That’s the only answer I get because the professor begins his lecture and Luca pretends to pay attention in economics class.
That’s a first for him. He has a notebook out, and his hand is moving along the page.
Is he actually taking notes?
One glance at the paper, and I see he’s doodling, like his mind is wandering and he’s not even aware of what he’s drawing.
Or maybe he is aware, but it’s nothing specific. His pencil keeps gliding across the page, and I know he feels me staring at him because his shoulders tense.
Instead of him saying anything, he ignores me.
“Put your notebooks, laptops, everything away except a pen or pencil. We’re having a pop quiz,” the professor announces in the last twenty minutes of lecture.
Fuck me.
I didn’t get to study with Luca over the weekend. I had hoped that we’d get together Sunday evening, after he came home from his father’s and after hockey practice.
But when I texted him, he had told me he was too tired to hang out or study.
And with the dark circles under his eyes and the bruise on his cheek, I’m filled with worry.
If he didn’t get the bruises from practice, did it happen when he was at his parents’ house?
Was it the mafia that did this to him?
The teaching assistant for the class hands out our quizzes, row by row. I hand one to Luca, staring at him, wanting to ask about the mafia, his father, but I can’t, not here, not in class.
His eyes meet mine, and he forces a smile.
But I don’t smile back.
I can’t.
All I’m filled with is worry.
Concern for him.
Fear for my son.
I don’t even care what happens to me; it’s Zeke who’s my priority.
Would it be safer to disappear with Zeke? I know Luca was against it, because he believed his father could find us anywhere, but that can’t be true.
I’ll ask him about it after class, because I worry that whatever happened to Luca, like the split lip and bruised cheek, will happen to my son.
Maybe not today, when he’s two, but when he gets older.
“All eyes on your quiz. This isn’t a group effort,” the professor scolds, and I glance from Luca down to the paper in front of me.
I’m not confident in the answers that I put down; some of them are multiple choice, and even those options seem like two answers might fit. The essay portion, I’m probably screwed.
I glance up to hand in my assignment because we’ve been instructed that once we’re done, we can leave.
Luca has already finished. I didn’t notice him get up and walk down the aisle to turn in his quiz.
I drop mine off on the professor’s desk and sling my backpack over my shoulder, heading out of the lecture hall.
Luca leans against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.
