“Is that why you’ve been quiet? Because things at home have gotten worse?” he mutters. The plates of food have been abandoned and forgotten. I can’t conjure a sarcastic retort—there’s nothing in me. And as usual, I keep my mouth shut. Better that way.
“And what about all my texts? You haven’t responded to a single one! I even called you, for fuck’s sake!”
Oh, he’s swearing now. This is serious. I look at my phone and groan when I see that the text was never sent. I tell him as much, but Conin isn’t having it.
“That’s it. You’re not going back there. I’m texting my mom and you’re staying here until we figure something out,” says Conin.
I don’t speak. There’s half the urge to run, but where would I go? Conin’s texting his mom and when he finishes, his eyes find mine.
“Where are you?”
Without fail, he knows. When we were kids, he’d point out when I stared off into space—those moments I was lost in thought. I wandered far away. Somewhere dark. He reels me in, a fisherman at sea.
“I’m here,” I lie. The fallacy escapes as a stutter. The tears well, though I demand them not to come. I don’t want to cry in front of Conin. Not again. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Conin sits down. He’s adjacent to me, his whole body sitting in attention to mine.
“You don’t have to tell me, but what happened?”
The question can remain unanswered, but I feel compelled to tell him. He deserves this much.
My voice cracks. It’s pathetic and embarrassing. “He shattered my violin.”
Conin lets out an audible gasp. A sob parts my lips. Even as my body numbs, I can sense the anger that emanates from him. Conin reaches out, just as he used to when we were kids, and embraces my bony figure. The embarrassment is there at first—tiny, insignificant, until it dissipates. I take the intimacy of this moment to break down and cry.
Chapter 8
Conin
To say I’m fuming is an understatement. I’m seething the longer we watchStar Warsin silence. I hope that it takes Ezra’s mind off the horrid events of last night, but it does nothing to alleviate the bottled anger that threatens to pop inside me. The movie is more so for him rather than my entertainment. I’ve only watchedStar Warsfor Ezra’s sake. And it seems to be doing the trick.
I could care less about him ignoring my texts. Taking away Ezra’s violin is like amputating an extra limb. He cherishes it more than any possession he’s ever had. I possess half the mind to storm the Grays’ home and give Lukeman a solid beating, but realistically I know nothing will come of it. Mom’s spoken with Rochelle before, but she said it was all gaslighting and false assurances that Lukeman was going to get better, that she as Ezra’s mother would do something about it. All lies.
Ezra is alarmingly thin, with gaunt cheekbones, bags under his eyelids, and bony shoulders hidden under the oversizedhoodie I fit him in. Regardless of these faults, Ezra is undeniably attractive. He may not see it, but I do. I love his heterochromia even when he complains there’s nothing cool about his one green eye and its blue counterpart. As a kid, I was convinced they gave him magical powers—my friend was a superhero—invincible, powerful, and special.
Ezra’s slender frame is attractive as hell. I suppose I have a thing for skinny boys, though really all body types are perfect. Will he like me even though I’ve gotten fat? Would he and I look good together even when we’re completely different people? His hair is long and dark brown. It’s soft to the touch, perfect for raking fingers through it, which I’d do if he didn’t find it weird. But his hair is downright swoon-worthy when it’s tied into a bun. He taught me long ago, and when he wasn’t around, I would practice on Melissa, who was more than happy to offer her services to get me to “first base” with Ezra. I had flicked her forehead.
It’s those intimate moments between us I appreciate—Ezra trusting me to handle him, the inside jokes, the memories only he and I share. Casual glances, secretive smirks, the way we open up when we’re around each other. Before I realize it, calm has settled in my chest, and a grin works itself onto my face. That sensation comes crumbling down when I cast a glance at Ezra.
There’s a deep rigidness in the posture of his frame. He looks exactly how he did when the news played the segment on Buford Elementary. It was devastating what happened, but what about it put him so on edge? I don’t know. It worries me because his whole body seemed prepared for fight or flight. Does Ezra believe recidivists are inherently evil? Was he hurt by one?
I hold no animosity against people with special abilities. In my eyes, they aren’t any different from other marginalized groups ostracized for simply being different. I’m queer, for hell’s sake. No, I may never face the cruelty others have, and being astraight-presenting white dude is a privilege in and of itself, but I understand. And it’s with that I wonder if Ezra thinks the same. Or could he have reacted that way because he’s a recidivist, too? I’d know if he was, right? He would tell me. He’d have to.
Or maybe he’s trapped, afraid of what I’d think, of what everyone in his life would think if they knew. He’s ghosted me over the past several weeks. The trust I thought we had maybe shattered somewhere along the way. The idea is too much to bear.
My phone vibrates.
Melissa:Party at Emery’s tonight. Want to come? Ezra should come, too.
Ezra abhors social events, situations, and interactions of any kind. He’s a champ enough to attend my football games and participates in everything related to orchestra, but parties? Out of the question. Despite knowing this about him, this could be a good idea. For both of us. I know I want to go, drink a beer or two, lose myself in the moment. Maybe that’s what Ezra needs. It’s worth a shot.
“Melissa invited us to Emery’s party tonight. Do you want to go?”
“Invited . . .us?” he questions. His genuine surprise kind of hurts. If only everyone knew Ezra as I do, he wouldn’t be shocked when someone actually cares enough to invite him to a party.
“Yeah, how about it? Could be fun,” I say.
He scrunches his face in consternation. I knew better than to be hopelessly optimistic.
