He had cotton mouth and was mumbling. I didn’t see his head because it was still hidden in the T-shirt he couldn’t put on.
“My god, it’s seven at night, Hunter. You’re so embarrassing,” I remarked, watching him stumble.
“You sound like my dad,” he spat, still fighting with the T-shirt. I would’ve preferred to make him suck it up, but ultimately I decided to bury the hatchet and help him. I took it off his arms and removed it completely.
James jumped back. He stayed still and stared at me, wearing only a pair of jeans.
Do it for Jasper, I told myself as I stood, holding his shirt.
But as soon as I noticed that it smelled good, I threw it on the floor.
“You don’t have to pay to watch the show, White.”
“What show? A dumbass who can’t even take off his clothes by himself?”
He shoved my shoulders against the wall.
“What’s your deal?” It was totally different when I was alone with him. Just him and me.
I felt the heat of his thumb along my arm.
“You went back on our agreement, White.”
“So did you, Hunter.”
A silence followed. A strange silence. He never shut up, and he never let me have the last word.
“You should use that more.” I changed the subject, pointing at the punching bag hanging in the middle of his room.
James raised an eyebrow.
“You always end up on the receiving end of the punches,” I explained.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“Up until now it’s been true.”
He backed away from me to sit on his bed. He slouched and put his elbows on his knees.
“I can’t fight back, don’t you get it?” he mumbled with a shattered sigh.
I stayed still so the distance would give me some room to breathe. “Why?”
“Because if I do, I’m screwed. I’ve already been to juvie. They’ll throw me right back in if I try to even—” His voice sounded insecure.
I used it to my advantage. “Why’d you beat up Brian Hood last year?”
James shook his head, sneering, then stretched out on his bed with his arms spread. I’d admired my mom’s half busts more than once where the muscles audaciously jutted out, contrasted by delicate features as if to represent innate elegance. But I didn’t see any of that in James—no art, no perfect brushstrokes, just disarming humanity. Something more. It was something that couldn’t be depicted in a painting. I started feeling indiscreet, so I stopped studying him.
“Are you fucking done?”
“I’m gonna check on your brother. Talk to you later,” I announced.
“White? You’ll hand in the homework we have to do together?”
“Yeah, tomorrow morning. I already finished it. Just so we wouldn’t have to do it together.”
His eyes couldn’t even hide a thank-you, let alone a sense of guilt.
