"Henderson got me pretty bad last night," Ivan says. He's trying to sound calm, but I can hear the fear underneath it, trembling just beneath the surface like an earthquake waiting to break through. "On my legs. The backs of my thighs."
I remember last night with perfect clarity. Henderson came home from somewhere around eight o'clock already half-drunk and in a foul mood, radiating anger like heat off pavement. Ivan had accidentally left a light on in the bathroom after brushing his teeth, and that was enough—that tiny infraction was all the excuse Henderson needed.
I heard the belt from our room where I was lying in my bed pretending to be asleep, pretending I couldn't hear what was happening just down the hall. I counted the strikes like I always do, keeping a mental tally. Five. Five times the leather came down.
I wanted to go out there, wanted to throw open the door and put myself between them, wanted to stop it, but Ivan and I have talked about this strategy extensively. If I interfere, if I try to protect him in themoment, it gets worse for both of us. Henderson's rage doubles, redirects, multiplies. So, I counted each strike and hated myself for every single one, hated my own helplessness.
"Let me see how bad it is," I say.
Ivan turns around without a word and pulls down his jeans enough for me to see the damage Henderson inflicted. The welts are bad. Angry red stripes across the backs of both thighs, some of them already purpling into bruises that will last for days. A few of them broke the skin and there's dried blood crusted along the edges where the leather cut deep enough to tear. My stomach turns over violently and I have to breathe through my nose for a second to keep my face neutral, to keep Ivan from seeing how angry this makes me.
"Okay," I say finally, and I make myself appear calm and steady even though I want to put my fist through the wall, want to scream, want to hurt Henderson the way he hurts us. "Pull your pants up. Let's think about this."
Ivan pulls his jeans back up carefully, wincing as the denim brushes against the wounds, and turns around to face me. His eyes are too bright, shining with unshed tears.
"PE is tomorrow," he says. "We're starting track and field. Coach Bryant said we have to wear shorts for outdoor activities. It's not optional, he was very clear about that. It's a safety thing or a school policy thing or something."
I sit down on my bed and Ivan sits down next to me immediately, close enough that our shoulders are touching. I can feel him shaking a little, these tiny tremors running through his whole body that he's trying to hide from me.
"If I wear shorts, everyone's going to see what Henderson did," he says, and the words come out rushed and desperate. "The coach is going to see. The other kids. Everyone. And the coach will ask questions, and he'll report it because he has to report it, right? That's what teachers are supposed to do? And then social services will come and they'll investigate and they'll take us away and we'll never—" His voice breaks on the last word and he stops abruptly, pressing his lips together hard to keep from crying.
"Hey," I say gently, and I put my hand on the back of his neck, squeeze gently in a gesture that's become familiar between us. "Hey. Breathe, Ivan. Just breathe for a second. We're going to figure this out."
"How?" he asks desperately, turning to look at me with those wide, frightened eyes. "How do we figure this out? I can't make the bruises disappear. I can't hide them if I'm wearing shorts. There's no way to—"
"You take the cut in PE," I say, interrupting his spiral into panic.
Ivan looks at me, confusion breaking through the fear on his face. "What? What does that mean?"
"You don't dress out," I explain patiently. I've done this before, at other schools in other placements, navigated this exact situation more times than I can count. It's not a perfect solution but it's the only one we've got right now. "You tell the coach you forgot your gym clothes, or you feel sick, or your shoes don't fit, or whatever excuse sounds believable. You take the cut for the day." I lean forward slightly, making sure he's listening to every word. "Most PE teachers, if you don't dress out, they mark you absent for the class period. Give you a zero for participation that day. Call it a cut. You take enough cuts, your grade drops, or there's some punishment. But that's it. That's all that happens. No investigation, no questions, no social workers."
"But Coach Bryant is strict," Ivan protests. "He doesn't just let people skip without consequences. He makes you run laps later if you take too many cuts. Like, a lot of laps. He makes kids run around the whole football field multiple times while everyone else is playing."
"Then you run laps," I say simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"But—" Ivan starts.
"Ivan." I turn so I'm facing him directly, so he can see my eyes and know I'm serious. "What's worse? Running some laps around a football field, or getting pulled out of here and sent somewhere else? Somewhere without me? Somewhere where you don't know the rules and you don't have anyone watching your back?"
He's quiet for a long moment, and I can see him working through it, doing the terrible math the same way I taught him to calculate these impossible equations. Pain versus separation. Punishment versus losingeach other. It's a horrible calculation for a twelve-year-old kid to have to make, but that's the world we live in. That's the only world we've got.
"I'll run the laps. The laps are worse in the moment but they're not permanent. They end eventually."
"Right," I confirm, relieved that he understands. "Running laps isn't going to kill you. Being sore for a few days isn't going to kill you. But if someone sees those bruises and makes a mandatory report to child protective services, that's it. Game over for both of us. They'll have us out of here by the end of the week, probably faster. And you'll go to some group home on one side of the state, and I'll go to some other placement on the other side, maybe another family or maybe a group home too. And we'll never find each other again because the system doesn't keep track of that kind of thing, doesn't care about keeping foster kids connected."
Ivan nods slowly, absorbing this information. He's still shaking but it's getting better, like having a concrete plan is helping him hold himself together, giving him something to focus on besides the fear.
"Here's what you do," I say, laying out the strategy step by step. "Tomorrow, when it's time for PE, you tell Coach Bryant you don't have your gym clothes. Don't make a big deal out of it, don't act nervous or suspicious, just say you forgot them at home or they're in the wash or whatever. Act casual. He'll probably yell at you or give you a lecture about responsibility and being prepared, but that's fine. Let him yell. Take the cut. Do that every single day until the bruises fade enough that you can wear shorts without anyone asking questions about where they came from."
"He's going to think I'm lazy," Ivan says quietly, and I can hear the shame in his voice. "Or that I don't care about his class. He already doesn't like me very much."
"Let him think whatever he wants," I say firmly. "His opinion of you doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. What matters is that we stay together. What matters is that we survive this placement and don't get separated. That's the only thing that matters."
Ivan leans into me a little, letting some of his weight rest against my shoulder, seeking comfort and reassurance. I put my arm around him andhold him there, this kid who's become the most important thing in my world without me ever consciously deciding to let that happen.
Six months ago, he was a complete stranger, just another foster kid being dropped off at another placement. Now I can't imagine my life without him in it, can't imagine going back to being alone in this house with the Hendersons and no one to watch my back, no one to sit with in the barn loft when things get bad, no one to remind me that I'm still human and not just a punching bag or a source of state funding.
"What if the bruises don't fade in time?" Ivan asks, voicing the fear that's clearly been building in his mind. "What if they keep... what if it keeps happening before these ones heal?"
