"You did good," I say softly, handing him a plate to dry.
Ivan doesn't answer, doesn't acknowledge my words. He's scrubbing a plate with the worn-out sponge, scrubbing it harder than he needs to, scrubbing it like he's trying to erase something that can't be washed away.
"Hey," I say again, bumping his shoulder gently with mine to get his attention. "You did good, Ivan. I mean it. That's what he does on the first night with a new kid. He tests you. Tries to scare you, tries to see if you'll cry or fight back or break. You didn't cry, didn't talk back, didn't give him anything he could use against you. That's really good."
"Is it always like that?" Ivan asks. "Every night?"
I want to lie to him. I want to tell him it gets better, that the first night is the worst and everything will be easier from here on out. I want to give him hope, something to hold onto.
I don't lie.
"Sometimes it's worse," I tell him honestly, because he deserves the truth even if it's terrible. "When he's been drinking more. When he's had a bad day. When something sets him off. But you learn to read him, learn to see the signs. Learn when to disappear, when to make yourself scarce,when to lock the bedroom door and stay quiet. I'll show you. I'll teach you everything I know."
Ivan's hands have stopped moving completely. He's gripping the edge of the sink now, his knuckles white with tension, staring down at the dirty water like it holds answers to questions he's afraid to ask.
"The social worker said she'd check in," Ivan says.
"She won't."
"But she said—" Ivan starts to protest.
"She won't," I repeat. I'm trying to be gentle but I need him to understand this, need him to face reality. "They never do, Ivan. They've got too many kids and not enough time. Too many cases, too many files, too many problems and not enough hours in the day. They drop you off and they forget about you because they have to. They can't keep track of everyone. That's just how it works in this system."
Ivan is quiet for a long moment, just standing there with his hands gripping the sink. I watch his face and I can see him putting something away, boxing it up. Some last little piece of hope, some belief that someone out there cares about what happens to him, getting shoved into a corner of his mind where it won't hurt as much. I know that look because I've worn it myself. I've felt that exact moment when you realize you're completely on your own.
It makes me so angry I could break something, could put my fist through the wall or throw a plate across the room.
Not at Ivan, never at Ivan. At the system that does this to kids. At the social workers who sign papers and drive away and don't look back. At the people who get paid to keep kids like us and treat us like we're less than human, like we're animals or furniture or inconveniences. At the whole goddamn world that lets this happen and doesn't care, that looks the other way, that pretends it's not their problem.
I'm fourteen years old and I'm so tired of being angry all the time, tired of carrying this rage around inside me like hot coals that never stop burning.
"Listen," I say, and I turn off the water, the sudden silence almost shocking. The house is quiet except for the TV in the other room, the game still blaring. "I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to you. Okay?I know you don't know me yet. I know you've got no reason to believe me, no reason to trust anything I say. But I mean it, Ivan. I really mean it. We stick together. That's how we survive this place. That's how we make it through."
Ivan looks at me finally, turning his head to meet my eyes. His eyes are wet, shining with unshed tears, but he's not crying. He's holding it in, keeping it together through sheer force of will.
"Why do you care?" he asks. "You don't even know me. Why would you care what happens to me?"
I don't have a good answer for that question. I don't know why I care so much about this kid I just met. I just looked at him standing in that doorway a few hours ago, clutching his garbage bag like it was the only thing he owned in the world, looking at me like I was going to destroy him and something broke loose inside me that I can't put back.
"Because somebody should," I say finally, because it's the truth even if it's not a complete answer. "Somebody should care about what happens to you. And nobody else is going to. So, I will."
He nods slowly, like he's still deciding whether to believe me, still weighing my words against every other broken promise he's probably received in his twelve years of life.
That's okay. I can wait. He'll believe me eventually when I prove it with actions instead of words. I'll show him.
Later, after the lights are off and we're in our separate beds, lying in the darkness of our shared room, I stare at the ceiling and think about all the ways this is going to go wrong, all the ways this situation is going to fall apart.
Mr. Henderson is going to hit him eventually. That's not a question. It's a fact, as certain as the sun rising tomorrow. He hits me. Not all the time, not every day, but enough that I know it's coming. When he's drunk enough, when something sets him off, when work goes bad or his team loses or he just feels like taking out his anger on someone smaller than him. He uses a belt mostly, the thick leather one with the metal buckle. Sometimes just his hands, his fists. Once he threw a beer bottle that missed my head by maybe an inch, close enough that I felt the air move as it went by.
Ivan is smaller than me, skinnier, more fragile. He won't be able to take the hits as well, won't have the muscle to absorb the blows or the experience to know how to protect himself.
I think about what I'll do when it happens, how I'll react when I hear Ivan crying or see the bruises or catch Henderson raising his hand. I'll jump in, probably. Take the hits myself, put my body between them. But that's stupid. It'll just make Henderson angrier, will make it worse for both of us in the long run. But I don't think I'll be able to stop myself. I don't think I'll be able to just stand there and watch.
This kid has been here one day, less than twelve hours, and I'm already ready to bleed for him. Already ready to take pain that isn't mine to take.
That's not smart. That's not how you survive in this system. You're supposed to keep your head down, stay invisible, not make waves, not draw attention. You're supposed to look out for yourself first because nobody else will.
I can't make myself care about being smart anymore.
