The Boy Across the Street

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

I chew my food slowly, keeping my eyes lowered towards the table. I can feel Bradbury doing the same thing beside me. I think if we can be as still as humanly possible, making no sudden movements, as Leslie’s gaze bores down into our souls, we might just survive this meal and maybe, maybe, the night.

She already agreed to let Bradbury stay as long as he needs to, with very strict rules. I had to talk to her alone, explain everything that I saw go on across the street. She was appalled and I had to talk her out of calling social services. He’s so close to his eighteenth birthday, what good would it be to force him into a foster home now? But she is still wary of having a teenage boy, a boy she knows I kind of have had a crush on since, you know, forever, under our roof. Especially when said boy has - or had - a motorcycle and in her mind that just screams Danger! Danger, Leslie Robinson. 

Only after she’s finished with her dinner and cleans her plate off slowly, Bradbury and I still sitting very still at the dinner table, and goes upstairs to get ready for work, does the tense air in the dining room dissipate. A breath of relief whooshes from my lips and I hear Bradbury’s breath echo beside me. 

“That was awkward,” I hear him quietly mumble. 

“But at least it can only get better from here,” I say back. I see him nod out of the corner of my eyes and then we go about finishing our own food silently.

I’m just cleaning off our dishes when Leslie goes back downstairs, kisses me goodbye, gives Bradbury a stern look, and leaves with slam of the front door. When Bradbury and I find ourselves alone in the kitchen, things seem much more weird than all the other times he spent the night. 

I try to stuff the silence away in a dark box as I suggest watching a movie. I awkwardly wring my hands together until Bradbury nods and says okay. We end up on opposite sides of the living room couch, a bowl of popcorn on the cushion between us, and a Jaws marathon playing on the TV. 

The only noise is the sound effects from the TV and the crunching of popcorn as we stuff our hands into the bowl. Or, Bradbury stuffs his hand in and grabs fistfuls of popcorn. I pick one kernel at a time, satisfied when a hear the crunch between my teeth.

Every so often I see Bradbury’s head turn in my direction in my peripheral vision. Or, I think he’s looking at me, it might be the popcorn he’s mauling. I muster up some courage and finally look over at him. He’s actually not looking at me, but past me. I turn my head away, where he’s looking, and I see the big window, curtains open, his yellow peeling house across the street.

My breath hitches. I was being selfish, wanting him to look at me. Instead, he’s thinking about something much more important. 

I wonder what exactly happens inside those walls. What’s going on right now? I’ve only seen Bradbury’s mother a handful of times. She’s a plain woman from what I remember. I don’t know how she could marry the kind of man that takes a baseball bat to the head of a teenage boy. A man who can yell and scream with hellfire fury. How she could be a woman that does nothing about it. Turns a blind eye, or maybe is a victim herself.

I suddenly realize that even though I now know a lot more about his home life, and I may not know everything, but it’s more than he knows about me. I take a deep, shaky breath, turning my gaze back to the TV, then down at my hands in my lap.

“My mom died when I was seven.”

Those were the words that came out of my mouth. The only noise in the room seems to be the steady in and out from the boy beside me, noise from the TV being drowned out in his deafening breath.

“Is that why you moved in with Leslie?” He finally asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

He’s quiet for another long, excruciating minute. “I remember the day you showed up here. You looked so scared.”

He remembers.

He remembers that day, a day that I’ve thought about a lot. The day that we first met, and he ran away inside his home.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

“Cancer.” He didn’t even ask what happened, but I felt like I needed to say it.

“What about your dad?” He asks, there’s a difference in his tone I can’t decipher.

“I don’t know who he is,” I say. “He doesn’t know who I am.”

“Mine was a cop.” I look over at Bradbury. There’s a sadness in his eyes, one that I can relate to. “He died, too.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, blinking back tears. Then, I feel a warmth cover my hand. I look down to see Bradbury’s fingers lacing with my own. 

I should be celebrating, jumping up and down with joy, relishing at the fact that I’m holding his hand - actually holding Bradbury’s hand. But I just grip his fingers tighter, needing something to hold onto because I feel like I’m about to fall apart.