A List of Cages

by Robin Roe

  “Good. He totally kicked ass at laser tag last Saturday.” This makes her smile. “But he was really sick a few weeks ago. I mean, he’s sick a lot, but I guess I’ve never seen him sick in person like that.”

  “You never told me that! What’s wrong with him?”

  “Don’t freak out,” I say, but it’s too late for that. “He just gets the flu a lot.”

  She hops up, forgoing the final round, which is saying something, and starts riffling through the cabinet full of homeopathic remedies. “Take these to him.”

  “Okay, I’ll give them to him at school on Monday.”

  “You know you can’t bring these to the school.”

  She’s right. Teachers tend to get suspicious when you carry around little brown glass bottles full of liquid. “All right. I’m about to pick up Emerald, but we can drop these by his house first.”

  “Wait—you’re going out again? You just got home.”

  “I was with Matt and Joe and Eric and those guys. Emerald’s been studying all day, so we haven’t hung out yet.” She’s obviously disappointed, so I say, “Why don’t you call Denise or something?”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m sure she has plans with her husband,” Mom says stiffly. “But it’s fine. Really.” She places the remedies in a paper sack and hands it to me.

  “Thanks.” I kiss her cheek before I go.

  My fist is poised to knock on Julian’s door again when it swings open. The suited man standing there is big—practically Charlie tall—but a lot more built. His dark eyes look a little impatient, like maybe I interrupted something.

  “Hi,” I say. “Is Julian home?”

  “And you are?” He has one of those anchorman voices—deep and without a trace of any accent.

  “Oh, sorry. You must be Julian’s uncle. I’m Adam.”

  I pause for a second, waiting to be invited in, because it’s freakin cold out. Instead he takes a step forward, his wide shoulders and stance filling the entire door.

  “I just wanted to drop these off for him.” I raise the paper sack in the air.

  He takes it and peers inside. “What is this?”

  “Liquid chlorophyll and astragalus root. All-natural remedies—great for colds and flu. He didn’t look so good when I stopped by the other day. And since he’s always coming down with something—”

  “You stopped by?”

  His tone freezes my smile. I remember Julian saying his uncle didn’t like it when he had people over. Now I’ve probably gotten him in trouble. “Well, yeah, but I was in and out. He wasn’t at school, so I wanted to check on him.”

  “You go to school with Julian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re in the same grade?” He gives me a suspicious squint, which I get. I’m obviously not a freshman.

  “No, a senior.”

  “A senior.”

  “Yeah—yes. Sir.”

  “And you’re spending time with Julian.”

  “Yes.”

  “Adam, is it?” I nod. “Adam, I hope you understand, but I don’t want Julian getting mixed up with the wrong people.”

  I don’t even know what to say to that. I’m pretty sure no one in my entire life has ever looked at me and figured I’m the wrong people. “Well, I mean, I’m not getting him into trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t even use pharmaceuticals.” I point to the paper sack.

  “I’m just trying to understand what someone your age sees in a boy Julian’s age.” An uncomfortable feeling starts creeping down my spine. “What is your interest in him?”

  “My interest? We’re friends.”

  “Yes, I can see why you’d want to be friends with someone like Julian.” He smiles, flashing a row of tiny white teeth, but there’s an edge to his tone, almost like he’s being sarcastic.

  “Why wouldn’t I want to be friends with Julian?”

  “He needs friends his own age. Apparently, so do you.” He pushes the bag into my chest and shuts the door in my face.

  “Not everyone’s going to like you, Adam,” Emerald says after I get back into the warm car and tell her what happened.

  “He didn’t just not like me. He accused me of, like, molesting his nephew.”

  “He said that?”

  “He didn’t use those exact words, but he implied it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It’s not just about what he said. It’s a feeling. Like in nature videos, when the deer’s ears perk up even though they can’t actually see the hunter. They can just feel that something’s off.”

  Emerald cracks up.

  “I’m serious. And he wouldn’t even invite me in. Like I’m a vampire or a Jehovah’s Witness or something.”

  “Maybe the house was messy.”

  “I really doubt that. You should see that place.”

  When I pull up to Emerald’s curb, she hesitates, her fingers flipping the robot-face vent, flashing heat up then down across her cheeks. “My mom’s staying with Rusty again.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s been there for almost a week.”

  “I can’t imagine my mom leaving me alone for a week.” I laugh. “I don’t think she trusts me that much.”

  “Why don’t you sleep over?” she offers suddenly.

  “Uh—”

  “And I’m not suggesting whatever it is you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not thinking anything.”

  She raises one perfect eyebrow.

  An hour later, she’s leaving the shower, dressed in a long white cotton nightgown like some Victorian-era maiden. It probably shouldn’t be a turn-on, but it is. Her skin’s showing through the wet fabric on her stomach and thighs. Her hair’s still damp and loose around her shoulders. All that’s a turn-on too.

  She crawls into her bed next to me, and rests her head on my chest. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says.

  “Me too.” I lean down to kiss the little mole under her eye.

  “It’s too quiet at night.”

  I kiss the one on her cheek.

  “I don’t like it.”

  I kiss the one on her shoulder.

  “Adam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  I get that feeling—air loss and a heart attack. “I love you too.”

  RUSSELL IS STANDING in my room. He’s smiling, but something is wrong, something I can sense more than see. “Where have you been?” he asks.

  “The library.”

  “The library.” He picks up the battered Elian Mariner book I forgot to put back in my trunk. “To read something like this?”

  When I nod, he laughs. “Do you know who stopped by earlier?”

  “No.”

  “Adam.”

  I feel sick, like I’m in a speeding car instead of standing still.

  “He said he’s been here before. That he came inside.” His smile goes wide and artificial like the face of a clown. It’s a smile painted around a sneer.

  “I…I told him to leave.”

  “You mean he forced his way in?” Russell pulls his cell phone from his pocket. “Should I call the police?”

  Slowly, I shake my head.

  “So you let him in.”

  I fiddle with the hem of my sleeve.

  “Answer me.”

  When I nod, the thick vein jumps in his throat. “What did you tell him?”

  “Tell him?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “About what?”

  “About why you were home.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Really? Nothing at all?”

  “I just said I was sick.”

  “Do I give you too many rules?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I do.” He puts a hand under his chin like he’s seriously contemplating this. “Remembering things isn’t easy for you. I know that.” A little laugh. “But this isn’t really a case of forgetting, is i
t? You told him to leave, so you knew he shouldn’t be here. Isn’t that right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know,” he repeats, wearing that same strange smile.

  “I don’t know.”

  There’s a sudden blur, a moment of blank empty space, and then pain so intense it knocks the breath from my lungs. I’m on the floor and my cheekbone throbs and my stomach heaves as I roll over and push myself up with my hands.

  Above me, Russell is holding my conch in his fist. He’s never hit my face before. Never. Another blur and this time the shell crashes into my mouth. Lips tearing on teeth, I fall onto my side. Stunned, I hold my face and watch the blood spill through my closed fingers.

  My eyes flick back up. Russell looks even angrier, his whole body expanding and contracting like an unstable molecule.

  He lifts the shell high into the air.

  I cover my head with my arms.

  Hear a splintering crash.

  I peek beneath my arm to see the dent in the wall and my shell—shattered into sharp pieces on the floor. But I don’t move, not until I hear Russell’s heavy feet leave my room, not until I hear his car start and drive away.

  I’m not sure what time it is or how long I’ve been standing here. I know that my hair is wet and my legs are numb and that every cold breath burns my nose and lungs. I’m straddling my bike across the street from my real house, but I’m not really looking at it. It’s there, but just an out-of-focus, hazy green.

  Mostly I’m watching my breath as it emerges in light smoky crystals. If it were a list, it would just be numbers. One. Two. Three. A list of proof that I exist.

  I’m still counting when a car slows to a stop. I barely notice it. So many cars have driven past while I’ve been standing here in the dark. Then I hear my name, and I cough a wet cloud.

  “Julian?” the voice repeats, full of concern, then a door’s slamming and Adam is standing in front of me. Before I can ask him why he’s here, he says, “Brittany called me. What are you doing?”

  It’s too dark to see much of his face, but I can hear the worry in his voice. “Jesus, Julian, it’s freezing. How long have you been out here?”

  Maybe I could answer if time were measured in exhales, because I’ve counted all my breaths. He watches me with shrewd eyes for another minute, then straightens as if he’s come to some decision. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  He opens the passenger door, spilling light onto us both. “Jesus,” he gasps. “What happened to you?” He looks from my face down to my T-shirt. I follow his gaze and see that it’s splattered with blood. “What happened?” he asks again, but I’m still staring at the blackish-red droplets on my chest.

  Adam raises both hands like a criminal proving he’s holding no weapons. Then, slow and cautious, he touches my shoulder, maneuvering me off my bike and into the car. I stretch my cold fingers, realizing I never released my tight grip on the handlebars, not the whole time I was standing there.

  Adam moves quickly like he always does to toss my bike in the trunk, then he hops into the car. He pulls my seat belt across my chest, and turns up the heater. A circle of red light appears like a glowing robot mouth, one that’s open wide in shocked horror. Adam is making the exact same face.

  Instead of going to my house, or even to his, we pull into Emerald’s driveway. Like before, he opens the passenger door as if I can’t do it myself, and he guides me inside.

  Emerald is dressed for bed and sitting on a chair in the living room. She leaps up, eyes filling with alarm, and suddenly she’s standing right in front of me, asking the same thing Adam did.

  “What happened?”

  I feel like I’ve been caught standing in a roomful of clothed people, only I’m completely naked and completely flawed. Adam takes me by the shoulders and pushes me onto the couch. He kneels to peer at my face, but I’m too ashamed to look him in the eye.

  “Did your uncle do this?”

  Adam’s question catches me off guard. Why would he think it was Russell? Anything could have happened. I could have fallen. I could have been burglarized. Some kids from school could have done it. But he sounds so sure, as if he knows it was Russell.

  Without deciding to nod, I nod.

  Adam bolts to his feet, yanks his phone from his pocket, and starts punching numbers.

  I panic. “W-who are you calling?”

  “The police.”

  “No, don’t!” I plead.

  “I’m reporting this.” All the muscles in his face are tightly coiled. “That asshole is going to jail.”

  “No!”

  “What do you mean, no?” he yells back. “We have to!”

  He’s angry, I realize, a little stunned. I didn’t know he was capable of getting angry.

  Emerald is still standing, troubled eyes flashing from Adam to me. Then she walks to the couch and sits down beside me. She squeezes my hand and says, “Calm down.”

  I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or to Adam, but neither one of us calms down. I begin to shake, and he looks even angrier.

  Ignoring Emerald, he demands, “Why? Why don’t you want me to call?”

  “Because I don’t want you to.” Which isn’t really a reason at all, but I don’t know how to explain. Yes, Russell got angry, but that doesn’t mean I hate him. Just the idea of him in jail is making me feel sick. “You don’t know how much he’s done for me,” I finally say, hoping that maybe Adam will understand, even though he probably can’t. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be raised by someone who doesn’t have to do it. “He’s not good with kids, but he still let me live there even though it’s hard for him to have a kid in the house. Especially one like me.”

  “One like you,” Adam repeats coldly.

  “Yeah. I’m not…You know how I am.”

  “How are you?”

  “You know. I’m hard to be around. You know!”

  “He told you that?” His facial muscles twitch as if they aren’t used to forming frowns.

  “Adam…” Emerald’s voice is coaxing. “If he doesn’t want you to call, you can’t call. It should be his choice.”

  For a moment he just looks at her, then he wheels around to rip open the door that leads to the backyard. He goes out, leaving it open and letting freezing wind into the room. A minute later, he reenters and starts pacing.

  “Adam, stop,” she orders, sharply. “You’re scaring him.”

  He goes completely still, face twisting in guilt. He rakes his hands through his hair, then kneels in front of me and taps my bouncing leg. “Hey, I’m not mad at you.”

  I nod. I know.

  “But we have to report it.”

  There’s so much that Adam can’t understand. He told me once that he never met his dad, so he can’t possibly understand that fathers do things differently. Most of all, he can’t understand what it’s like to have nowhere else to go. But instead of trying to explain all that, I just say, “Please.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay.”

  He rises and walks away long enough for me to wonder if he’s coming back. Then he reappears, this time kneeling in front of me with a wet cloth. He wraps one hand around the back of my head, and with the other he dabs my lip with the cloth. Warm water spills down my chin, and my eyes sting with tears.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  I shake my head, blink, and the tears spill over my cheeks. I feel Emerald’s hand begin to rub small circles on my shoulders while Adam continues to gently scrub the blood from my face.

  Nothing they’re doing hurts, but it feels as if something is tearing away the center of my chest. The cold is dissolving. Their hands are soft. Everything is quiet except the tears that are climbing from somewhere beneath my ribs. I’ve cried in pain and I’ve cried in fear, but these tears are different, deeper, like I’m breaking apart.

  The noise should drive them away, but Emerald’s hand stays, and Adam’s hand stays, and he keeps washing my face long after it has
to be clean.

  Eventually, all the tears are gone, and I’m empty, but it’s a good sort of empty. Like I’m lighter, and if Emerald’s hands weren’t still on my back and Adam’s on my head, I might just float away.

  I hear my slow, hitching breath, and suddenly I’m too tired to keep my eyes open. I can barely see as Adam helps me stand and steers me down the hall into what must be Emerald’s room. There’s a feminine scent, like the way it used to smell after my mother took a shower, and on every surface are porcelain butterflies.

  I’m swaying on my feet until Emerald tells me to sit, gesturing to the flowery comforter on her unmade bed. I sit, and vaguely hear Adam ask me to lift my arms. I do, and he peels my shirt over my head and dresses me in one that’s clean and warm. I’m so tired, a cell-deep exhaustion like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

  My eyes fall closed, then one of them, either Adam or Emerald, pushes me to lie down. One of them pulls off my shoes. One of them presses an ice pack to my cheek, and I’m tired, so tired. One of them pulls the blanket up to my chin, and the scent of my mother is stronger. Then one of them presses lips to my forehead, and I’m asleep before one of them can turn off the light.

  “I can’t just not call,” I tell Emerald once we’re back in her off-limits living room. She takes my hand, pulls me to the couch.

  “He doesn’t want you to.”

  “I don’t care what he wants.”

  “Adam.”

  “I’m serious. I’m not sure he’s the best judge of what we should do. That guy should be nowhere near him.”

  “People make mistakes.”

  “Mistakes?”

  “I’m just saying, sometimes parents do bad things. Not everyone’s family is perfect, you know.”

  What are we even talking about? It’s like we’re having two completely separate conversations. “Julian’s uncle hit him. He was freakin bleeding.”

  “What do you think will happen if you do call? What? Maybe his uncle will go to jail for a couple of nights. Then what? Julian will be right back with him, and things might be even worse.”

  I’ve heard my mom say the same thing a million times about other abused kids, so Emerald might be right, but I don’t care. I want her to say that maybe it won’t do any good, but that we still have to try. “I can’t just do nothing.” I pull my hand from hers.