I stay close to him, ready to catch him if he stumbles, ready to help if he falls. But he doesn't stumble. He doesn't fall. He just keeps walking, one foot in front of the other, his jaw set in that way I know means he's holding on, refusing to give in to the pain or the fear.
We're almost at the bus stop when he stops walking and turns to face me. He looks even more washed out than he did inside, like a photograph that's starting to fade, like he's already disappearing right in front of me.
"Ivan, whatever happens today, I need you to remember something."
"I know," I say quickly, desperately, the words tumbling out. "Jason Michael Morrow. March fifteenth. Macon, Georgia. I remember everything, I won't forget, I promise—"
"Not that," he interrupts, reaching out with his good hand and grabbing my arm, holding on tight enough that I can feel the tremor running through him. "I need you to remember that this isn't your fault. None of it. Not the cans, not last night, not what's going to happen next. I made a choice. I knew what I was doing when I went after him, when I grabbed his arm, when I put myself between you and that belt. And I would make the same choice again, every single time, a thousand times. Do you understand? I had to stop him."
My eyes are burning and I blink hard, trying to keep the tears back, trying to be strong the way he needs me to be.
"Jay—"
"Do you understand?" His grip on my arm tightens even more, and I can see the desperation in his eyes, the need to make me believe this. "Say it. Say you understand. I need to hear you say it."
"I understand, Jay," I whisper, even though I don't, not really, not in any way that helps. How can it not be my fault when he got hurt protecting me? How can I not carry that with me for the rest of my life, this knowledge that he broke his arm because of me, that he's about to lose everything because he tried to save me?
"That's good," he says, and he lets go of my arm. He takes a breath, deep and shaky, and I can see how much even that small exertion cost him, how much energy he had to spend on those few sentences. "One more thing. If they separate us today—when they separate us, because they will, we both know they will—don't try to fight it. Don't run. Don't do anything stupid that'll get you in more trouble. Just go where they tell you to go and keep your head down and survive. That's the most important thing, Ivan. You survive. You do whatever you have to do to survive. Remember, this is only a small blip in time. And then, when you're old enough, when you're out of the system and free, you find me. Or I'll find you. One way or another, no matter how long it takes, we'll be together again."
"You promise?" My voice cracks on the word, breaks completely, and I don't even care anymore about being strong or holding it together. Let him see me cry. Let the whole world see me cry. Nothing matters except these words that feel like a goodbye, like the last goodbye.
"I promise," he says firmly, and he pulls me into a hug, awkward and one-armed but fierce, desperate, holding onto me like I'm the only thing keeping him upright. His chin rests on top of my head for just a moment and I can feel him trembling against me, can feel the pain radiating off him in waves. "Remember my name, Ivan. Remember everything we practiced. And I'll do the same. We'll find each other. I swear it on my life. I swear it on everything I am. We'll find each other again one day."
The bus is coming down the road, getting closer. Jay lets go of me and steps back, and there's something in his eyes that looks like grief, like he's already mourning something that hasn't happened yet.
"Go on. Get on the bus. It'll be okay. I'll be right behind you."
I get on the bus with legs that don't feel like mine. I find a seat near the back and press my face against the window, watching through blurred vision as Jay climbs the steps slowly, painfully, clutching the handrail with his good hand while his broken arm stays pressed against his chest.
He walks down the aisle and sits in the seat across from me, and we don't talk for the rest of the ride because there's nothing left to say. Everything important has already been said. The words are all used up.
At school, we go to our separate buildings—me to the middle school, him to the high school next door. I watch him walk away, moving slow and hunched, his broken arm held close. I feel like someone has reached in and grabbed my heart and is tearing it apart with their bare hands. I want to run after him, to stay by his side, to be there when everything falls apart.
But I can't.
I'm only twelve years old and I have no power over anything that happens in my life. I have no control.
I have nothing.
I am nothing.
I go to class. I sit at my desk. I stare at the board and don't hear a single word the teacher says, don't process anything, don't learn anything. All I can think about is Jay, somewhere in the building next door, walking through the halls with his broken arm, sweating in pain, waiting for someone to notice and for the end to come.
For our end to come.
The morning crawls by. Every time the classroom door opens, I flinch, expecting someone to come for me. But no one does. The clock on the wall ticks away the minutes, each one feeling like an hour, like a year. I go to second period, then third.
I eat lunch alone at a table in the corner of the cafeteria, not hungry, not tasting anything, just going through the motions because that's what Jay told me to do.
Keep your head down. Survive. Be invisible.
It's during fifth period when the office aide comes to my classroom with a note. My teacher reads it and looks at me with an expression Ican't decipher, something between pity and discomfort, like she knows something terrible is happening but doesn't want to be involved. She tells me to gather my things.
"You're being checked out early," she says. "Go to the front office."
I pick up my backpack with hands that are shaking so badly I can barely grip the straps, and I walk out of the room. My legs feel like they might give out at any second. The hallway stretches out in front of me, the fluorescent lights too bright, and I make myself keep walking even though every step brings me closer to something I don't want to face.
There's a woman waiting for me in the office. She's wearing a blazer and a tired expression, and she's holding a clipboard, and I know immediately what she is. I've seen enough social workers in my life to recognize them on sight, to know the look.
