They emerge from Will’s room a little after six, hoping that nobody will notice their kiss-swollen lips and wild hair. Boris looks a little worse off than Will, curls sticking out stubbornly even though they had tried to straighten them out as best as they could. Will feels a tiny sweltering of pride in chest every time he looks at him, because he did that.
They’ve been talking and laughing and making out off and on for hours, and Will can’t think of any other way he would want to spend his time. Now, it’s time to share Boris with his family, and a selfish little part of doesn’t want to—wants to keep Boris as his and only his for as long as possible—but the rest of him can’t wait for his mother to meet him. He has high hopes that she’ll see this wild something in him and love it just as much as he does, and nurture it the way that she’s always been so good at.
They find her in the kitchen, stirring green beans in a pan on the stove.
“Hey Mom,” Will greets.
“Hi boys!” Her voice is soft and high and happy, the way it always is even after a long day of working. She turns around to face them and pauses, concern immediately coloring her features. She had been to preoccupied on the phone to noticed Boris’s eye earlier, but she notices now.
“What happened there?”
And maybe it’s the mothering concern as opposed to a teacher’s strict command, but it takes Boris a second to respond, and the laugh sounds even more forced than usual.
“Is nothing! Got hit in the face with football. Tried playing with kids near my house. Can be rough game.”
Joyce Byers looks like she doesn’t buy it for a second. She patters her way over to him, so calming that it wouldn’t even spook a feral cat.
“Did you ice it?” she asks. Her hand wavers for a second, almost as though she’s resisting the urge to rest it on his face to examine closer.
“No ma’am,” he answers, unusually polite.
“Well, it’s a little bit late for that now, I think. I hope you won’t play so rough next time.”
Her eyes look far too knowing, and under the weight of them, Boris seems to shrink. He nods his head, and she gives him a small smile.
Will and Boris end up setting the table, something Boris has clearly never done a day in his life. Will finds this equal parts concerning and endearing. He lets the other boy set everything out haphazardly and then corrects things behind him, explaining where the knife and the fork go and why, and laughing when Boris vehemently argues that the logic behind it all is stupid.
Jonathan and Argyle don’t join them for dinner, but promise to be back in time to take Boris home.
When they’re all seated, El on Will’s left, Boris on his right, his mom asks the question he’s never been quite courageous enough to bring up himself—not with all the stories of his travels and knowing just how much he’s moved around.
“Where are you from, Boris?”
“Everywhere!” he chirps. “But also nowhere. Have lived many places. Ukraine, Australia, Poland, Russia, New Zealand, New Guinea, Canada, Saudi Arabia, Sweden, Texas for two months, Alaska, Nevada, that one was most recent,” he shrugs. “Mostly Australia and Ukraine though.”
“That’s a lot of traveling for such a young man. And you do okay in school?”
“Mostly. Some things better than others. Took me awhile to learn English, and some things still are confusing, but I’m okay.”
“That’s good to hear. You know, Will struggles in some things too,”
Will cuts her off with a strangled, “Mom!”
