flick
thump
flick
thump
Sammy scrawls answers into homework he doesn’t understand. The phone call, however, he understands just fine.
‘—foster home. I do not want these goddamn boys. I warn you—’
Sammy glances at Avery, who’s now blinking slowly like he might fall asleep in his plate. It’s been a year since their dad beat the hell out of him, but there’s a small scar in the left corner of his mouth. A forever scar.
To remind Sammy he has to always, always protect his brother.
Their aunt gives a frustrated shout and then goes silent. Call over. She strides into the kitchen, all hard edges and splinters. She wears bright chunky jewellery and her cheeks are sunken and her lips know only frowns.
‘Well, the police finally caught up with your father,’ she says. ‘Theft, drugs, assault – he’s in prison for a while.’
Sammy thought she’d be smug about it. But the dark circles under her eyes and the twitchy way she reaches for another cigarette says it doesn’t cancel out the fact she has two nephews at her table that she couldn’t want less.
‘Which means you’re still staying with me, because who knows where your mother is.’ Her eyes cut to Avery and the cold plate before him. Untouched except for the bit Sammy tried to eat to cover for him when Aunt Karen’s back was turned. His ear still smarts from being caught and slapped too. ‘But if I don’t see some attitude adjustments …’ She breaks off, taking a savage drag of the cigarette.
Sammy’s legs freeze, mid-swing, shoelaces making a final clack. ‘You’ll send us to a foster home?’
‘Avery, for certain.’ Her lips twist, angry and bitter. ‘Someone can look after him who specialises in naughty little boys with special needs.’
She says that like it’s fake. Like Avery is trying to be difficult.
Frantic fluttering crawls up Sammy’s throat. Leaving Aunt Karen doesn’t worry him, but they’d separate him and Avery, wouldn’t they? That can’t happen. He’s Avery’s protector, his everything. He looks wildly at Avery, but Avery’s popped his hands in his pockets – where he keeps his toy car, secret so no one can take it. He’s not listening.
Sammy’s words come choked. ‘But, please, you c-can’t. We have to be together—’
Aunt Karen slaps a hand in front of Avery’s plate and he jumps. ‘Then eat your dinner, right now.’
‘He can’t—’ Sammy starts, but Aunt Karen cuts him off with an impatient gesture.
‘He can and will do as he’s told.’
Avery growls at her.
‘Fine.’ She stomps to the kitchen. ‘You’re getting the wooden spoon and some consequences.’
Sammy’s out of his chair, blood flooding his face in hot waves. He trips on his shoelaces while the world presses granite fists against his chest, a suffocating weight that whispers save him save him that’s your job.
Why can’t she just let him eat fish fingers every day? He loves those. Avery doesn’t like how casserole tastes or how it feels in his mouth or how it’s mixed together or how his plate is so full it scares him to start. It hurts him. Sammy could tell her this if she listened.
If anyone listened.
But he is the invisible boy and no one cares.
Aunt Karen marches back, a wooden spoon in hand, but Sammy snatches the plate full of sticky, congealed casserole and flies across the room with it. He throws it in the bin – plate, bean sludge, fork and all.
Avery’s eyes widen.
Aunt Karen spins on Sammy. ‘How dare you—’
And then Sammy grabs Avery’s hand, pulling him from the table and the tear stains and the oncoming smacks from an aunt who doesn’t want these goddamn boys.
They’re out the front door while Aunt Karen is still yelling. ‘Stay out there like animals then!’
The door slams. The lock clicks.
Night air kisses Avery’s wet cheeks and frolics fingers through Sammy’s curls. They’re used to this, but it’s cold tonight.
Avery’s hands flutter. ‘I c-c-can’t—’
‘I know.’ Sammy pets his arm. ‘Just let me think. I could …’ He glances across the street at Mr Shepherd’s garage, which is always open, showing his pack rat collection of boxes and junk and rusted-out machines. ‘I could steal some tools.’ Excitement flickers in his voice. ‘I could undo the window locks and we can go to bed.’
Avery pulls his car out of his pocket and runs it over his face.
‘I could steal some biscuits too. You like biscuits.’ He strokes Avery’s arm, anxious again, because Avery’s so thin, and even though he’s playing with his car, there’s no flood of babyish calm in his eyes like there used to be.
His eyes are just sad.
‘If Aunt Karen doesn’t want us, we can find our own house.’ Sammy takes Avery’s hand to cross the road.
‘Can you do that?’ Avery whispers. ‘Steal houses?’
‘Yeah,’ Sammy says. ‘Yeah, of course I can.’
Sam goes through the desk drawers in the De Lainey office, listening to the family stomp through a Monday morning. It sounds very traumatic. The two little kids are tag-team crying. Jack and Moxie lock in a shouting match. No one can find car keys. They’re out of groceries and their dad confesses there’s no money today, but tomorrow he’ll fix it. Dash says she’s leaving home. For ever.
‘You’ll be fine with the kids, Moxie!’ Mr De Lainey says, but he has to shout because the kids are, well, screaming and Moxie answers with a wail.
Goodbyes are hollered. The front door slams. Engines fade down the road.
Sam finds an envelope of cash crammed in the back of a drawer with ‘for emergencies’ scribbled over it. He picks up. Puts it back. How can he take it when their dad was just saying they had no money for groceries? He’s obviously saving this for worst-case scenarios.
But Sam is a thief. This is what he does, isn’t it?
He stuffs the wad of notes into his pocket, guilt wrapped around his throat.
He pokes his head out the door.
The house is suddenly quiet.
Sam slips across the hall and peeks through the stairwell. A De Lainey-flavoured explosion has hit. Someone’s pyjamas have been threaded through the railings and a bowl of half-eaten cereal sits on the second step. A sea of blocks covers the floors and the TV flashes a muted kiddie show.