to�"”

“Depressed? He’s just a serious kid, there’s nothing wrong with him, you’re just making up problems that don’t even exist�"”

“Please calm down, Mr. Moore. I wasn’t accusing either of you or anything, just expressing concern. If he does have OCD, or anxiety, or even an eating disorder, that’s all too easy to�"”

“My son isn’t a goddamn anorexic, he gets plenty to eat! What do you want me to do, force-feed him a steak every night?”

“Well…maybe his diet could be adjusted to�"”

“No. He’s just fine the way he is.”

“Listen, Mr. Moore…I wish Evan was perfectly fine as much as you do.” Hah. Yeah right. “But he might not be�"he has too much stacked against him. Being introverted, or a little nervous, or having some little habits aren’t bad things in and of themselves, but all together�"and added with his mother dying�"”

“His mother has nothing to do with this,” Dad snarls.

What’s he doing? He’s being way too obvious.

“Maybe she does�"we don’t know. But it obviously still bothers him�"and it must have had a huge effect on him. You said that he thought she was killed when he was younger, not that she died from an illness. That alone is enough reason to put a child into therapy for a little while. And if he was in foster care�"”

“Therapy? He doesn’t need therapy, he’s just fine.”

“He might. Have you asked him?”

“No. I know what his answer will be.”

“Well, maybe you should ask him anyway. He might like the idea.”

“Evan doesn’t need someone to pry into his life and put him on medication.”

“He doesn’t have to go to a psychiatrist. Just a regular counselor will do it.”

“If he needed to talk about his feelings or whatever, he can come to me. He just doesn’t want to.”

“Well, it’s worth asking him, just to be sure, don’t you think?”

There’s a brief silence, in which I can practically hear Dad fuming.

“And another thing bothered me,” the social worker says, and his voice makes something inside me clench painfully; I sit very still and listen hard, sensing trouble.

“And what would that be?” Dad replies, in a voice of forced calm.

“Evan seems very good at evading questions, and giving just the right answers. Too good.”

Another silence. My eyes are squeezed shut; I can almost feel Dad’s tension.

They know. They caught us.

The man goes on, his voice eerily calm and cool�"and for the first time since he came, I start to fear that he’s a real threat to us. “We’ve interviewed kids that have been abused and kids that haven’t, Mr. Moore. We know all the tricks. We know what the kid’s’ll try to do, to cover for their parents. And we know what the parents will get the kids to do, to protect themselves. He did a good job, I’ll give him that…but just because he gives all the right answers doesn’t mean that he has me convinced.”

S**t….

I am in so much trouble.

Dad, say something…get him the f**k out of here…surely they can’t take me because�"because they thought I was acting….

How could he know? How did he guess that after I freaked out and lost my nerve when they came years ago, that after he got rid of them and punished me, Dad sat me down and drilled me again and again on what to say, and how to act normal? Is it really that common? And was it really that easy to tell?

Finally, Dad speaks up, his voice a low growl.

“Get out of my house.”

But there’s no sound. The guy doesn’t move.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Moore?”

“I said, get out of my house! Isn’t it enough that you came in here and scared my son half to death? So now you’re going to accuse him of lying, just because he didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear? How is he supposed to make up a bunch of lies when he’s already so nervous? How is he supposed to act like you want him to, either? What did you expect him to act like? Go on, call him back down, ask him whatever you want, and he’ll tell you the truth, every goddamn time. He’s got nothing to hide! And if you paranoid b******s can’t see that, then fine, go ahead and take him�"but just know that I will have a court date set before you get out of your goddamn car. And I will get him back. You are not taking my son away from me, I won’t let you, and if my rights as his biological father aren’t enough, then you just try fighting his mother’s will, see how far you get! But you are not going to treat my son like that�"if he tells you the truth, then you idiots should realize that it’s the goddamn truth. Now get out.”

In spite of myself, I want to thank him. I know he didn’t do it for my sake, but he still did it. And there’s nothing else for the guy to say, is there? Because Dad’s right, wills are sacred, practically law, and if Mom really said that I have to stay with him�"for whatever fucked-up reason; maybe she even saw this coming�"then I’m staying. That’s it.

But still, the guy stays put. “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve finished, Mr. Moore,” he says smoothly. “I represent the U.S. government, and as I’ve already showed you, I’m legally allowed to be here and act as I see fit.”

There’s another long silence. Dad seems to be trying to control himself. Maybe he’s caught on that yelling at and threatening someone who’s accusing you of being abusive isn’t the best idea.

“Did you know that you’re still wearing your wedding ring, Mr. Moore?” the guy asks pleasantly.

“What?” Dad says blankly, caught off guard. “Oh…yes,” he murmurs.

Did he forget? Lucky. I sure as hell can’t. That stupid thing left a scar on my face. Maybe I’d appreciate the irony if it hadn’t hurt so goddamn much.

“Why’s that?” the guy asks him. “Don’t you ever want to get remarried?”

I listen carefully, frowning.

“No,” Dad says forcefully. “Never.” He pauses, then adds, “Emily was…I could never love anyone else. That’s why I married her. And I wear it because…well, it won’t come off,” he mutters. “But it’s�"she’s wearing hers. Right now. So I have to wear mine.”

That’s…why didn’t I notice that? Why didn’t I remember? I can remember it now, though�"that pale, still, mannequin version of my mother, dressed in unfamiliar, uncharacteristic clothes, wearing too much makeup, one of the hands folded across her chest sparkling under the fluorescent lights. Her diamond wedding ring.

I never noticed her wearing it when she was alive.

And I never thought about why Dad always wore his. I’ve never seen him without it. And he’s not lying�"he literally can’t take it off, his finger grew too much around it. Even if he could, it would leave a scar.

It would be really romantic, actually, if he’d loved her this much when she’d actually been alive. And if he’d�"

No. No no no. Not with this guy here. I think he can read minds.

I hear someone stand up�"the guy, maybe? Hopefully? But now I kind of want him to stay; he can’t just stir up trouble like this, ask all these questions, bring up Mom and Mom’s parents and me, call Dad out on his lying, and then just leave me to deal with the consequences….

“Well, Mr. Moore,” the guy says, his tone light and pleasant again. “You’re right in one point�"I can’t take some poor child away from his home with such insubstantial evidence. Officially, I can’t even sign him or you up for therapy. But I think you’d really benefit from it�"especially Evan. It certainly won’t make him worse. And you might consider anger management classes, too�"that and family therapy are what we usually get abusive households to do, because it helps everyone work out their problems, gets rid of all the bad feelings, and gets everyone off your back, including CPS, without taking your child away. Just a small step like that will definitely make us think twice about visiting again. But it’s your decision.”

“Just leave already,” Dad snaps back.

They move into the front hall. There’s some muted conversation that I don’t catch�"I’m already hurrying as quietly as possible back into my room to hide.

Downstairs, I hear the door slam shut.

I can’t think of anything at all�"my brain is one huge chaotic buzz of panic. I raise one arm, automatically, to my mouth�"but then I remember what that guy said, that he noticed me holding myself back from doing that, and something inside me falters. I press my hands to my face instead.

It’s 7:43:29.

It’s Day 2103.

It’s a Wednesday.

2103 days is 300 weeks and 3 days.

175.25 months.

5.75 years.

50,472 hours�"

“EVAN!”

S**t….

“EVAN! GET THE F**K DOWN HERE!”

No, no, no….

“EVAN!”

But I have to go. I have to. It’ll be worse if I don’t�"

I don’t want to do this. No, I can’t do this. And yet I am�"I’m walking down the hall, down the stairs, like a sleepwalker, even though I…

This is going to be….

Dad is waiting for me downstairs, looking utterly furious. I walk numbly over to him, hearing a strange ringing in my ears.

“You little s**t!” Dad yells at me, grabbing my arm and shaking me. “What the f**k were you doing? WHAT THE F**K WAS THAT ABOUT? Why do I keep having to deal with your bullshit? ANSWER ME!”

He shoves me away from him; I catch myself on the wall, blinking hard, but my eyes won’t focus again. “I didn’t tell them,” I mumble. “I swear I didn’t�"”

But then he snaps: he lunges at me and slaps me, again and again and again, and through the deafening noise I hear him shouting: “Well they were�"f*****g�" over here�"weren’t they�"you stupid�"useless�"child�"and I’ve had it�"with this s**t�"”

What is he�"?

It’s like my ears are stuffed with cotton. Like my brain’s surrounded by it too. It’s taking a long time for everything to register….

These black spots start popping up in my vision�"and then, out of nowhere, I can’t tell in which direction gravity’s pulling me anymore�"feels like all of them….

I blink, and there’s a moment of clarity: Dad’s holding me up by my arm, still shaking me, still shouting, but his voice sounds very far away, and I can’t understand what he’s talking about.

Who did it? Who told?

It wasn’t me.

Is that me, making those weird squeaky sounds?

Even the pain is far away now, shoved into a remote corner of my brain…and filling the rest of it is absolutely nothing. Blankness. Blurriness.

What’s wrong with me? I think I’m going to pass out….

Or…die. Maybe.

But I can’t make myself care very much.

Dad’s hand leaves my arm, which is burning and throbbing, stinging all over with tiny needles.

And then it finds my throat.

A tiny patch of my blurring vision sharpens, narrows, clarifies�"like the wrong end of a telescope.

And then even that starts to fade.

I can feel myself kicking, my fingernails scratching at his hands and arms�"but it does nothing at all, of course. And my lungs are burning, and shriveling up�"

My head hurts.

Would I die before or after my eyes pop out?

Please let it be before.

Is he still yelling? I can’t hear him anymore�"all I can hear is this high pitched whine, like static feedback from a microphone, growing louder and louder and�"

And then I can breathe again; I hear myself breathing, gasping in, sobbing out, and then the pain eases up, and I blink, and I can see again, and my head’s not spinning anymore�"

What am I doing on the floor?

I sway dizzily, holding myself up by my elbows, and wonder if it’s me rocking back and forth, or the whole world tilting on its axis….

God, I hope I don’t throw up.

Dad’s foot slams into my stomach, hard; I choke and gag, all the breath knocked out of me again, the pain sharpening just like everything else.

But nothing gains real clarity, loses all the fuzzy edges, until Dad drags me to my feet and forward, down the hall.

To an open door, the inside pitch black.

I hear myself start to scream, so loudly that it hurts my own ears and burns my throat, and then everything is crystal clear.

“NO!” I shout right into his face, starting to bite and scratch at the hand closed around my wrist, desperate, heedless. And this time it works�"this time he yells in pain, and I’ve drawn blood, and his grip loosens for a second�"

But before I can remember how to use my feet, something hits me, and my head slams into the wall.

The world’s all blurry again. And the pain’s retreated�"not so much screaming in my head, more like a horror movie two rooms away, watched by someone who can’t decide if the bloody screaming parts should be louder or quieter than the rest of the movie.

But I keep fighting. I can still hear myself shrieking at him: “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t tell them! You can’t�"you can’t�"not in there, it’s�"please, Dad, please, I didn’t do it, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, no, no, no, I’m not going in there, you can’t make me�"please don’t�"STOP IT! YOU CAN’T�"”

But it’s too late. I’m already halfway in the door. And now I’m sobbing, begging, but it’s not working�"he’s yelling back, hitting me, but I’ve got a grip on his shirt, I’m not letting go�"

The door slams on my wrist, hard.

I scream in pain, but I automatically cling tighter instead of letting go, and then he does it again�"and it feels like he’s ripping my hand off, and I have to let go of him and clutch at it, my face hot and wet with tears I don’t remember coming, and it hurts, God it hurts, and�"

The door slams shut, drowning me in darkness.

For one moment I’m frozen, my eyes wide open, even though I can’t see, my ears straining in the sudden silence�"and then I hear something, and I picture the walls pressing in, and I hear myself start screaming as I fling my arms out, my hands knocking against the walls, fumbling across the tiles, it’s too small, too small, and it’s moving in�"

I find the door and start pounding on it, sobbing hysterically, feeling something creeping up on me in the dark, wrapping around my shoulders, my neck�"

The door flies open suddenly, and the light’s so strong it hurts�"I recoil, stumbling into something behind me, and then Dad’s fist slams into my jaw.

When I next open my eyes, I’m in the dark again, remembering stumbling backward, tripping over something, taking a long, long time to hit the floor. And there’s a clattering at the door, like someone’s shaking the doorknob to pieces.

I hide my face in my hands and start to cry, curling up on the tile, inching toward the tiny thread of light under the door and away from anything touching me, crying so hard that it hurts, now that no one can hear me.

It’s not like it’s a prison. Or a torture chamber. It’s just a bathroom, a tiny one, with a toilet and a sink, and barely enough room in between for me to stretch out my arms.

It’s too small. And getting smaller. Caving in.

No. It can’t be. It can’t. Not even a little bit. Because he’ll�"he’ll leave me in here, and it’ll�"and I’ll be�"

I press my aching face against the tiles and take several deep breaths, trying very hard to breathe without sobbing. When I finally manage it, I reach up, wincing at the agonizing throbbing pulsing from my wrist, and brush my fingers against the little tile closest to the wall.

One.

I run my fingers carefully down the tile, pausing when I cross a tiny line of grout and find the next tile.

Two.

I inch my way down to the tile at eye level, then to one near my stomach, then, finally, after a lot of painful shifting, the one against the far wall.

62.

I do it again, the other way.

87. And a half.

Then I count them again. And then I try to calculate how many tiles there are, total, on the whole floor. There should be 5,425, right?

I count, to be sure. There’s actually a lot less, because the tiles have to stop at the sink and toilet. But I can’t be sure how many, because I can’t reach behind the toilet, and they’re so tiny at the base of the sink, and fractions make my head hurt….

I reach up for the doorknob, then, just to make sure. But it won’t turn. Dad jammed the inner mechanism with a screwdriver�"it’s not the first time he’s done it.

Not the first time he’s made me stay in here.

It doesn’t get any easier. It’s so dark, and small, and�"and the ceiling’s coming down, I know it is, it’s just the kind of thing he’d do�"

And I’m gonna run out of air. And I’ll suffocate.

Or starve.

Or he could set the house on fire, and I wouldn’t be able to….

He could do anything, he could let a snake in here if he wanted to, or a dog, or poison, or he could just leave me here forever, and I can’t do anything…it’s too small, there’s not enough room….

I don’t know what hurts more: my stomach, my arm, or my head. I curl up in a ball, pressing my face against the crack at the bottom of the door in hopes of a taste of fresh air.

I can’t stop myself from crying, even when I’m not hyperventilating so much anymore. But what’s it matter? Who’s here to see me, or stop me?

I start counting, just for some distraction. By the time I get to 500, the crying’s stopped; I can’t stop myself from shivering, it’s freezing in here, but I can’t make myself care, either. At least the pain’s not so bad, not when I can barely feel my fingers. And I know I’ll be able to sleep soon.

I just wish my head would stop pounding….