He walks toward me with slow steps, and I can't breathe, my lungs frozen.
Then I stop breathing entirely.
He's right in front of me now, so close that I have to tilt my head back to look at his face, to meet those dark eyes that seem to bore right through me. His expression is still hard, still mean, still dangerous, and I'm bracing for the first hit, wondering if it'll be a punch to the stomach or a slap to the face or—
And then his whole face changes in an instant, like someone flipped a switch.
The hardness melts away like it was never there, like it was just a mask he was wearing. His jaw relaxes, unclenching. His eyes go soft, warm, gentle in a way I didn't expect, didn't know was possible. And he smiles. A real smile, not like Mrs. Patterson's fake one, not like the smile adults do when they want something from you or they're trying to manipulate you into believing everything's fine. A real smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes, crinkling the corners, lighting up his whole face.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is different now too, completely transformed—quiet, gentle, almost tentative. "I'm Jay."
I don't know what to say. I'm still pressed against the door, still holding my breath, still waiting for something bad to happen because nothing this good ever happens without a catch.
"You can breathe," he says softly, like he knows exactly what I'm feeling right now. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise. You can breathe now."
I let out a breath, and it comes out shaky and uneven, my whole chest trembling with the release.
"I know I look scary," he continues, taking a step back, giving me space to breathe, to think, to exist without feeling trapped. "I have to. Out there." He tilts his head toward the door, toward the rest of the house where the Hendersons are. "But not in here. In here we're just us. Okay?"
"Okay," I whisper, barely audible.
"That your stuff?" He points at my garbage bag with his chin.
I nod.
"You can have the bottom two drawers in the dresser," he says, gesturing toward the piece of furniture between the beds. "I don't have much so you can have more space if you need it." He goes back to his bedand sits down, pulling his knees up to his chest, making himself smaller somehow, less threatening, less like the dangerous person he appeared to be when I first walked in. "What's your name?"
"Ivan," I manage to say.
"Ivan. That's a good name. How old are you?"
"Twelve."
"I'm fourteen," he tells me, and then he's quiet for a second, watching me with those dark eyes that aren't scary anymore, just observant. "You been in the system long?"
"Since I was seven, I think. I don't remember much from before that. It's all kind of blurry."
Jay nods like this makes perfect sense, like it's normal for kids like us. And I guess it is normal, for kids like us.
"Okay, Ivan. Here's what you need to know about this place." He leans forward a little like he's sharing secrets. "The Hendersons aren't good people. Mr. Henderson drinks and he gets mean when he drinks. Meaner than he is sober, which is already pretty mean. Mrs. Henderson doesn't care about anything except the check that comes every month for keeping us here. Don't expect them to be nice. Don't expect them to help you with anything. Don't expect anything at all from them except the bare minimum, and sometimes not even that."
I nod slowly. I already knew this, really. I knew it the second I saw the beer in Mr. Henderson's hand at two in the afternoon, the way his eyes looked right through me.
"You do what they say and you don't talk back, ever," Jay continues. "You work when they tell you to work, and you don't complain about it. You eat fast at dinner because sometimes there isn't enough food and they don't care if you're hungry. They'll just say you should have been faster. You stay out of his way, especially at night, especially when he's been drinking a lot and his eyes get that look. You'll learn to recognize it."
My stomach is in knots now, twisted up so tight it hurts. But Jay seems calm and steady, like he's just telling me facts, like this is just how it is and there's no point in getting upset about it.
"And if things get bad, you come find me. Okay?" He looks at me intently, making sure I'm listening, making sure I understand. "No matterwhat time it is, no matter what's happening, you come find me and I'll help. That's a promise."
I stare at him, unable to process what he's saying. Nobody's ever said that to me before. Nobody's ever offered to help, to protect me, to be there when things go wrong.
"Why?" I ask, the word barely making it past my lips. "Why would you help me?"
Jay shrugs one shoulder, a small, almost sad gesture. "Because we're the only ones who are gonna look out for each other in this place. That's how it works when you're a foster kid. The adults don't care. The system doesn't care. But I care. So, you don't have to be scared. Not of me, at least."
I realize I'm still clutching my garbage bag against my chest. I let it drop a little, my arms relaxing just slightly.
"I thought you were going to hit me," I admit quietly. "Or steal my stuff, or do something worse. Older boys always... they always do."
