the long way home [ h.s. ]

Twenty Eight | 28

twenty eight | 28

☓

The following days seem to pass like cars on a lonely highway.

My mother takes the list of names and contacts Mrs. Shelby once more; scheduling meetings with the boys' parents. When Thomas first finds out he doesn't say anything. He just looks downward and continues to draw in his notebook, a deserted look on his face.

I wish I could say I wasn't expecting this, but unfortunately I can't. He's always hated conflict. And I wonder if he's afraid that it'll get worse after this; that the situation won't change, and he'll be even more of a victim.

But that won't happen.

We're going to make sure of it.

On Saturday night he comes into my room. His red sweater hangs loosely around him, and I forget how small he is compared to others. Someday, he'll get there-- he'll shoot up like a rocket, and break the different heights we've marked up the pantry wall.

He just needs some time.

"Thomas?" I ask, folding Harry's copy of East of Eden and placing it back on my bedside table. I've had it for a few weeks right now, but I only read a few pages each night. I want to make it last for as long as I can. Sometimes, I'll even sit in bed and stare and his small signature in the very front cover; the black pen, the capitalized letters.

"C-can I c-come in?"

"Of course you can," I say. "You're always welcome in here."

He nods and hops up onto my bed, sitting across from me.

It turns out that the purple turtle's predictions came true. It's been raining nonstop for almost a week, now. It's fairly light; nothing too heavy, which most people would be happy about. Me, I don't care too much.

I like the rain.

The news says that there's a short break coming, which will be followed by the heaviest of the showers. It's unusual for this part of Iowa, and I'm secretly excited to watch it through my window.

Running his hands over my lavender sheets, Thomas looks up at me with a shyness that seems to completely surround us. I furrow my brow and wait for him to speak. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that with enough patience, he'll open up.

"I'm s... I'm s... S-sorry for n-not t-telling you earlier. Ab-bout who th-ey are."

My eyes widen at the words. With my arms outstretched I pull him into a tight hug, feeling his warm breath seeping through my sweatshirt. He nuzzles against me and places his small hands around my neck, clinging to me like a rock in the middle of a vast sea.

"Don't be sorry, Thomas," I whisper into his hair. My hand rubs his back slowly, feeling it rise and fall. "It's okay now. It's all going to be okay for you. I promise."

"They'll l-leave m-me alone?"

"They will, if they know what's good for them."

The two of us remain this way for a few minutes; still and peaceful, with only the sound of my mother downstairs making dinner, and my dad flipping through the paper. Eventually Thomas adjusts himself in my lap, his hands tightening around my shoulders.