He hits the ground on his back, legs in the air like a dead bug.
Several heads peer over the back of the sofa at him. Like they’re seeing him, really seeing him.
Oh no.
Behind them, the TV blazes red and black as blood sprays.
Sam opens his mouth – to defend himself? Explain? Say watching this movie is like shoving a knife beneath his ribs because of all the things he’s done?
Then the weird silence is broken by Jack’s bark of laughter. ‘Did you see his face? Holy shit, kid, have you not seen this movie before?’
Footsteps pad upstairs and the De Lainey father’s voice trails down, softly warning. ‘Jack. If I have to pull up your language one more time tonight, you’re losing your phone.’
‘Child abuse,’ Jack mutters. ‘How is his hearing so good?’
Jeremy pats his shoulder. ‘Only for you and your swearing, buddy. If we’re asking to use the car, he can’t hear a thing.’
Sam picks himself up, wondering if he should bolt for the door to get away from this suffocating humiliation. His face is so hot, his clothes so tight.
Moxie’s shoulders shake softly and it takes Sam a long, blurred moment to realise she’s laughing.
‘This one,’ she says, gasping, ‘is precious.’
‘I think he’s actually scared, guys.’ Jeremy half rises off the chair, like he’s going to – what? Pat Sam’s back and tell him it’s just all fake, Sammy boy. Fake blood! Fake demons! You’re OK!
Sam wants to bury himself. He avoids everyone’s eyes as he slowly climbs back over the sofa and sits.
‘I’m not … scared.’ Sam picks up a pillow and tries to dissolve behind it.
‘You nearly pissed yourself,’ Jack says.
Jeremy hits him.
Moxie is still laughing silently, a hand over her mouth.
The room hushes again as they watch the last minutes of the film where everyone predictably dies or turns into a monster and it’s so depressing that Sam keeps his face in the pillow.
Suddenly Moxie’s mouth is very close to Sam’s ear and he stops breathing.
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice is soft as sand and sea. ‘I shouldn’t have laughed. Are you OK?’
The question beats against his ribs and he wants to hold it for ever. Pathetic, pathetic Sam.
‘I’m fine.’ Is his voice really that high or is he just hyper aware of his body right now?
He pretends to watch again, but Moxie is still looking at him as credits roll and guests peel themselves up and look for car keys and shoes.
‘There’s still part two,’ Jack says.
Sam might be sick.
‘It’s past eleven.’ Moxie licks popcorn salt off her thumb. ‘So you guys better get out of my house.’
‘Hey, I live here,’ Jack says.
Moxie sighs. ‘To my permanent annoyance.’
Boys head for the door, fake tackling and joking about the movie as they leave. This is the part where Sam slips away. Which means this day, this perfect and unprecedented day, is over. He’ll never have this again.
He has to leave.
No one notices as he slips from the darkened room, nimbly circuiting toys and highchairs, while his fingers catch up his backpack straps.
The front door hangs open, night air and stars and long empty streets at his fingertips. The twins hang off the veranda rails, waving goodbye to friends. Friends that Sam’s supposed to be leaving with.
Sam looks at the stairs.
He wouldn’t dare.
The De Lainey father appears then, scrubbing a hand through his shock of dark hair. Most of his attention is on counting the bodies still downstairs. His eyes rest on Sam.
Sam hates being looked at – not hard, not closely, not by adults. Adults either don’t see him or use slaps to get answers.
‘Thanks for coming, Sam,’ says Mr De Lainey.
He remembers Sam’s name?
‘Hope you had a good camping trip with the boys.’
‘Yeah,’ Sam says. ‘I m-mean, it was great.’
‘Good, good.’ The smile is warm. It’s real. Mr De Lainey looks tired, but soft happiness rests behind his eyes. ‘See you again soon, son. Have a safe trip home.’
‘I will – I mean, yes sir.’ Sam’s eyes flick to the stairs.
You wouldn’t dare—
Sam’s throat is tight. ‘I just have to get something from upstairs?’
Mr De Lainey smiles and waves for him to go. He reaches for the kettle and a mug.
Sam bolts for the stairs.
He takes them two at a time, his backpack jingling with a hundred stolen sins.
No one will notice if he doesn’t come back downstairs.
No one will go into that office this late.
No one will see a homeless boy curled in an overstuffed chair under the window.
Sam closes the office door behind him and lowers himself into the armchair, his heavy backpack pressed tight to his chest. The room still smells of summer days and toast crumbs and … safety. He’ll leave tomorrow. First chance. This is stupid, reckless, but it’s just one night and then he’s gone for ever.
One last night that feels strangely like … home.
Sammy is eight and it’s war at the kitchen table.
Dinner was technically two hours ago, but they still sit there, listening to Aunt Karen in the next room yelling on the phone. Sammy swings his legs, loose shoelaces clacking against the plastic chair as he alternates between his and Avery’s homework. Avery’s is harder, being a year ahead at school, and he works fine in class – but at home? He gets overwhelmed and cries. He gets that way about a lot of things.
Like the broccoli and bean casserole on his plate right now.
Avery’s face is damp and red, his hair plastered to his face with sweat. He had a meltdown for the first hour, while Aunt Karen shouted that he was too old for this and kept shoving him back in the chair. Then he changed to screaming, then to high-pitched keening, and now he’s quiet – exhausted and slowly beating his forearms against the table till they bruise purple.
He’s ten. He’s getting too much for Aunt Karen to pin down.
That’s why she’s on the phone.
‘—complete rubbish, Clay. They’re not my kids!’
Avery flicks his fingers in front of his eyes between beating his arms.