good boy

one

"If you're not home by 5:00, I'm calling the cops."

My mother has always been like this: protective, and maybe a bit too much so, which might have bothered me if not for the fact I know she's just worried. She cares a lot for me and my brother. She always says she loves us more than anything except for God. But I guess second place isn't too bad. I think about it as I walk to the grocery store, considering what we would have to do to become her first priority. I laugh and shake my head. Come on, Gerard, you know that's not possible. I hum quietly as I pull my jacket tighter around myself, bracing against the wind blowing in my face. It looks like it'll rain, and I have to get home before it starts unless I want to bring my mother soggy bread and track puddles into the house.

The store is just ahead of me now and I sigh in relief. At least I beat the rain getting here. Now it's a race against time to get everything my mom needs: milk, eggs, bread, onions, and something on the list I can't quite read. It looks like it could be 'cereal', but it could easily be something else with my mother's atrocious handwriting. I continue humming the song stuck in my head as I buzz around the store. I go through self checkout once I'm finished, and then I mentally prepare myself to go back out in the wind. The heaters at the exit blast me with one last moment of warm air before throwing me out in the cold.

I hear something from the alley in between the grocery and liquor stores. Loud thudding, followed by "let's go" and heavy footsteps.

As the footsteps retreat, a voice calls after them, "Try me again, bitch! See what happens." Another thud and a heavy sigh. I glance into the alley as I pass. There is a boy who looks around my age slumped against the wall, panting and wincing with each breath. Blood pours down his face in quick, thin streams.

"Hey, um, do you need some help?" I surprise even myself by asking, but he looks like he's in so much pain and my mother taught me never to abandon someone in need.

He looks up at me and scowls. "Mind your business, kid," he snarls. He rises to his feet with some difficulty and takes a step toward me. "Stop staring!" He raises a fist and lunges forward, but never reaches me as his eyes roll back and he crashes to the ground in a heap. I look around, praying someone will come by and take care of him. But as I look out at the parking lot, I notice the first few raindrops coming down. I guess it's up to me to help him, then. I can't leave him passed out on the ground in the rain. With my mother's voice in mind telling me I can't leave him, I pick him up and carry – well, more like drag – him home.

By the time I'm dragging him up the front steps, I'm about ready to leave him outside. I am nowhere near strong enough for this; it's a miracle I got him this far. I set him on the steps and ring the bell. My little brother answers. "Help me bring him in," I demand.

Mikey protests briefly, telling me that mom's not home, then does as he's told and helps me carry the unconscious guy to the bathroom. I crouch down to open the cabinet and search for the first aid kit, and by the time I stand back up, he's slowly waking. He holds his head, smearing blood across his face and groggily asks, "Wait, where am I?"

I grab an alcohol wipe and start dabbing at the injuries on his face. "You passed out, and it was raining," I explain, "I brought you back here to take care of you. We're close to the store where you got in that fight." He tries to stand but I push him back down to sit on the closed toilet. "Stay," I tell him. "At least until I've fixed you up a little bit." He flinches every time I dab at one of the cuts and occasionally whispers swear words.

The gash on his lip has stopped bleeding, and the one on his eyebrow seems to be nearly done. I push his dark hair back and look at the nasty cut on his forehead. I think his head got slammed into the concrete hard to end up with this. I smear some ointment on each injury as he whines and tries to dodge it. "That shit stings," he complains, "You're making it worse." I hold his face still with one hand and give him a stern look as I wipe away the last little bit of blood on his eyebrow with some toilet paper.

"Now, do you want to tell me why you got beat up, or would you rather act like you're too cool?" I ask as I wash his bloodied knuckles.

He smirks. "I am too cool, and if you think I'm bad, you should see the other guy." I frown. He sighs, "Fine, we fought over money. I owed him, and I haven't paid him back yet. Happy?" He swats my hands away and breaks eye contact. "Now who are you, anyway, bringing some hurt stranger into your house? Are you stupid? I could have been a murderer!"

I roll my eyes. "If you were a murderer, you wouldn't have lost that fight," I say. "You would've murdered him. That's how I know you're not a murderer."

"You never answered my question. Who are you, and why did you bring me here?"

"My name is Gerard," I announce, extending a hand. He does not shake it. "My mom taught me to help people in need, and that's why you're here."

He pushes my hand away once more and stands up, dusting his hands off on his pants. He shrugs and says, "Well, thank your mom for me, I guess, but I'd better get going because I also have no guarantee you're not a murderer." He pushes past me and leaves without shutting the front door behind him.