by Salsbury, JB
My only question is . . . why?
Milo
MONDAYS ALWAYS DRAG. I’m only halfway through the school day, and that seems like a lifetime already.
I couldn’t sleep last night, and fatigue adds to my restlessness.
Going to church brought back memories of my mom, and I couldn’t stop thinking about where she is. I remember her hands, the way they felt when she would run one through my hair or wipe dirt off my cheek. They weren’t the hands of a pampered woman. She had one scar on her right middle knuckle and another on her thumb. Her hands were weathered and sometimes callused, but they were always gentle. When I tried to close my eyes and find sleep, I’d fight visions of her hands rotting in an unmarked grave or deteriorating at the bottom of the ocean. The only thing that helped was imagining that she really did leave us, that she’s living her life somewhere far away from here, and one day, I might see her again.
After our family outing to church, we grabbed sandwiches for lunch. Even though it was a good eighty degrees outside, Mercy still wore that bullshit sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. I wanted to rip it off her and tell her to man the fuck up. I know why she does it—because of the looks we’d get, the looks she’d undoubtedly get. I finally decided she wasn’t my problem and if she didn’t mind sweating her ass off, I’d leave her to it.
When we got home, I had two missed calls from Damian and one text letting me know that Sebastian had been released. Fucking great.
So between worries about what I would say to Sebastian when and if he comes knocking on my door; visions of Mercy with her eyes, which turned wild once we stepped into that church but died again the moment we left; and my lack of sleep, everyone feels way too close today.
The bell finally rings for lunch, and I can’t get out of class quickly enough.
Pushing through the double doors of the cafeteria, I spot Damian waving me over to him in line. I jump in behind him with zero complaints from the handful of people I cut in front of.
“Any word from Sebastian yet?” We grab trays that end up piled with pizza and green salad.
“No. I’m not worried about it.” I’m mildly concerned. Annoyed, maybe.
“Word is . . .” He slides his tray down the line and speaks quietly. “He’s staying with Omar. You think he’ll try to get ʼem active again?” He looks at the lunch lady, who runs his card. “Thank you.”
“I’m surprised his parole officer is cool with him living with a Saint. Either way, he’d be stupid to get involved in anything illegal so soon after being released.”
“True.” He waits for me to run my card. “You think your pops will come back?”
I don’t admit that that’s my biggest concern but take a page from Miguel’s playbook and shrug instead.
Walking to the back table, where Seth and Keaton are eating with Carrie, Amber, and three girls that follow them like hungry puppies, I spot Miguel and his buddy Liam in a deep conversation. They’re most likely talking about Pokémon Go or some of the other lame crap they’re into.
Satisfied he’s okay, I drop my tray on the table at the far end, earning a glare from Carrie. I guess she thought I’d sit by her. After a few initial texts after the party, which I returned with one-word responses, she gave up, and I didn’t hear from her for the rest of the weekend. Maybe ignoring her texts makes me a dick, but I didn’t have anything important to say.
I flash an easy smile and lift my chin. Her cheeks flush, and she says something to her friends that has them all turning toward me and grinning.
Levi, or Thumbs as we call him because he’s the clumsiest player on the football team, pipes up from across the table. “I can’t believe it. Vega and Carrie No-Hair?” He leans forward but doesn’t whisper. “You know she’s bare downstairs, right?”
Damian and Keaton snort back their laughter.
I glare at the dumbass. “How the hell would you know?”
“Dude . . .” He shoves an entire half sandwich in his mouth. “Everyone knows. After her and Frank broke up, he told everyone.”
Why am I not surprised Aloysius would spread that kind of crap? Pendejo.
“Maybe you should concentrate more on your ball handling instead of the rumors spread by some ass-hurt ex-boyfriend, yeah?”
“I don’t know.” Damian pops a chip into his mouth. “Levi’s been single for so long I’d bet his ball handling is on point.”
A cherry tomato comes flying across the table, but Damian catches it midflight and returns it to Levi with a snap of his wrist. Levi attempts to catch it and misses, of course. Thumbs.
“You taking a date to prom, Damian?” Levi asks.
“I’m waiting till the last minute to ask, because I’m sure the pressure of having not been asked yet is making chicks desperate.”
“Kinda sad you need ʼem desperate to say yes.” Levi chuckles. “Even worse is you’re admitting it.”
“Ha ha, douchedick. You’re just jealous that—”
The sound of a lunch tray hitting the ground behind me echoes off the walls. Levi’s eyes dart over my shoulder, along with everyone else’s.
A hush falls over the room. Everyone’s attention is focused toward the lunch line.
“What?” I twist around in my seat and follow their gazes to see what the hell turned a room filled with two hundred teenagers silent.
“What . . . the . . . ?” Damian’s voice at my side zeroes my sights on exactly what everyone is seeing.
Or rather . . . who.
Pale skin. Big, terrified eyes.
Every muscle in my body tenses.
Mercy.
She’s here.
She’s wearing clothes similar to what she wore the night she showed up—oversized sweatshirt, this one navy blue, and baggy jeans with those generic white tennis shoes.
She scoops her lunch tray off the ground and tucks it close to her body, along with her chin, as if she’s trying to crawl inside that sweatshirt. Without the hood up, she’s obviously not like everyone else. Even with her pale hair hanging down around her face, her skin is glaringly white.
“What the hell is that?” Levi’s voice mimics the rest of the table’s muttered responses at seeing her.
Just as I’m about to turn away because watching her in all her awkwardness is painful, a teacher comes up behind her and gently escorts her to a table, but not just any table.
“She’s one of Ms. Murphy’s kids.”
I don’t know who said that, but it’s exactly what I’m thinking.
Mercy’s in special ed.
But why?
Granted, we’ve barely spoken, but she doesn’t seem like a special-needs kid.
“Freaky.”
“Creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Never seen anything like that.”
“She’s not a that.” I turn around and hunch over my food, my fists clenched painfully on either side of my tray. “Her name is Mercy.”
Damian tenses at my side. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “Is that your new sister?”
I crank my head around, hitting him with a glare so hard he flinches. He holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Damn. I didn’t mean your sister sister, but . . .” He leans in. “Is she the new foster?”
“Yes.”
The cafeteria eventually picks the chatter back up, and just like any other form of high school gossip, Mercy’s appearance is left to the whispers beneath the noise.
I lose myself in my meal, trying to eat as quickly as I can so I can get the hell out of here. I can’t explain my urge to get away from all the stares and uncomfortable glances from the guys at the table, but my legs are itching to move.
I can’t believe she’s here.
We’re two months from graduation. Why start now?
Levi and Keaton argue about the latest Bourne movie, and I shove the rest of my packed lunch into the brown paper bag, figuring I’ll finish it later.
“I’m out.” I knock Damian in the shoulder and weave my way through
the scattered tables.
“Milo, wait up!”
I stop and turn to see Carrie shoving her fancy lunchbox into her even fancier backpack before scurrying up to me. Being the most popular girl in school, she grabs attention, which makes it impossible to pull away when she interweaves her fingers with mine.
“Where are you going?” she asks. “I’ll come with you.”
“I uh. . . .” Where exactly am I going?
“We can go sit outside. It’s nice out today.”
Fine, whatever. As long as it’s away from here. I turn to head outside and walk right by Mercy’s table. I don’t have to look at her to know she’s watching me with her see-through-blue hawk eyes. I can feel them. I avoid her for as long as I can, but at the last possible second, I lift my head enough to meet her stare head on.
In that short span, that tiny sliver of a moment, something heavy passes between us. Maybe she expects me to say hi. Maybe she hopes I don’t—who knows?—but it’s there. A rope of familiarity pulls tight between us as though she’s asking me something with her eyes, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is.
Just when I’m about to look away, her eyes drop to my hand holding Carrie’s.
I rip my gaze from hers and drag Carrie outside, wishing like hell that I could shake off her grip without having to answer for why I did it, because right now, I don’t freakin’ know.
“Whoa . . . Milo, slow down.” Carrie’s shuffling feet work to keep up until we’re in the courtyard a good distance away from the cafeteria.
I release her hand and drop my backpack on a concrete bench.
“What was that all about?” She’s a little breathless, and I immediately feel like a jerk for dragging her out as I did, not that she gave me much choice.
“Nothing.” Nothing, my ass.
Laura should’ve warned us Mercy would be here. I don’t know why she’s keeping everything concerning the new foster such a damn secret, but being bombarded by her in the cafeteria in front of God and the entire school was not cool. I don’t like feeling cornered, having to answer for things I’m not prepared for. Laura of all people should know that.
“You have great hair. It’s a shame there won’t be much of it left if you keep pulling on it like that.” Carrie’s voice calls me from my thoughts.
I realize I have both hands fisted at my scalp. “Right.” I drop down on the bench.
She moves cautiously and sits next to me but puts her backpack between us. “Did one of the guys say something to upset you? I swear Levi can’t keep his foot out of his mouth. I’ve been going to school with him since kindergarten, and he’s always pissing someone off.”
No way am I sharing any of my personal shit with Carrie, so I force a confident smile and release the tension in my shoulders. “Nah . . . it’s nothing like that.”
“Does this have anything to do with what happened at Frankie’s party?” She tilts her head as if trying to read my thoughts.
Good luck, sweetheart. I’m not even sure I can figure out where my head is at.
“No. I knew when we showed up there Aloysius would get his panties in a bunch. That five-star shit show ain’t my thing.” The words pour like acid from my lips, and although I couldn’t give a crap about what happened at the party, redirecting my frustration feels good.
Her gaze drops to her lap. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known it would be weird for you guys.”
A flicker of irritation burns behind my ribs. “You guys? Because you know what we’re like, huh?”
Her blue eyes narrow beneath perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “I know all about you, Milo.”
I tilt my head and almost laugh. “That right?”
“I know you’re twenty years old—”
“That ain’t news.”
“You live with foster parents because your dad is in prison because he’s in a gang.”
Not exactly accurate, but I suppose it’s better than your dad is hiding in Mexico because he killed your mom and had to take off to avoid getting caught.
She scoots closer. “I know about your temper.”
“I don’t have a temper, just a low tolerance for assholes.”
The heat of her palm rests on my thigh, and I stare down at her manicured nails and the little diamond ring she has on her left finger. Promise ring. I cough out a laugh at how different our worlds are. She’s Daddy’s little girl, and her old man wants her to stay pure until she finds the one. I lost my virginity to a piruja when I was thirteen years old after she stumbled out of my Dad’s arms and into mine.
“I know what this is, Carrie.”
Her thick, black eyelashes flutter, and she paints on a mask of innocence. “What is this?”
“You want to taste what it’s like to be with someone dangerous. You thought Frankie the Wannabe Gangster would show you that, but he didn’t. Now you’re after the real thing.”
She sucks her full bottom lip between her teeth.
I run a strand of her hair through my fingers. So soft. Clean. So clean. “I got no problem with that.”
Hunger flares in her eyes, and I tug her hair while pulling closer. With the tip of my tongue, I hook her upper lip between my teeth and bite just enough for her to feel it and quick enough that no one will see.
Her breath is hot as it bursts from her parted lips.
“I gotta run. I’ll talk to you later.” I grab my backpack and stand, leaving her there to feel what it’s like to be used. After all, that’s what she wants, right? To be with a bad boy, to come out of her glass box and get dirty. I’ll be that guy for her, but I won’t be more. I ain’t nobody’s bitch.
MY BROTHERS AND I get home just after sundown. Mr. Sanguin, my boss, had to take the afternoon off for a family emergency, and I ended up having double the workload.
When my brothers showed up to meet me after school, I half expected Mercy to be with them, and when she wasn’t, I couldn’t help wondering where she was. How did she get home? Laura wouldn’t pick her up and not get Miguel and Julian.
The list of questions I have piling up in my head becomes so long it’s almost all I can think about.
“Laura!” Julian drops his backpack at the mouth of the hallway and races into the kitchen. “We’re home!”
I follow him and find our foster parents moving around the kitchen, preparing dinner and setting the table.
And they’re not alone.
Mercy is standing at the head of the table without her protective sweatshirt, her long hair pulled into a ropelike braid that falls over her shoulder and halfway down her torso. She’s wearing an oversized gray T-shirt, and I wonder what the girl has against wearing clothes that fit. Her crystal-blue eyes meet mine, and she squints as though trying to read my expression from the distance between us.
Unable to hold her probing glare, I turn to my brothers. “Wash your hands.”
The room fills with the chaos of voices as everyone talks about their days, and when I peek up at Mercy, her eyes stay glued to the forks and napkins in her pasty white hands.
“ . . . finished my homework so can I ride my bike after dinner?” Julian is saying.
Chris squeezes Julian’s shoulder. “Sure, but only in the alley. Stay off the street.”
I’m watching Mercy when Laura pushes past me to put a large casserole on the table. “How about you, Milo? Did you have a good day?”
At the sound of my name, Mercy’s eyes dart up as if doing so without her permission as she tucks her chin deeper into her chest.
“Yeah, it was good.” As Laura passes me again, I whisper, “I need to talk to you.”
Her eyes narrow until she sees me looking back and forth between her and Mercy. “Chris, can you throw together the salad?” She motions for us to go out the back door, and I lead the way.
I head to my place, and once we’re around the corner where I’m sure we won’t be heard, I stop and drop my backpack. “What the hell, Laura? Why didn’t you tell me she’d be at school today?”
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She seems taken aback and a little annoyed. “I guess I didn’t think it would matter.”
“Wouldn’t matter? Have you . . .” I lower my voice. “Have you seen the looks she gets?”
Her lips thin, and her jaw tightens. “Of course I have. How could I not?”
“Well it’s a thousand times worse in high school.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “And how exactly does this affect you, Milo?”
I drop my eyebrows.
She raises hers.
“It doesn’t, I guess, but the girl—”
“Mercy.”
“She barely speaks. No way she can handle Washington High.”
“Ah.” She tilts her head. “So you’re suddenly an expert on what’s best for Mercy.”
“I’m not sayin’ I’m an expert, but Laura, look at her.”
She blows out an exasperated breath. “I have looked at her, Milo. I’ve also spent months working with her one on one. I know what she’s capable of, and I would never put her in a situation I didn’t think she was ready for.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “I appreciate your concern for Mercy—”
“I’m not concerned,” I say, feeling as though I’ve been thrown under a hot spotlight.
“But once you get to know her a little better, you’ll see she’s a lot stronger than you give her credit for.” Her expression darkens, and she gets a faraway look in her eyes. “The things she’s been through . . .” She blinks and shakes herself free of the thoughts.
“There’s eight weeks left in the school year. What’s the point?”
“She’s there to practice her socialization skills, not for a GPA.”
“Great. Because nothing teaches socialization like some good ol’ fashioned bullying.”
That seems to get her attention. “Did you see something? Is she getting bullied? She didn’t mention it to me.”