“They don’t abuse me. Accidents happen.”
“Oh sure, accidents happen again and again and leave scars.”
Thomas cast him a sour look.
“I would do something terrible if I had to protect someone,” Andrew said, desperately wishing he could shut up. “I’d do anything for Dove. Or… or you.”
But Thomas didn’t answer, he only slammed the door behind him.
Andrew punched the door. Just once. Every bone in his fingers screamed and he had to shake out his hand and pace their small room to calm down. His heart raced with pure panicked adrenaline. He was losing Thomas, watching him slip between his fingers and sink into the earth. Roots would grow over his face and dirt would fill his mouth and he’d be lost forever.
Andrew snatched his notebook and wrote out the story he’d been stewing over for days. He ripped out the page, and the ragged edges matched his ragged breathing.
He tacked it to the window so that the next time Thomas opened it to sneak out, he’d have to read it.
The story meant nothing, just another vignette, but maybe Thomas would draw it and that would be like talking again. Not that Thomas even had a sketchbook around anymore. Drawing was the reason he breathed, the thing he craved whenever a pencil was snatched from his fingertips.
Something was eating Thomas alive if it distracted him from his art.
Once upon a time there lived a woodcutter who crept into an enchanted forest and took his ax to an enchanted tree. It was said a log from here would burn bright and merry forever. Indeed, the woodcutter spent a comfortable night roasting apples with no care in the world.
But the next morning, he found the enchanted forest had come walking. Acres of trees surrounded his cottage, all crying bloody tears. He ran through the forest, but could not find his way out.
All he found were trees weeping blood and blood and blood.
NINE
The afternoon air felt raw and bloody.
Andrew put all his hate into every swing of his tennis racket and got reprimanded twice about control. The coach liked him, though. He was a very short, very French man, who pronounced Perrault correctly.Perr-ohnotPer-alt. He kept pushing Andrew to practice more, eat more, start lifting weights, all things Andrew had no interest in doing. He only played tennis because Wickwood required a sport—he just had the misfortune to be semi-good at it. Hence why the coach kept pairing him with the other top player.
Bryce Kane.
“Your serve, kitty cat.” Bryce’s hair glowed in a perfect wave above his sweatband, and he grinned with perfect white teeth. He should have been beautiful, but a foulness sat beneath each smug grin. He’d never been in trouble a day in his life, and he basked in knowing he never would be.
“Why are you so distracted today?” Bryce twirled his racket. “I mean, Rye isn’t here for you to perv at, soooo… Someone else caught your eye?” He put a hand to his chest. “Me?”
Andrew bounced the tennis ball.
“Too bad I’m taken.” Bryce made a pouting face and fluttered his eyelashes. “You’ll just have to blow Rye in your free time.”
Andrew served with enough violence that the ball shot passed Bryce before he even lifted his racket. Bryce lost the point and his eyes flashed dark.
The coach’s whistle sounded as he strode over. “Focus, young men! I want to see practice, not chatter. Perrault!”
Andrew turned stiffly, and the coach clapped him on the shoulder. “Keep this energy up and you will play in the November tournament.”
“No offense,” Bryce called across the net, “but he doesn’t have the stamina. Give it fifteen minutes and then I’ll beat him every time.”
“Start eating more, oui?” the coach said, voice warm. “Do the weights, footwork. Be faster. We are in agreement?”
“I’m actually going to be an author.” Andrew directed it at the ground.
“And I wanted to be Picasso.” The coach looked unfazed as he steered Andrew back toward the net. “It is better to study law, play tennis, then kiss many beautiful women.”
Bryce barked a laugh.
Andrew served hard. Bryce returned the ball and the real fight began. The coach strutted off to enthusiastically harass someone else.
