by C. G. Drews
‘Where’s Avery?’ he gasps.
Aunt Karen flicks her cigarette in the sink. ‘What are you talking about? Why isn’t he with you?’
no no no no no
Sammy twists his fingers in his shirt. ‘I don’t know where he is! We have to go look. We have to—’
Aunt Karen whacks the wooden spoon against the pot to cut him off, and Sammy thinks he’s going to catch it. But she just looks annoyed, greying hair stuck to her forehead. ‘He’s just avoiding chores, Sammy, and your dramatics are tiring. Go do your homework and—’
‘No, we have to go find him now!’ It bursts out of Sammy in a shout.
Aunt Karen’s lips thin. ‘That’s enough attitude, young man. He’s not a baby. He’ll show up when he wants to.’
She doesn’t understand.
They’ve lived here for three years and she doesn’t understand Avery at all.
Sammy doesn’t wait. He flies out the door like a starburst and he’s on the streets, calling and calling for his brother. He goes to the park, full of prickles and rubbish. Nothing. He flies across footpaths. To the shops. Back to school. Home again. Back to the streets. Nothing.
It’s dark.
The air chills and smells of car exhaust and loneliness.
He trips and skins both knees and running turns to agony.
He runs anyway.
Avery could be lost, or taken by strangers, or hurt or scared or freaking out and hitting his head and no one will be there to catch him.
Sammy trails, dejected and exhausted, back to his street. Blood and gravel stick to his knees, sweaty shirt glued to his chest. Someone leers at him across the street and he wants to cry and hold his brother.
Avery could be dead.
It’s all Sammy’s fault.
He’s nearly at the house before he notices the police car in Aunt Karen’s driveway. His heartbeat stutters and fear pricks his skin. A cop strolls to the front door and knocks while another, a man with the boots and belt and gun and everything, opens the cruiser’s back door. There’s a glimpse of white-blond hair.
Sammy runs.
He has energy after all.
He smacks into the car door, his hollowed-out lungs burning, and tongue so tangled the words barely come.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sammy says. ‘I’m sorry, he’s s-sorry, we’re so so sorry. He didn’t mean it. Pleasepleaseplease don’t take him to jail.’
Avery’s hunched in the back seat where they put the bad people. His school shirt is inside out because he hates itchy seams and he has a huge police jacket swallowing his thin shoulders. He’s running his toy car up and down his face. A bruise blooms over his filthy cheek, but he’s all right.
The policeman, crouched by the door now, catches Sammy before he falls. ‘Hey, whoa there, little mate. This is your brother?’
‘I’m Sammy Lou,’ he says. ‘He’s Avery.’
‘I know.’ The policeman is young with slicked black hair and brown skin. He has a split lip, but he smiles anyway. ‘See, our friend Avery here was a bit lost and scared and couldn’t tell us who he was, but we figured out his school uniform and got hold of the principal.’ His eyes take in Sammy’s shredded knees and sweaty face. ‘You were out looking for him?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sammy says again. ‘I’m sorry. Please let me have him back, I won’t ever lose him again—’
‘Hey, kiddo, calm down.’ The cop smiles again. ‘We’re bringing your brother home. Not taking him away.’
Sammy thinks he might cry.
He will not cry.
He glances over his shoulder at the lady cop talking to his aunt now. There are folded arms and frowns.
Sammy tries to reach into the car, but Avery shies away.
‘Come on, little mate,’ says the cop. ‘I’ll help you.’
Sammy steps back as the cop gently pulls Avery out – except suddenly Avery throws his arms around the cop’s neck and wraps his legs around his waist. Digging in like a bite. Like a barnacle. Like desperation.
The cop staggers in surprise, and then laughs. Avery’s small for twelve, but still too big to be carried, and yet the cop wraps his arms around Avery’s back and heads to the house. Sammy hops after them, teeth chattering. Avery doesn’t like adults, but right now his face is buried in the cop’s shoulder.
They must’ve been so, so nice to him.
Aunt Karen’s face is stony as they arrive. ‘Will there be charges since he hit an officer?’
Sammy’s heart plummets.
The cop’s cut lip.
You can’t hit a cop.
‘No!’ Sammy turns to the lady, so drunk on fear that he grabs her hand. ‘Please please. He didn’t mean to.’
The woman gives a small smile. ‘Ah, you must be Sammy. We thought Avery was Sammy for a while because that’s the only thing he’d say.’
Sammy feels sick. Avery needed him and he wasn’t there.
‘Please,’ Sammy whispers. ‘Don’t take him to jail.’
‘Of course not.’ The lady cop turns back to his aunt. ‘Look, usually we deal tough with violence against officers, even with kids. But I can tell your nephew has a disability and was terrified out of his mind being alone on the street like that. But what I don’t get –’ her voice hardens ‘– is why you didn’t report him missing straight away.’
Aunt Karen matches the hardness, cut for cut. ‘He wasn’t gone for that long.’
‘Five hours,’ Sammy says.
His aunt shoots him a poisoned look.
The lady cop folds her arms. ‘Look, ma’am, if your kid with special needs goes missing, you call it in immediately.’
‘Can I put him inside?’ says the other cop.
Aunt Karen nods tersely and tries to lead the way, but the lady cop blocks her with one arm and keeps going with her lecture. And Aunt Karen has to listen.
To all the ways
she’s neglecting and forgetting and hurting
Avery.
Good.
Sammy follows the policeman to the lounge, where he tries to pry off Avery and absolutely fails. He gives another laugh and then rubs Avery’s back for a while. ‘Come on, kiddo, home now. Safe and sound.’
Finally Avery lets go.
Sammy fetches his favourite softest sweater so he’ll give up the cop’s jacket. Then Avery runs his toy car up and down his arms and looks at the floor.
Too old for cars. Too old to be carried. Too old not to know his way home.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t find you.’ Sammy hugs him and Avery leans in with a sigh, running his car over Sammy’s cheek.
Sammy nearly smiles.
‘I’m lost,’ Avery whispers.
‘Not any more.’ Sammy casts damp eyes to the cop. ‘Thanks.’
‘I can tell you’re a good brother,’ the cop says, but then he sees Sammy’s knuckles. ‘You get into a fight?’
Sammy thinks of his dad, fists and belt buckles and shark eyes. In jail.
He tucks his hands behind his back. ‘No.’
The cop raises an eyebrow. ‘All right, Sammy, let’s talk seriously for a moment. You know what happens to people who punch others?’
‘They go to jail,’ Sammy whispers.
The cop nods, the lightness gone from his smile. ‘It’s trouble. A lot of trouble. You sort yourself out, hey? Your brother needs you and I don’t want to ever put you in the back of my car.’
Sammy nods, heart thundering.
It’s a lie, the nod. The cop wouldn’t understand. If kids hurt Avery, then what else can Sammy do? He has to hit them. Like today at lunch with those boys following Avery around the playground mimicking his tics and calling him horrible names and Sammy had to make them stop. He had to.
But he’s not like his dad. He’d never never go too far.
&nb
sp; Aunt Karen comes back inside and holds the door angrily open for the cop. He waves to Sammy and gives Avery a special smile and shakes Aunt Karen’s hand.
‘You need to put some measures in place to make sure this doesn’t happen again,’ he says quietly. ‘He’s small now, but hitting a cop … when he gets older, it’ll go badly.’
‘I understand.’ Aunt Karen’s jaw is screws and hammers.
The police leave.
Aunt Karen locks the door and marches into the kitchen. She comes back out with the wooden spoon, the shout already on her lips. ‘I’ve had enough of this, Avery. You know better. Get up. Right now.’
Avery whimpers and tucks his head into his arms.
Aunt Karen grabs him by the elbow, jerking him to his feet and swinging the spoon in a smacking arch on to the back of his thighs.
Avery sobs.
Sammy shoves between them, all fire flares and burning blood. ‘No!’
‘Well, someone’s getting punished so this doesn’t happen again.’ Aunt Karen raises the spoon. ‘You’re embarrassing me and wasting everyone’s time, you despicable, nasty little boys. You’re going to end up just like your father.’
‘Then hit me!’ Sammy shouts while Avery crumples and rocks and clutches his stupid toy car. Sammy matches Aunt Karen’s eyes, flint for charcoal.
Her teeth clench. ‘If you think he’ll learn from it, you’re wrong. That is a selfish little brat right there.’ She spins Sammy around, one hand fisted in his collar.
The spoon slaps the soft backs of his thighs like fire.
Sammy seals his lips tight.
He looks at Avery.
Avery stares back, mouth open and face smeared in dried tears and snot. He flaps his hands harder at each thwack snap thwack of the spoon raising welts on Sammy’s legs. But Avery doesn’t scream for Aunt Karen to stop. He just looks confused and scared.
No one saves Sammy.
It’s OK, right? He’s used to it. So long as his brother is safe.
Sam lies upside down on the worn armchair, a tattered book in his hands. His legs hang over the back of the chair, feet resting on the wall. He’s tried at least fifty-two positions, but apparently the chair’s eternal comfort wears off after living in this office for three days.
At least reading upside down keeps the hair out of his eyes.
He licks his thumb and flips the page.
He’s not been in here the entire three days, obviously. He slunk out at night to steal painkillers from the chemist. Then he cased out a few houses. He just hasn’t … moved … into … them yet. And while the De Lainey house is rarely completely empty, there are moments when someone takes washing outside or hustles the babies to the playground or the entire family collapses under quilts and heavy eyelids and star-spun dreams at night – and then Sam wanders the house and eats blueberry jam sandwiches and steals a clean shirt.
There are actually a lot of benefits to living secretly in a house that’s inhabited.
Leftovers, for instance.
Jeremy’s Greek zucchini and halloumi falafel is incredible.
Jack’s spaghetti sauce is like seventy per cent cheese, which seems wrong, but tastes great.
Moxie’s reheated spring rolls are disgusting. Apparently it’s possible to kill food not once, not even twice, but several dozen times using a spatula, chilli sauce and a microwave.
Sam’s totally aware he’s fallen into a pocket of unreliable paradise, but he doesn’t even care. He can walk without limping now and his arms are scabbed and less raw. His backpack is still at the mechanic’s and he just tries not to fret about it.
The only worry that gnaws at his chest is Avery. Always, always Avery. He hasn’t seen him in three days.
But he’ll be with his friends. Maybe if Sam ignores him for a while, Avery will start appreciating him.
Sam licks his thumb and flips another page.
He feels so guilty.
It’s past ten in the morning and the house smells of peanut butter and banana toast, a painful reminder that he’s hungry. Moxie has the babies and one of them has been crying since six.
There’s a crash downstairs followed by a wail and then Moxie yelling, ‘That’s how I feel about today too, but do you see me crying about it?’
A stupid fantasy plays out in the back of Sam’s head, where he goes downstairs and holds the baby while Moxie catches her breath and then she smiles at Sam and her fingers interlock with his and they lean super close and—
Footsteps pound up the stairs.
‘Toby, no. You’re not using my box of industrial glitter.’
‘I need it!’
‘What? To bathe in? Put it down before I turn you into a pie and put you in the oven.’
‘I’m not a pie!’ Toby shrieks.
‘TRY ME.’
A small smile tugs at Sam’s lips. At least they’re not all huddled over a hospital bed and a little boy of broken bones. He’d jump in front of a car a thousand times over if he never had to see that petrified horror fracturing Moxie’s face again.
He’s also figured why no one goes into the office – it was their mother’s.
He’s seen Mr De Lainey’s handwriting on odd sticky notes, but a different hand has scrawled over stacks of ledgers, journals, phone books and the backs of photos. Dust lines the bookshelves. Her bookshelves? The walls are taped with curling pictures of a woman with thick chocolate hair. She holds babies and pushes gap-toothed twins on swings and pulls funny faces with a miniature Moxie. He wonders what happened to the De Laineys’ mother. Did she walk out too?
Sam can’t remember his mother’s face. He wonders where she went, that day when he was seven, and if she ever felt bad about skipping out on her kids. Leaving them with him. Their dad and his fists and his molasses eyes. She’s just another reason to never, never trust adults.
He’s about to change positions – again – because blood has rushed into his head and his skull hurts, when the office doorknob turns.
Sam drops the book.
He shoves himself off the armchair, eyes clawing desperately for his hiding place in the cupboard.
But he doesn’t have time.
The office door swings open and there’s a snatch of Moxie in a halter-neck shirt that looks like it’s been refashioned from the living-room curtains, and she’s looking over her shoulder at a tantrumming Toby.
‘… because it’s illegal for kids to use glitter, actually. You have to be, like, twenty-five and then you can apply for a glitter licence—’
A huge ice cream tub of glitter is tucked into the crook of her arm.
‘I am twenty-five!’ Toby shouts.
‘Nice try,’ Moxie says and turns.
Sam’s on his feet, hands outstretched, not sure if he intends to slam the door in her face or plead for her to wait. Listen. Don’t call the police yet.
I can explain.
Except he really really can’t.
Their eyes meet.
Air escapes Sam’s lungs like they’ve been punctured. He has no words, no thoughts, nothing to change the shock unfolding on Moxie’s face.
Toby stands behind her wearing a Batman mask. ‘Who’s dat?’
Moxie screams.
She hurls the ice cream tub at Sam. The lid pops. The air fills with a soaring, shimmering rainbow arc.
Sam gives a muted cry—
and then two litres of glitter hits him straight in the face.
It explodes over him, light as dust, and sticks like a second skin. It’s in his mouth, up his nose, plastered on his eyelashes.
Moxie keeps screaming.
Toby joins in.
Sam stands for just a heartbeat longer, glitter settling in pools around his feet – and then he runs.
He shoves past Moxie, vaults over Toby and flings himself down
the stairs, shedding glitter in his wake. He jumps the veranda steps and his shoes hit cement.
Faster. Faster. Get out of here and don’t ever look back.
He keeps going until his new scabs split and his aching bones remind him he got hit by a car three days ago. He staggers to a stop, clutching the stitch in his side. Asking himself why why why did he do this?
He didn’t want it to end like this.
He tries to wipe glitter off his tongue, but ends up getting more stuck to his teeth. It rakes his throat.
Get away from here.
He listens for sirens. For someone to shout stop that thief. For a De Lainey brother to burst out of nowhere and lay into Sam until he’s no more than a smear on the footpath.
But the streets stay still, except for a faintly clicking sprinkler and a yappy dog.
Walk, Sammy, just keep walking.
Where?
Anywhere but here.
Sam is all scraped elbows and cheeks stained with glitter as he walks into the seedy part of town where Avery’s friends live. He doesn’t want to be here. But considering he looks like a craft store threw up on him, he’s low on options.
There are simple rules for surviving a lifestyle like his. Number one: don’t get caught.
And he freaking blew that.
The apartments are all identical bricks, endless rows broken by rotting dumpsters and cars cranking out bad exhaust on mucky lanes. He smells pot and wet cardboard and there are smashed beer bottles everywhere.
It makes him angry, all over again.
Because this is exactly the sort of neighbourhood Sam and Avery grew up in, living stuffed in caravans or units or cars, forgotten between their parents’ vodka bottles and mysterious bags to deliver. Aunt Karen’s street wasn’t much better. And Avery’s just trotted right back in.
Because it’s familiar.
Because it’s home.
Yeah OK, the Lou brothers are still criminals. They steal. They lie. But Sam wildly, passionately hates the thought of this being their Forever. Ever since they were little, he’s talked about living in their own house. A home. Endless conversations. Endless plans as they walked to and from school. Their own home would mean no adults with hard slaps, no one judging Avery’s tics, no one walking out on them again. All they need is money, right? Every dollar from Sam’s thieving and Avery’s job is squirrelled and saved for this.