A tap on my window causes me to almost jump out of my skin. I spin around and reach for the latch, sliding the window up.
“Your parents are fucking assholes,” Colt says, climbing into my bedroom with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He’s soaking wet, having been caught in the rain. Droplets of water cling to his eyelashes and slip down his face but he doesn’t wipe them away.
“I know,” I say. They are assholes, though I’d never be brazen enough to say that word out loud. I think it though.
He dumps his backpack on my bed and pulls out a sleeping bag and pillow.
“What are you doing?” I move closer to see what else he has packed in that bag.
“You know you have no food in this joint.” He pulls out a few plates wrapped in foil from the bottom of his bag.
The tomato and garlic smell hits me, almost knocks me over. When was the last time I had a hot cooked meal that didn’t come from school? Too long.
Pulling back the foil, my stomach rolls and does a happy dance. It’s never been so happy to see food before. Lasagna, rice, mashed potatoes, sandwiches, roast beef. So much food. My mouth waters and I snatch a sandwich off the plate while Colt unrolls his sleeping bag in the center of my room.
Colt helps himself to food once he has his bed set up on the floor. I don’t question him, figuring he’ll tell me what he’s thinking and feeling when he’s ready. So we eat in silence, and once there isn’t a single scrap of food left, and my belly is so full it’s about to burst, we switch off the light and climb into our beds.
Colt’s breathing is loud in the quiet of the room. I’m not used to having another person in my space. I’ve never had a friend sleepover before, never been to a friend’s house. I’ve never had a friend before.
“Thank you,” he whispers in the dark.
I roll onto my side and stare at the space where he lies. “What for?”
“For not asking me if I’m okay. For not telling me you’re sorry. Or things will get better.”
I press my lips together. It must be awful to lose someone you care about.
“Thank you for the food,” I say. “And not asking me questions either.”
Colt yawns. “Good night, Emerson.”
“Good night, Colt.”
I drift to sleep and when I wake in the morning, my room is empty except for a plate covered in foil sitting on my window ledge.
First Hug
Colt – 10 years old
* * *
I shove the front door open, swearing under my breath as it swings wide and slams into the wall before swinging back at me. I kick it closed, hard enough the windows on each side rattle.
“Hey. Enough of that,” Dad growls, walking into the entry. “What’s going on?”
“He’s an asshole.”
“Who?” Dad frowns, wiping his hands on the dish towel.
I bounce on the balls of my feet and raise my arm in the direction of Em’s house. “That fuckbucket next door.”
“Language, son,” Dad warns but his smile is there, pulled between his teeth to hide his amusement.
“Tell me he’s not a fuckweasel.”
“Never said he wasn’t, just reminding you to calm down and watch your language.”
“I’ll watch my language when that fucknugget watches his.”
“Colt.”
“Fine. That intercourse-lord just killed my ball.”
Dad throws his head back and laughs. It’s a deep, rumbling laugh that I haven’t heard for so long. Sure, he laughs, but not like that. Not since Mom died.
“Intercourse-lord?” he gasps.
I shrug. “Would you rather I say fucklord?”
Dad sighs. “No.”
“Then intercourser it is.”
“Okay, tell me what that…intercourse-head did?”
“He ran over my ball, yelled at Em so much she ran inside crying, then told me I’m…” I stop. I can’t repeat what Em’s dad said to me, it’ll hurt my dad.
Me? I just glared at the twat and clenched my fists when he said, “Lucky I didn’t kill you too, just like your mother.”
Dad’s back stiffens and he stands at full height. He’s intimidating when he wants to be. “Told you what?”
“Nothing. He told me I had to be more careful.” That was a lie, and Dad knows it too, judging by the way he tilts his head and studies me with narrowed eyes.
Dad goes to the cupboard under the stairs and pulls out a new basketball for me. “Stay away from next door.”
“I can’t promise that. Em’s my friend.” I think. Sort of. We don’t see a lot of each other outside school because it’s not very often she’s allowed to leave her house.
Dad nods in understanding. He’s done everything he can to help Em over the years. The police won’t do shit without evidence and Em’s mom always covers for her dad. Child services won’t do anything either because that son of a bitch is too good at covering his own ass and acting like everything is perfect.
With my new ball tucked under my arm, I run up the stairs to my room and rush to my window hoping Em is in her room and not being punished for being a damn kid.
She’s sitting by her window, arms folded on the ledge and her head buried in them. Throwing one leg over the window frame followed by the other, I climb out and sit on the roof facing her.
“You’ll fall,” Em shouts across the distance, raising her hand as though she can catch me if I do, before bringing her hands to her mouth to muffle her voice. She squeezes her eyes shut.
I chuckle. “I won’t fall.”
She peeks at me with one eye open. Pulling my knees up, I wrap my arms around them and rock back and forth. Always needing to move. Mom used to joke about me being a can of worms, always wriggling and squirming. Not a can of worms, just on the spectrum.
“Are you okay?” She chews on her bottom lip.
My mouth twists into a grin and I shrug. “Of course.”
People don’t often worry about me, except Dad. I’m too cold. Too mean. Too void of any emotion, or so my teachers tell me. The doctor says I don’t feel empathy because I don’t care about other people or their feelings, and as a result my feelings get brushed aside and no one cares about me. I like it better that way. No feelings means no pain.
That’s why her dad’s words didn’t upset me. I know they were cruel, and I know I should have got upset over them, but I didn’t because I don’t care.
Dad though, he would care.
“I’m sorry about the ball and...” She trails off, unsure how to finish her sentence. How do you apologize for someone else’s actions? “My dad... He’s—”
“An asshole,” I offer with a smile. At least I didn’t call him a fuckstick.
“Colt.” She giggles, and the sound is sweet and light, making my heart thump a little harder. “You can’t say that.”
“It’s true though.”
She nods.
“Are you okay?” I ask, tapping my foot on the roof.
“Sometimes I wish I could leave here. I hate them fighting all the time.”