“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can you meet your fated mate before your second gender shows up?”
She’s quiet for a second. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I think he’s mine,” I say. “My Fylgja.”
She doesn’t say no.
“He’s really smart,” I keep going. “He knew all the answers. He didn’t play at recess. He just sat by himself and watched everyone. I think he might be lonely.”
I talk about him the whole way home. I talk about him during dinner too. When it’s time for bed, I make my parents tell me a story about us growing up and getting married, even though they laugh a lot while they do it.
I know he’s important.
I just wish I knew his name.
High School
Hale has another black eye.
I see it the second he steps off the bus, and my jaw locks so hard it hurts. I don’t even bother pretending I didn’t notice. He never tries to hide it anyway. He just keeps his head down, shoulders tight, like if he makes himself small enough the world won’t touch him.
He’s limping today, too. Fuck.
My parents have called CPS more times than I can count. Teachers have noticed. Nurses have noticed. Nothing ever comes of it. No follow-up. No change. Just Hale, still showing up to school looking like he lost a fight with gravity every other week.
And he’s alone. Completely.
No friends. No one he talks to. He goes to class, eats lunch with his sketchbook, then goes home. That’s it. I know because I’ve paid attention. I know his routine better than he probably realizes anyone does. He never deviates. Like if he sticks to it hard enough, nothing worse will happen.
I sit in my car and watch him walk off the bus, one step stiff, the other careful. He doesn’t look around. He never does. The trailer park is quiet until he reaches his door.
Then the yelling starts.
Even from this far away, I can hear it. My hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles white. I know that voice. I’ve heard it enough times to recognize it. It’s angry, drunk, and mean. I don’t need to see anything else to know what’s coming.
I hate that I can’t doanything.
I hate that he won’t let me help.
He still hates me. Or at least pretends he does. I’m convenient, someone safe to aim his anger at, someone who isn’t actually dangerous. I let him. If snapping at me gives him even a tiny release, I’ll take it. I don’t need him to like me. I just need him alive. Whole.
I watch until the door shuts behind him. Then I drive away.
The radio stays off. My thoughts are loud enough. I imagine a future where he doesn’t live there. Where he doesn’t flinch when someone raises their voice. Where bruises aren’t something I automatically look for when I see him.
I don’t know how we get there yet. But I know we will.
One day, he’s going to be free of that place. And when that happens, I’ll be there whether he wants me to be or not.
Because I’m not leavinghim behind.
Apprenticeship
Iknow I shouldn’t be here.
