The kitchen smells like overcooked meat and cigarettes, the two scents mixing together in a way that makes my stomach turn even though I'm used to it by now. Mrs. Henderson is putting plates on the table. Four of them, actual plates instead of the paper ones she usually uses, which is more effort than she usually makes for anything. She's showing off for the social worker probably, pretending she runs a real home with real care. Tomorrow it'll be back to eating whatever we can scrounge up from the mostly-empty cabinets, back to fending for ourselves.
Mr. Henderson is already at the head of the table in his usual spot, the chair with the duct-taped arms positioned where he can see the TV in the living room. He's on his fourth beer. I've been counting since I got home from school, keeping a mental tally. Four beers is still okay, still manageable. It's after six or seven that things get really bad, when his words start to slur and his movements get sloppy and his temper gets shorter and meaner.
"Sit," Mrs. Henderson says sharply, not looking at us.
I sit in my usual spot, the chair with the wobbly leg that rocks a little when you shift your weight. Ivan hesitates beside me, looking at the empty chairs like they might bite him, like this is some kind of trap he hasn't figured out yet.
"There," I say quietly, pointing to the seat next to mine with a small jerk of my chin. "That one."
He sits down carefully, perching on the edge of the chair like he might need to run at any second. His garbage bag is still in our room where we left it, but he's holding himself like he wishes he had it right now, like he wants something physical to put between himself and theworld, between himself and the Hendersons and this whole terrible situation.
I get that feeling, understand it completely. I used to have a jacket I wore everywhere, even in summer when the temperature hit ninety degrees, because it made me feel safer somehow. It got stolen at a group home when I was eleven, taken right out of my locker while I was in the shower. I don't keep things anymore after that, don't let myself get attached to possessions because they can be taken away so easily.
Mrs. Henderson puts food in front of us, just drops the plates down with a clatter. Some kind of beef that's been cooked until it's gray and tough, the kind that takes forever to chew. Instant mashed potatoes from a box, lumpy and bland. Canned green beans that look like they've been boiled to death. It's more food than I expected, definitely more than we usually get. She's definitely showing off, making it look like she feeds us well when the social worker might ask questions.
"Eat," Mr. Henderson says gruffly from the head of the table. He's not looking at us, his eyes fixed on the TV in the living room where some game is on with the sound up way too loud, the announcers' voices echoing through the house.
I eat, shoveling food into my mouth. Fast, just like I told Ivan to do. You never know when a plate might get taken away, when someone might decide you've had enough or you don't deserve to eat tonight or they're in a bad mood and want to punish you for existing.
Ivan picks up his fork with shaking fingers, the metal trembling slightly in his grip. He takes a bite of the beef, his jaw working as he chews the tough meat. I can tell he doesn't like it—it's barely seasoned, overcooked, practically inedible—but he swallows it anyway and takes another bite without complaint. He knows not to complain, knows that complaining only makes things worse, knows that you eat what you're given and you're grateful for it even if it tastes like shit.
For a few minutes it's just the sound of forks scraping on plates and the TV blaring from the other room, the announcers shouting about some play. I start to think maybe tonight will be easy, maybe we'll get through dinner without incident. Maybe Mr. Henderson will drink himself to sleep in that duct-taped chair like he sometimes does, and wecan disappear into our room and I can figure out how to keep this kid alive, how to teach him everything he needs to know.
"Hey."
I look up from my plate, my fork frozen halfway to my mouth. Mr. Henderson is staring at Ivan, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the kid with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
"Hey, boy," Mr. Henderson says louder. "I'm talking to you."
Ivan freezes completely, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth, a piece of gray beef speared on the tines. "Yes, sir?" he asks.
"You ain't an idiot, are you?" Mr. Henderson demands, leaning forward slightly in his chair. "They didn't send me an idiot, did they? Because I told them I don't want no idiots in my house."
I stare at my plate, forcing myself not to react, forcing my face to stay neutral. Don't react. Don't say anything. Don't give him a reason to turn his attention to you. Don't make it worse.
"No, sir," Ivan replies. "I'm not."
"Good," Mr. Henderson grunts, taking a long drink of his beer, the can tilting up as he drains half of it in one swallow. "I don't got patience for dumbasses. You pull your weight around here, you hear me? This ain't no vacation. This ain't some hotel where you get to sit around doing nothing. I got fields need clearing, animals need feeding, work that needs doing. You're gonna earn your keep, boy."
"Yes, sir," Ivan responds immediately, the words automatic.
Mr. Henderson keeps staring at him, his eyes boring into Ivan like he's trying to see inside his skull, trying to figure out what kind of kid he is. I can feel it without even looking up from my plate, can feel the weight of that stare. He's sizing Ivan up, deciding how far he can push this new kid, testing the boundaries, looking for weaknesses to exploit later.
"You a crybaby?" Mr. Henderson asks, "Last one we had was a crybaby—couldn't take nothing without blubbering like a little girl. You gonna cry every time things get hard? You gonna whine and complain?"
"No, sir," Ivan says quietly.
"Better not," Mr. Henderson warns, his finger jabbing in Ivan's direction for emphasis. "I don't tolerate crying in this house. You gota problem, you deal with it like a man. I don't care if you're twelve or twenty. We don't do weak or soft in this house. You understand me?"
"Yes, sir," Ivan repeats, and I can hear the fear he's trying so hard to hide.
Mr. Henderson finally looks away, turning his attention back to the TV and his beer, dismissing us once again.
Ivan's still frozen in place, his fork suspended in the air like he forgot how to move. I reach under the table carefully, my hand finding his knee, and I give it just a single tap. A message. You're okay. It's over. Keep eating. Don't draw attention.
He starts eating again, his movements stiff.
After dinner, we wash dishes together, standing side by side at the old stained sink. Me and Ivan, our shoulders almost touching in the cramped space. Mrs. Henderson disappears somewhere, probably to her bedroom to watch her own TV, and Mr. Henderson is back in his chair with another beer, number five or maybe six now. The game is loud enough that he won't hear us if we talk quiet.
