BED , his head in his hands. He’d failed his chemistry test. He knew it even though he hadn’t stayed in class long enough to get his test back. One look at Dr. Marshall’s face told him everything he needed to know. He hated disappointing her after everything she’d done for him. He thought of his last test, the way she’d put the test paper on his desk, facedown. He’d always felt sorry for the kids who slipped their test into their backpacks without turning it over to see the grade because they knew they’d flunked. Because they were losers.
Like me,
he thought. “God, I’m such a loser,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his unshaven face, the stubble making his palms sting. After that first
D
, his first
D
ever in his life, Dr. Marshall had asked him to stay after class. She’d asked him what was wrong, what she could do to help. Reminded him if his grades continued to slip he’d lose the scholarship he’d wanted so much.
Slip? He hadn’t slipped. He’d dived straight off a damn cliff. He clenched his fists. She should have told him to stop fucking up. She should have smacked him upside the head. But she hadn’t. She’d just looked at him, her eyes so sad. She’d been so careful not to make him feel dumb. His head dropped back and he stared at his ceiling. She’d been so nice to him. He’d wanted to blurt it all out, to tell her what had been eating him alive. He still did. She’d understand. She wouldn’t pat him on the head and tell him not to fret, that everything would be okay.
But what could she do?
What could anyone do?
Brad stood up, paced, then turned to stare at his unmade bed, knowing it was there, hidden between his mattress and box springs, fighting the need to drag it out, just to look at it again.
He’d become . . . obsessed. Disgusted, he squeezed his eyes shut, made himself turn around, made himself stop looking at the line that separated the mattress from box springs. Tried to stop seeing it in his head. He opened his eyes, chanced a glance in the mirror over his dresser. Shuddered at what he saw. His eyes were red, his hair dirty, uncombed. He hadn’t shaved in days.
He was a wreck.
“Brad?”
His nerves crashed and he spun around to find Nicky standing in his doorway, his hand on the doorknob. The kid never knocked. No respect for his privacy, not from anybody in the whole damn house. Rage blazed at the intrusion and he took a step forward.
“What do you want?” he snarled, then immediately regretted his words and his tone when Nicky’s eyes widened and his baby brother shrank back, half hiding behind the door. Nicky’s lower lip trembled and Brad felt lower than shit. He made himself smile, but Nicky didn’t smile back. He stepped forward and Nicky stepped back, not taking his wide brown eyes from Brad’s face.
“I’m sorry, Nicky.” He reached to ruffle Nicky’s red hair and hated himself for Nicky’s flinch. His brother was just now getting to the point where he tolerated their touch again. Just now getting over the nightmares of guns and monsters stealing him from his bed. Nicky didn’t need any anger, least of all from him.
Brad crouched down until he was level with Nicky’s freckled face. He slowly extended his hand and touched the tip of
Nicky’s nose. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was wrong to yell at you.”
Nicky nodded. “Aunt Helen says it’s time for dinner,” he whispered back, too solemnly for a seven-year-old boy, and Brad hated himself again.
He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
Hating himself. He thought of it again, still hidden between the mattress and box springs. Wishing it weren’t there, that he’d never laid eyes on it. Wishing his life was different. Back to the way it was before, but it never would be the same again. It was a hard truth to swallow.
Brad pulled the corners of Nicky’s mouth down in an exaggerated frown and found himself smiling at the soft, almost silent giggle that emerged from his
Like me,
he thought. “God, I’m such a loser,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his unshaven face, the stubble making his palms sting. After that first
D
, his first
D
ever in his life, Dr. Marshall had asked him to stay after class. She’d asked him what was wrong, what she could do to help. Reminded him if his grades continued to slip he’d lose the scholarship he’d wanted so much.
Slip? He hadn’t slipped. He’d dived straight off a damn cliff. He clenched his fists. She should have told him to stop fucking up. She should have smacked him upside the head. But she hadn’t. She’d just looked at him, her eyes so sad. She’d been so careful not to make him feel dumb. His head dropped back and he stared at his ceiling. She’d been so nice to him. He’d wanted to blurt it all out, to tell her what had been eating him alive. He still did. She’d understand. She wouldn’t pat him on the head and tell him not to fret, that everything would be okay.
But what could she do?
What could anyone do?
Brad stood up, paced, then turned to stare at his unmade bed, knowing it was there, hidden between his mattress and box springs, fighting the need to drag it out, just to look at it again.
He’d become . . . obsessed. Disgusted, he squeezed his eyes shut, made himself turn around, made himself stop looking at the line that separated the mattress from box springs. Tried to stop seeing it in his head. He opened his eyes, chanced a glance in the mirror over his dresser. Shuddered at what he saw. His eyes were red, his hair dirty, uncombed. He hadn’t shaved in days.
He was a wreck.
“Brad?”
His nerves crashed and he spun around to find Nicky standing in his doorway, his hand on the doorknob. The kid never knocked. No respect for his privacy, not from anybody in the whole damn house. Rage blazed at the intrusion and he took a step forward.
“What do you want?” he snarled, then immediately regretted his words and his tone when Nicky’s eyes widened and his baby brother shrank back, half hiding behind the door. Nicky’s lower lip trembled and Brad felt lower than shit. He made himself smile, but Nicky didn’t smile back. He stepped forward and Nicky stepped back, not taking his wide brown eyes from Brad’s face.
“I’m sorry, Nicky.” He reached to ruffle Nicky’s red hair and hated himself for Nicky’s flinch. His brother was just now getting to the point where he tolerated their touch again. Just now getting over the nightmares of guns and monsters stealing him from his bed. Nicky didn’t need any anger, least of all from him.
Brad crouched down until he was level with Nicky’s freckled face. He slowly extended his hand and touched the tip of
Nicky’s nose. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was wrong to yell at you.”
Nicky nodded. “Aunt Helen says it’s time for dinner,” he whispered back, too solemnly for a seven-year-old boy, and Brad hated himself again.
He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
Hating himself. He thought of it again, still hidden between the mattress and box springs. Wishing it weren’t there, that he’d never laid eyes on it. Wishing his life was different. Back to the way it was before, but it never would be the same again. It was a hard truth to swallow.
Brad pulled the corners of Nicky’s mouth down in an exaggerated frown and found himself smiling at the soft, almost silent giggle that emerged from his
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