He stuffs another wad of toilet paper up his bloody nose and tips his head backwards against the brick school wall. Shouts and voices have dimmed as kids load into buses. Now there’s just the pound of a basketball on the court where stragglers play – where Sammy sits forgotten in the corner. Bloody. Tired.
Shoes slap on the court and kids shout in annoyance as Avery suddenly hurtles through the middle. His shirt is inside out, collar popped, tags fluttering.
He looks happy.
Sammy’s worried.
Avery arrives out of breath and drops to his knees in front of Sammy, fingers fluttering. ‘I kissed someone.’ His eyes are the darkest seaglass, shimmering with anticipation.
Sammy stares at him.
‘I kissed Elle,’ Avery says. ‘But she said “no way” to being my actual girlfriend and to ask someone else so I asked if it has to be a girl or can it be a boy and she laughed and said whatever I want –’ he speaks faster and faster ‘– and did you know you can pick whoever you want, which is good because sometimes boys are as pretty as girls and she said she’ll still kiss me sometimes because I’m cute and dumb and then her brother West is fixing up his uncle’s Hyundai and said I can hang out and watch if I want and—’
‘OK, whoa. Stop.’ Sammy pulls the paper out of his nose. ‘You’re talking way too fast.’
Not just talking. He’s going way too fast for Sammy to keep up. In everything. Being a year above Sam in high school means Avery isn’t around him all the time and is instead watching fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds – watching and copying and wanting.
He’s going too fast.
He’s not like them.
He’s going to get hurt.
Sammy claws for words, but they sift through his mouth like sand. ‘You can’t go around kissing. Not yet.’
‘Why not?’ Avery rips at the dandelion weeds in the cement cracks.
Sammy tries to steady himself. He aches. The cut under his eye where a backpack buckle clipped him is swelling and he’s trying not to use his left hand until he figures out if his fingers are just bruised or – worse.
He’s not ready for this kind of conversation with Avery.
‘Because,’ he says, closing his eyes, ‘they’re messing with you. To hurt you.’
Avery frowns. ‘Or maybe they like me.’
Sammy’s about to say ‘as if’ but catches himself. He knows this school is full of rejects and cruel smiles and barred windows, but does it matter if Avery can’t see that? Isn’t that nice for him? ‘Are you sure these kids want to be your “friends”?’
‘Yes.’
Sammy cuts him a hard look. ‘Do you even care about them or just the fact you can see a car being fixed?’
Avery opens his mouth. Closes it. His bottom lip juts out and he looks wounded. ‘I want to go to their house and maybe learning to fix cars can help me get an after-school job at a mechanic’s somewhere.’ His voice brightens. ‘I could earn money, right? Money for our house.’
This is Sammy’s wish, the dream he holds like a broken box, careful so the edges don’t cave in. He talks about it when they lie in bed, Avery crushed against his side because he sleeps better when he’s back to back with his brother, matching their breaths.
Sammy has the dull feeling that he’s being manipulated.
‘Did you say you’re going with them now?’ Sammy says.
‘Yup.’ Avery points to the front gate where a group of teens is messing about, waiting.
Not the kind of people Sammy wants Avery around. All crass jokes and cold smirks.
Does Sammy want Avery around anyone? OK, fine. No. He’d keep him in his pocket if he could, safe and warm, with hands over his ears when kids start shouting sick slurs at him because of his tics. There are a few kids at school who are nice enough, like August and her boyfriend, but Avery can’t tell the difference between someone laughing with him and at him. He picks friends badly.
‘You’re not going to anyone’s house,’ Sammy says. ‘We’re going back to Aunt Karen’s.’
Avery’s eyes narrow. ‘You don’t want me to have friends.’
‘That’s not—’
‘You don’t think I deserve anything good to happen to me.’ He starts rocking on his heels, eyes damp.
How’s Sam supposed to explain? How’s he supposed to be fiercely proud Avery’s growing up and fiercely protective at the same time?
He doesn’t know how to let go of Avery. Doesn’t think it’s the right time.
‘Look,’ he says, soft and calming so Avery stops the wild rocking. ‘Look, there are rules for this sort of thing, OK?’
‘OK.’
Sammy clutches for handholds in this slippery surface. ‘The rules … well, you can’t kiss people and hang out at their houses if …’ He sees Avery’s fingers slipping into his pocket. Ah, perfect. ‘If you still have toy cars.’ Sammy tries to keep the triumph out of his voice. ‘You can’t have both. It’s like being a kid versus growing up. You either have the toy or you have kissing.’
No way is Avery going to give up that car.
A reason amongst millions that he’s not ready for this.
Avery pulls the toy car out of his pocket. It’s silver now, paint worn off and wheels gone and edges smooth from six years being comfortingly thumbed in Avery’s pocket. He flips it over with long thin fingers, staring.
Sammy tests his nose. Still bloody? He wads up more paper and knows he won and they can go home. Sam will make sandwiches and Avery will trawl the newspaper for houses they can dream could be theirs and—
‘OK.’ Avery puts the toy car in Sammy’s hand.
Sammy’s heart gives a thin, thudding leap and then just—
stops.
Avery bounces to his feet. ‘I’ll be back at six or something.’ His eyes flick to the teens by the gate. One waves him over.
Sammy’s fingers close over the toy car. ‘W-wait. What exactly are you – wait, Avery, we need to talk about—’ He snatches a corner of Avery’s shirt. ‘Please, just listen. Don’t do … don’t …’ He wants to rip out his hair. ‘No kissing and don’t let anyone touch you.’
Avery looks down quizzically at Sammy currently touching his shirt.
‘I mean,’ Sammy says, teeth grating, ‘under your clothes. If clothes cover it, you can’t touch it. It’s the rule, OK? Till you’re … eighteen.’