I made it to my feet and threw myself between them. Dad looked at me the same way he used to when I was four and I’d thrown a temper tantrum over something stupid, only now his eyes were rimmed red and I saw his nostrils flaring over and over. I heard the screen door slam and turned to see Grant’s mom standing on the small porch in a nightgown.
“I’m gonna count to ten,” Ruby said, “and then I want you and your faggot son off my property or I call the cops.”
“Dad,” I said, tugging gently on his sleeve and trying to avoid looking at Grant, “come on.”
“One,” Grant’s mom said.
“Dad,” I hissed. He shoved my hand away from his arm.
“Two,” she said through gritted teeth. “Three.”
“Get in the car,” Dad said finally, turning without looking at me. I followed him. Layla waved me down and gave me a wide-eyed look but I shook my head and got in the car with Dad. He jerked the gear stick like he was trying to choke it and pulled out onto the orange-glowing highway.
“It wasn’t him,” I said after a moment, trying to shrink myself down as small as possible. “It was this other guy—”
“Goddamnit!” Dad said, pounding his other fist against the steering wheel. I pressed myself into the passenger door and stared at him, afraid to speak. “I told you. I fucking told you!”
“Dad,” I said. “Please. I’m sorry.”
“You could’ve died,” he said, his voice still booming in the tiny space, “and you don’t even care! Damnit, Amanda—”
“Dad—” I said, my voice cracking.
“Well, I’m done,” Dad said. “I’m not watching you destroy yourself. When we get home I want you to pack your things.”
NOVEMBER, THREE YEARS AGO
I would have preferred to sit in the back of the bus, but older, meaner boys sat back there, and the assistant principal said I was only making myself a target. Not that sitting up front helped; they kicked at my legs and slapped things out of my hands when they walked by. For a while my shins were striped with green and purple bruises and my paperbacks came home with torn covers and missing pages. Now I sat quietly with my knees pulled to my chest and stared straight ahead.
The bus stopped. I clutched my legs tighter and recognized the thud of Wayne Granville’s boots as he walked up the aisle. He stopped at my bench and leaned in, elbows braced on the seat backs. He was a few inches shorter than me but much denser, faster, and stronger.
“You have a good Halloween?” he asked. A blond junior girl rolled her eyes and squeezed past. He didn’t seem to notice her. I didn’t answer. “Billy says you did. Says he saw you trick-or-treating in a dress.” I pressed my forehead into my knees and closed my eyes. I had spent Halloween in my room, alone, playing video games. I spent every night and every weekend in my room, alone, doing homework or playing video games. “Oh, and I heard you blew a buncha dudes for Skittles. Taste the rainbow, right?” The bus driver gave him an impatient look, and Wayne turned to leave. “See you tomorrow, Andy!” he called out as he stepped off the bus.
“No you won’t,” I whispered, but nobody heard.
The door hissed open at my stop. I shuffled out to the sidewalk and watched the bus leave. The street was empty. The edges of every yard were fortified with black and orange leaf bags, like sandbags with no flood to hold back. I put one foot in front of the other. The wind howled down the street, whipping my hair into my eyes. I let it fall where it wanted; if I wandered into the street and a car hit me, all it would do was save me some time.
Our yard was choked with leaves. Mom had broken her ankle at work a week ago, and most days I could barely manage the effort to get out of bed. My feet broke through the upper layer of new, dry leaves to the dark, mulchy layer beneath. Old rainwater soaked through to my socks, but it didn’t matter. I opened the door and entered silently.
Inside, the sound of daytime television drifted out of Mom’s room. I put my backpack on the couch and walked softly to her door, peeking in. Her head poked out of the covers while her chest rose and fell slowly. Soft snoring was just barely audible over Dr. Phil. Two white prescription bottles and a half-empty glass of water sat on the nightstand closest to the door. I took off my shoes and socks and tiptoed over to the nightstand. I picked up the first bottle slowly and read the label: Amoxicillin. I wasn’t looking for antibiotics. I set it down and took the other bottle, which I knew now was oxycodone. The bottle rattled as my hands began to shake. Mom mumbled something and I froze. A moment later she turned over and resumed snoring.
I went back to the living room and put the bottle down on the coffee table, then walked to the kitchen where I filled a tall glass with tap water. I sat next to my backpack and put the glass of water next to the pill bottle. I took my Health & Wellness textbook out of my backpack and put it in my lap. A running male body with muscles and veins and bones exposed stared out from beneath the title. I ran my hand down the cover and imagined the tendons beneath my skin, the bones they were attached to, the blood running through spider-webbed veins, the muscles made of a hundred thousand tiny cords. This body, this walking prison, had forced me to keep it alive for fifteen years.
I opened the textbook to the page that read, “What Boys Can Expect from Puberty.” Then I opened the pill bottle, removed three small white pills, and put them in my mouth. They tasted powdery and bitter. I swallowed them with a sip of water and kept reading. I read the text on the page and felt the things it described happening to my own body—I was a late bloomer at fifteen, tall but beardless and scrawny, with a high voice that still squeaked sometimes, but I could feel the changes coming like a swarm of insects skittering across my bones.