Fuck.
She knows.
It always happened like this. Teachers, doctors, social workers—Leo could always tell when they knew. They looked at him differently, like Wendy had looked at the dead cat he’d found by the river. Mrs. Parkin touched his arm, and he jumped back like he’d been burned all over again, stumbled, and cold sweat beaded his back. “Don’t touch me.”
Mrs. Parkin raised her hands. “All right. I was just saying you’re free to go. Charlie says you have art together next lesson. I suggest you make your way there and keep your nose clean from now on.”
Leo blinked.“Charlie says you have art together.”When had he said that?
“And take that sweatshirt off, Mr. de Sousa.”
“Yes, miss.” Charlie tugged Leo’s good arm, like he knew the other was throbbing, burning . . . smouldering. “Come on, Leo. Let’s go.”
Leo let Charlie tow him away from the searching gaze of Mrs. Parkin. His heart slowed with every step and embarrassment replaced the heady rush of fear. “You know we’re not really brothers, don’t you?”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?”
“That we know each other.”
Charlie turned away before Leo could answer, and disappeared into a nearby art room. Lacking any better ideas, Leo followed him and found the lesson had already started.
The teacher met him at the door. “You must be Leo. Take a seat next to Charlie. I’ll get you a book and some pencils.”
Leo followed the teacher’s gaze to where Charlie was sitting at the back of the classroom, head down, already engrossed in whatever he was working on. There was an empty stool beside him. Deliberate? Stuff it. After a day of being stuck beside a bunch of numpties, Leo didn’t much care.
He made his way across the classroom and dropped onto the stool. The teacher placed a sketchbook and a few pencils on the bench. “Charlie can fill you in on what we’re doing.”
The teacher walked away without another word. Leo watched him go. That was a new one. Most teachers had bent his ear for twenty minutes before they’d let him sit down.
“We’re sketching the view through the window,” Charlie said. “You can draw the science block to the left, or the memorial garden to the right.”
Leo peered at Charlie’s sketchbook. “What are you drawing?”
“The duck in the pond.”
“Where’s the pond?”
Charlie shrugged. “Who cares?”
Leo grinned. Finally. A sentiment he could relate to. “How come your name is de Sousa? Thought you’d have taken Reg’s name by now.”
“Why would you think that?” Charlie kept his gaze on his work. “You hate Reg, remember?”
“Says who?”
“Says you. Yesterday.”
“Didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. After he gave you your school blazer. You called him a prick and told him you hated him.”
Oops. Leo had muttered the words under his breath when he’d been halfway upstairs. He’d forgotten Charlie had been behind him. “So? Doesn’t mean you hate him too. Call him ‘Daddy’ don’t you?”
“Not always. Sometimes I call him Reg, and he doesn’t care, because he loves me.”
“‘Because he loves me,’” Leo mocked. “’Cause your life’s a fucking fairy tale, ain’t it?”
