Dirty Read online

  “Hi.” He looked still thinner than when last I’d seen him, but perhaps it was the black attire. The dark hue could have been the reason he looked paler, too. He held out a plastic bag from a local bookstore chain. “I brought you something.”

  I took the bag and looked inside, then pulled out a new copy of The Little Prince. “Oh, Gavin. You didn’t have to.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, I did. The other one got ruined, and it was my fault.”

  I waited until he met my eyes before I answered. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He shrugged again, shuffling his feet. “Yeah, it was. I made her mad. I shoulda cleaned my room, like she said.”

  I didn’t say anything. Mrs. Ossley had a right to expect him to clean his room. Not a right to throw books at his head.

  Gavin looked up. “I thought, maybe…”

  “Actually,” I said, so he didn’t have to fumble, “I’m repainting the dining room. I could really use a hand.”

  He followed me inside, and I stood in front of the blue wall. Gavin looked it up and down, tilting his head like a curious puppy. After a moment he smiled, too.

  “I like it.” He nodded in approval.

  I looked at it. “Yes. Me, too. I want to do the others this color, and the moldings in gold. And I bought this.”

  I showed him the rubber stamp in the shape of a star. “I’m going to stamp stars all over it, in a pattern.”

  “Wow, Miss Kavanagh, you’re really going all out. Elle, I mean. You’re really going crazy.”

  “A little crazy,” I agreed. “Or maybe a little less crazy. I guess we’ll see.”

  He looked so sad for a moment, my own smile turned down. He ducked his head and pulled off his sweatshirt, then went for the paint can to pour some out into a tray for his use. I watched him move. He scuttled, hunched, and I thought how having books thrown at one’s head might make anyone prone to ducking.

  We put on some music, and we painted. We got a little silly. When I used the end of a paintbrush to serenade Gavin with a cheesy boy-band drama song, he actually laughed out loud. I joined him. Every stroke of my roller laid down paint and seemed to lift me up a little farther.

  I made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch, comfort food I hadn’t eaten in ages. He devoured his and demurred when I asked if he’d like more, but I got up to fix him another sandwich, anyway. His wrists looked as if I could break them with a glance.

  “Hasn’t your mom been feeding you?” I kept my tone light, but the question was serious. I didn’t turn from my place at the stove. Confessions are easier given in anonymity.

  “Mom’s been too busy with Dennis to cook much. And work. She’s been busy with work, too,” he added, like admitting his mother’s new lover took up all her time was something to be ashamed of.

  It was, I thought, but not for Gavin. I slid a second sandwich onto his plate and dipped the last of the soup into his bowl. I sipped from my can of soda while he ate.

  “Dennis moved in, huh?”

  He nodded, head down over his food.

  “How do you feel about that?”

  Gavin didn’t look up. “He’s okay.”

  I sipped more cola. This wasn’t my business, what went on next door. A fifteen-year-old boy was capable of making himself a sandwich if he had to. He didn’t need his mother to cook him three meals a day, and I knew the house wasn’t bereft of groceries because I saw their garbage cans overflowing with trash every week.

  “And how are you?” I asked the question gently, watching the way his shoulders tensed at the question. “I haven’t seen you much lately.”

  “Been busy,” he mumbled. “Hadda go to summer school.”

  He tore apart the remnants of his sandwich but wasn’t eating it. I didn’t want to press him. Gavin was my neighbor, a nice kid, nothing more, and still my mouth opened and questions came out.

  “Have you been reading a lot?”

  “Yeah.”

  That, at least, urged another smile from him. “What have you been reading?”

  He rattled off an impressive list of science-fiction and fantasy novels, some of which I knew and others I’d never heard of. He started eating again. When we’d finished, he helped me clean up the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. We turned the music back on and got back to painting.

  My house is old, and I haven’t yet fitted it with central air. The dining room doesn’t have windows, and painting’s hard, sweaty work. I saw the marks on Gavin’s belly when he lifted his shirt to wipe his face.

  Four, five, six of them. Straight red lines, the skin around them puffy and irritated. Not cat scratches, unless from a cat with extra toes and a wicked sense of aim.

  And I could no longer ignore it. Because once upon a time, I had needed someone to push me for answers I was afraid to give, and nobody had. Princess Pennywhistle might have been able to defeat the Black Knight on her own, but I’d needed help and none had been given.

  “Gavin. Come here.”

  He turned, the roller in his hand full of paint. Something in my face must have made him nervous, because he blanched. He put the roller down.

  “What?”

  I gestured. “Come here.”

  He did, with reluctance. His face had gone sullen. Guarded. He crossed his arms over his chest. We stared at each other for a moment before I reached over and turned off the music. The silence between us was very loud.

  “Lift up your shirt,” I told him.

  He shook his head. I put my hand on his arm and my heart cracked at the way he winced. He didn’t jump away from me, but I felt his muscles straining.

  “I just want to see, Gav.”

  He shook his head. We were at a stand-off. He wouldn’t acquiesce, and I couldn’t force him to. I didn’t ask again, but I also didn’t let go of his arm. My fingers curled loosely enough on his biceps that he could have pulled away without effort, but he didn’t. After another minute, he lifted the hem of his shirt to show me the wounds.

  I kept my face neutral, looking at them. “These look sore.”

  “They’re not too bad.” His voice shook a little. Beneath my hand his arm had gone as hard as rock.

  “Have you put anything on them? You don’t want them to get infected.”

  “I…I don’t…” He trailed off.

  I put my palm flat against them for a second. “The skin’s hot. That’s not a good sign. What did you use?”

  “A piece of glass.”

  I gave his arm a soft squeeze and stood up. “Come upstairs with me and we’ll put something on them.”

  I went to the stairs, leaving him to come after me. I was almost convinced he wouldn’t. That he’d flee. He followed me to the bathroom and sat obediently on my toilet while I opened my medicine cabinet and pulled out some antibiotic ointment, hydrogen peroxide and some bandages.

  “Take your shirt off, it might be easier.”

  He pulled the T-shirt over his head and I put it on the sink. Faint white lines criss-crossed his chest, upper arms and stomach, though the only fresh cuts were on his belly. I cleaned them carefully, and though he hissed when the peroxide bubbled on his skin, he didn’t pull away. I smeared them with ointment and covered them with bandages, but I couldn’t make them disappear.

  I sat on the edge of my tub, facing him. “Want to tell me about it?”

  He shook his head, but again made no move to get away or even put his shirt back on. I capped the bottle and tube and threw away the bandage wrappers. I washed my hands. He still didn’t get up. His shoulders shook, and I thought he must be fighting not to cry.

  I didn’t know how to do this. Be a confidante. I didn’t know, exactly, how to make someone else’s pain seem bearable. Faced with his tears, I was the one who wanted to flee. I put my hand on his shoulder instead.

  “Gavin” was all I managed to say, and he burst into the terrified tears of a child.

  Somehow I put my arms around him as he wept. His face was hot on my neck. He was so t