Stupid Boy

My face grew hot as I quickly took off all of my clothes, dropped them into my backpack, and then bound the towel around my body. My grandmother watched the entire time, and now we stood, facing one another. Again, I waited.

“I realize that what you’ve been through—in fact, your entire existence—isn’t your fault, Harper. You’re but eight years old. But the conditions of you living in this house are strict ones that must be abided by at all times.” The lines around her mouth deepened. “You’ll forget your past. Your mother. Your father. That squalor you lived in. Even your last name will be changed to Belle.” She zipped up my backpack. “You’ll forget everything in this bag and you’ll not mention it again. Ever. And I’ll know if you do.” She leaned down from her towering height, and met my eyes with hers. “I’ll know every move you make, young lady. Every one of them. This is a privilege you’re receiving, to come here and live under my care. You’re lucky to have anyone at all to take you in and I do hope you’re grateful for it, every single day. You’ll obey every rule I set and you’ll not give me a minute’s worry. I’ve already enrolled you in boarding school and you’ll begin in the fall, where no one knows you and you’ll not tell them anything about your previous life.” Her eyes flared. “You’re going to be taught proper manners and become a functioning, useful and productive being of society. You’ll become a Belle. It will be as if the old you never existed at all. Is that clearly understood?”

My eyes once more felt dry, cold as I stared hard at her. My breath caught in my throat. “Yes, ma’am,” I said shakily. “C-can I have my picture?”

Corinne inspected me then, from the top of my head to my bare toes, and she frowned. “Absolutely not.” She turned on her heels again, and I knew to follow without question. I fought back tears as she stopped in the hallway, two doors down from my room.

“You have your own bath, Harper, and I expect you to make use of it every single day. Starting now.” She looked at me. “Wash your hair twice.” She stared at it. “It looks absolutely filthy. And once you’re finished you’ll dress and come downstairs for supper where I’ll inspect you before we sit to the table. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and I tried to keep my voice steady.

With one final, stern glare, she straightened her back, turned, and headed down the hallway toward the stairs without another word, her heels click-clicking as she went.

In the bathroom, I closed the door, turned on the water and watched the tub fill. At the same time, my eyes filled with tears, and when the tub was full I dropped the towel, climbed in, and hugged my knees.

I don’t exist anymore.

I’m dead, too. Just as dead as Mama and Daddy.

Then, I cried.

“You like baseball?”

I stared at the mattress above my bunk bed and didn’t say anything. I didn’t know that kid sleeping up there, and that kid didn’t know me. This was my third foster home in two months. No need to make friends. Didn’t need ‘em. A second later, a head popped over the side from the bunk above and I studied the boy occupying the bed. He hung upside down. Wild curls flung all over, and even wilder blue eyes pierced the room lit only by a small Red Sox night-light. The kid had said his name was Brax. One of his eyes had a big purple shiner around it.

“You got a hearin’ problem or something?” Brax asked, but he said it with a big smile that showed all of his teeth. “Kane, right? Well do ya? Baseball?”

“I guess,” I answered.

Brax continued to stare. He was local—a Southie. I could tell that much by his mouth. Looked a little younger than me, like nine or ten, maybe.

Brax cocked one brow. “You from around here?”

I met his gaze. “Dorchester.”

Brax nodded. Wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He was still hanging upside down. “You been in the system long?”

“A while.” I kept my stare on Brax’s.

“Well, I been in my whole fuckin’ life.” He swung down, landing quietly on his socked feet, and squatted beside my bed. “Been here almost two years.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “It’s okay. Wicked better than the last one I stayed at.” Again he cocked his head. “Wanna go to a game tomorrow?”

I rolled onto my stomach and faced away, hoping Brax would just shut up and go back to bed. “No.”

“Come on,” Brax coaxed. “It’s more fun with a friend.”

“We ain’t friends,” I muttered. “We ain’t.”

In the next second, Brax grabbed the blanket and yanked. “Don’t be such a dickwad—” His words hung unfinished in the air for several seconds. All I heard was his breathing. “Jesus fuck,” Brax finally said in a whisper. “Jesus.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t look at Brax. Didn’t say a word. I just laid there, and Brax set the covers in place. Over my body. I knew Brax saw. Saw my mutilated back. Saw the word there, raised and puckered and purple-red.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Brax said. His voice was even. Quiet. And he probably really meant it. “I won’t tell.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said into my pillow.

“Fuck yeah, it does,” Brax said. “I hope the asshole paid for it.”

I didn’t say a word. Just kept quiet.