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All in favor of me moving this topic to Works in Progress, say "Aye!"

And I'd rather you say it even if you don't want me to, because I have to and you can still come visit.

Two Ayes, and it's gone. Si?

Now, chapter...whatever it is.

Note: NO MICHAEL JACKSON JOKES, THANK YOU!


7
I slept in the next day; it felt amazing to have nothing to do. Well, I never had NOTHING to do; my dad pounded on the door at ten and yelled that when he got home the house had better be sparkling, as usual. I saw now that he didn’t really care about the house, he just wanted to put me to work, and all he needed to see was certain evidence that I had been working, like Kahmè had said—
Kahmè!
I ran downstairs in my pajamas, ignored the cool, damp wind that assailed me as I dashed outside, climbed the ladder to the play set and stuck my head inside.
Kahmè was still asleep, breathing slowly in and out, a little smile on her face that seemed permanently carved there, because she was so perpetually happy; but at the sound of my panting, her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked owlishly and looked around. “Oh,” she said as she realized where she was. “Oh…oh, hey, Evan.”
I climbed up and sat down, clutching at a throbbing bruise on my chest; Kahmè followed my hand and her eyes widened to teacup-size, and I swore as I realized my mistake: I wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“What?” I said anyway, idiot that I was.
“What happened, Evan?” she squeaked, her hands flying to her mouth.
I looked down, surveyed the damage, trying to see how bad it was and, subsequently, how much I’d have to lie. It wasn’t too bad, just a handful of bruises, two fresh but the rest in the yellow-green stage. My stupid pale skin didn’t make it any better, all of them showed up like blood on a white t-shirt. “Oh, that,” I said offhandedly. Oh, that, I mocked myself, just my dad beating the s**t out of me when I screw up, nothing much. I only throw up every few days, get sick, can’t move without wincing, the usual. It’s quite common in certain children. Hereditary even. “A couple guys at school were giving me a hard time. No big deal.” No big deal at all.
Kahmè’s eyes wouldn’t go back to their normal size, it was frustrating me. “Why would they do that? That’s terrible! Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Not really.” Just, you know, a f—ing ton. “It’s not a big deal, Kahmè, they do it to everyone. You know…give me your lunch money?”
She didn’t get the cliché of a pop culture reference; she probably didn’t watch TV. “They stole your lunch too?”
“No, no. I didn’t have any to give them.”
“You didn’t have lunch?”
“No, Kahmè…jeez. What was YOUR school like, didn’t you have bullies?”
“I didn’t go to school.” Her eyes were still painfully wide, staring at my skinny chest. I wish she wouldn’t; I blushed, then shivered.
“I’m gonna go inside now. Wanna come in? It’s cold, and Dad’s not home….”
She agreed, shivering too; the new, colder climate didn’t agree with her. I knew that Arizona was arid and hot, she must have a lot of trouble adjusting. I carefully walked behind her; I didn’t know what state my back was in. She frowned at my arms as well.
“They’re all over you, Evan….”
“Don’t worry about me,” I urged her. “I just bruise easily.”
“But for one like that, they gotta have hit you hard….”
“Nah, not at all. Don’t worry about it, please.”
She bit her lip but said nothing more; I gave her the last of my cereal, boring knock-off brand stuff, and then dashed upstairs to put on a shirt. I ducked into the bathroom and checked the mirror, avoiding any glances at my face; then I sucked in a breath through my teeth. s**t, she was right, half of my chest was covered in blotchy bruises, and my back was worse…. I was wrong, I didn’t bruise that easily, there were still a dozen sore spots that hadn’t left a mark. Still, I heard my dad’s voice shouting in my ears…if I was stronger, sturdier, none of them would show up at all.
I ran away from myself, pulled on a shirt with long sleeves and some jeans, and hurried back downstairs.
Kahmè had polished off her cereal and was now staring, entranced, at the annoying little pictures on the back. She looked politely up at me as I sat beside her.
“Dad’s running errands,” I told her. “He’ll be back by dinnertime. What do you want to do today?”
She thought about it. “Do you have a river?”
“Nope. Lake Tahoe’s nearby, but I’ve never been there….”
“Ooh, a lake!” Kahmè clapped her hands excitedly. “Can we go?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s too dangerous, I don’t know what’s there.” Could be gangs, could be a bunch of ships, could be anything; I wasn’t taking the risk. “’Sides, it’s just water.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “Well, do you have a forest?”
“No.” I laughed. “Maybe we’ll just go for a walk.”
“Okay!”
I heated up the leftover-leftovers, the vegetables and some soup, and Kahmè and I shared it for lunch. I informed her, casually, about the meat issue. She didn’t know how to cook with it; it would be my responsibility to look up internet recipes for chicken and beef. But she knew fish pretty well.
“Mama told me that if you really really need to, you eat fish, she taught me how to skin ‘em and everything. There’s lotsa ways to cook ‘em, you can stuff ‘em with veggies or you can marinade them or fry them in corn meal and seasoning or….”
I pondered that, wondered if the same strategies would work for other meats. Had I written fish on the grocery list? Probably not, though I’d written chicken and ground beef on there. I started a new grocery list and set it on the counter. Kahmè followed me everywhere I went, still chattering happily on. I stopped her, frowning at her short little dress, green today.
“How many of those dresses do you have?”
“Three.”
“You just alternate? Do you wash them?”
“Yeah, borrow people’s water hoses.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope, didn’t need no damn pants in Arizona….”
I sighed; I’d finally found a way to put my money to use. “Okay. I’ll have to take you shopping.”
She raised an eyebrow, frowned. “Shopping?”

Yep, shopping.
I took her to Zephyr Cove, a town so close to Skyland that they were practically Siamese twins, joined at the spine. I showed her my middle school, Kingsbury, a.k.a. hell on earth; then I bought her a snack and took her to a store nearby. It was a girl’s store, I hoped they had her size, I didn’t know anything about this stuff.
The inside was vaguely pink and cluttered. The floor was laid with cheap rubber tiles; at least it would be inexpensive, though I still had my doubts.
Kahmè sucked on her fingers as she looked around, she’d probably never been anywhere like this before. “What size do you wear?” I asked her, just to make sure.
“Size?”
Nope.
I frowned, blushing a bit; I was in a girl’s clothes store without even the excuse of a stern mother dragging me along. I thought that if I looked like I knew what I was doing, people wouldn’t notice me. I poked through a rack of clothes, then changed my mind; too much pink.
“Umm….”
And then I froze. My skin crawled.
Someone was standing behind me!
Yes, it was a public place. YES, I was being stupid. But I don’t think it was entirely unreasonable that I hated having people behind me. They could hurt me, but they wouldn’t blind me.
I swiveled around, my instincts bottling up a scream that my habits would never let me use.
It was just the teenage sales clerk.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, confused at my reaction. She thought I was paranoid, unnecessarily so; how was she supposed to know? If she had, she wouldn’t have snuck up on me, among other things she might have done. “Did you need help finding something?”
I wanted to tell her to piss off; I wanted to take revenge on her for the fear she’d caused. But it wasn’t her fault, and she’d be more help than me; at the very least, she was female. I nudged the still-baffled Kahmè forward.
“She needs some jeans. And maybe a sweatshirt or something.”
“Ah, okay.” She nodded professionally. “What size?”
I shrugged.
“Ah,” she said again. “I see. C’mon, honey.” She took Kahmè by the hand like a five-year-old and led her to a row of folded jeans. “What kind do you want?” I heard her ask maternally. “Dark or light?”
“Umm, light, real real light….”
The clerk made a pet out of Kahmè, letting her babble on about nothing, everything, as they played Indian Barbie.
It felt like one of those TV sitcom montages. I sat in a plastic chair across from the dressing rooms and waited, relaxing and enjoying the warmth of the store, as Kahmè came in and out, in and out. The clerk was extraordinarily helpful in a way neither I nor, honestly, any other clerk paid minimum-wage could have done; she was just a generous person, I supposed. And she was friendly, too friendly—she had Kahmè spilling her guts in a heartbeat; Kahmè was only too happy to tell her everything she asked. I wondered if the girl was a police officer in disguise.
“Kahmè,” I hissed when the clerk left to find another something or other. “Don’t keep telling her all of that. You’ll get in trouble.”
“Why?” she complained. “She’s nice!”
“She’s too nosy. Don’t tell her anything, okay? Or any other grownup either. Ever.” How much better could I possibly convey the one thing I knew to be true? Never trust grownups. Never trust anybody. All of them would end up betraying you, hurting you. How could she not realize that?
“Okay…” She grumbled, chastened. Then: “Evaaaaaaan, I can’t figure out the stupid zipper-thing…can you help me?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d asked me. “No!” I couldn’t help it; I blushed. “I can’t just go in there! Ask that lady.”
“But you said don’t tell her nothing….”
“Not about YOU. Ask her about herself if you want, I don’t care.”
“Okay….”
I heard her swearing in German as she fought the sipper; she’d never had anything like this before. All of her clothes slid on or tied with laces, maybe the occasional button. Poor Kahmè, yet another victim of cultural shock.
“Do you like any of the stuff so far?”
“Mm, yeah, but none of it fits right, she said….”
“Remember, it’s gotta be tough, and a little big.”
“I know….”
I had specific guidelines. I’d only let her get tough jeans and a jacket or sweatshirt, something she could pull on over her dresses, that wouldn’t fall apart; it could be whatever color or fit she wanted, but it had to last. Not that I minded getting her clothes, but I preferred not to repeat the montage all over again.
It took longer than I’d thought—girls really were picky about their clothes—but finally we were checking out, and I forked over about thirty dollars for a pair of pale-washed jeans and a purple sweatshirt (that I couldn’t help thinking as bruise-colored no matter what I did), both of which she couldn’t resist wearing straight out of the store along with her dress. Also thrown in our purchase was a plain white t-shirt to wear underneath the sweatshirt, and a small package that the clerk insisted on, of something I didn’t want to think about but deeply suspected was something like underwear. I gave the bag with these to Kahmè and poked her to thank the clerk instead of me for once.
When we got back to the street she hugged me and started thanking me again. “Don’t mention it,” I mumbled, then changed the subject. “Did you want some shoes, too?”
“No! No, no, my shoes are just fine—”
“Can you run in them?”
“Oh yeah. They’re the best for running.”
I nodded. “Are you hungry? Let’s go get lunch….”
We went to a burger place down the street; I got her a bunch of fries and a fruit-thing with a burger for me. It felt nice not to cook, have my food and my fate judged simultaneously. We shared a shake, but I let her have most of it. I had no appetite.
“Why didn’t you eat anything?” she demanded after she’d polished off my hamburger buns as well as her own food. I was still picking at the meat, though I was full.
“I don’t eat a lot.”
“Why not?”
“It makes me sick.” Indirectly. My philosophy was, if you don’t eat there was nothing to hurl, and then nothing to clean up.
She scowled at me. “You eat your dead animal right now, Evan!”
She certainly was cute, but I didn’t like being bossed around. I ignored her, standing up and heading for the bathroom. “Go wash your hands,” I suggested. She made a face and followed me like a shadow; I had to stop and remind her to use her own bathroom. She probably didn’t get it, but she did as I said; I was now under the suspicion that her oddness and naïveté had nothing to do with being an Indian or whatever, she was just eccentric or perhaps mildly retarded.
We went for another walk, ending up at the Zephyr Cove park. Kahmè squealed with delight and proceeded to play on everything at once, dragging me along with her no matter how much I protested. She was a space cadet, and me an alien; she was a rabbit that said seemingly wise things, and I was the bird who listened; she was a princess in a fairy tale, and I was the prince; she was the knight, and I the dragon. If there was one thing I admired about her, it was her decisive imagination, the way she was the star of all of her fantasies. If I had been told to play, make up a story, I would be a German Jew during the Holocaust, darting from shelter to shelter, nowhere was safe. Or I would be a fugitive, on the run for a crime I couldn’t remember.
Or maybe I’d just be Evan….
Back then, I didn’t know what to think of myself; I just adopted my dad’s viewpoint, saw myself as weak and useless, it was easier that way. But I was two, three different people. I was the Evan that wanted to avoid trouble, survive, take the easiest route, live in cowardice and avoid every punch. I was the Evan that wanted my dad to love me, wanted to show him how strong I was, I could take this after all, I could be what he wanted. I never saw it in myself until years later, but I was also the Evan that knew all of this was wrong, that still had enough humanity left to seek something better.
I mostly stayed out of Kahmè’s way, saying my lines without running around much as she whirled around me like a crazy little tornado.
Finally, she tired herself out; she collapsed onto the damp grass, giggling between pants. I sat by her, feeling queasy again.
“Why aren’t you having fun?” she asked me, sincerely disappointed.
“I am.” And I was. For the most part. It was like watching a cartoon in Japanese; you didn’t understand a word, you just sat back and enjoyed the movement and the colors. But I couldn’t help wondering when my dad was coming home, and how much s**t I’d have to take if he beat me there.
“You don’t look like you’re having fun,” she scowled at me.
“Yeah, I….” How to explain? “I don’t like having fun.”
She raised an eyebrow. “How’s that work?”
It was sort of an oxymoron. I didn’t have the words to explain how timid I had become in the past few years, how detached from anything I enjoyed, how wild, uncontrolled I felt when I let myself be happy, a feeling I was sure my dad wouldn’t approve of. He wanted me to be a businessman, and they didn’t have fun. Hence, why he was always angry; hence, why he beat me.
“I don’t know how,” I finally settled for.
She laughed at me. “’S easy,” she told me. “You just gotta run around and yell at the top of your voice and climb up high—”
“That just makes me sick.”
She frowned at me, and I could tell she really felt sorry for me. Imagine, SORRY for me! Of all the things to feel sorry for. I didn’t want to make her unhappy, I wanted to keep her spirits up, so I forced a smile just for her. “Your games are fun, Kahmè. Did you make all of them up?”
“Yep!” she said proudly. “Wanna play another one?”
If I had to. I’d choose being sick over raining on her parade any day. “Sure. But just one more, and then we’ll go home, okay?”
“Okay!”
So we played a game in which everyone and everything changed roles every few minutes, in which the jungle gym beneath my feet was a forest, a ship, a castle, a beach, and a villain’s lair, and Kahmè changing roles twice for every shift in backdrop. I lost track of all of my roles, instead struggling to look like I was having fun when I really wasn’t in the least.
Finally the game ended, and I was relieved; but then, as we were walking back to Skyland, I remembered exactly what I was coming home to, and in that instant wished that the stupid game wouldn’t ever have ended. Maybe Peter Pan would take me away; he might torture me with fun, laughter, games, but at least he wouldn’t hurt me. And at least Kahmè would be there too, soaring in her Neverland.

Hmmm, its gunna be a long time before Evan can finally become sociable, and prone to enjoying life. The next chapter sounds scary. o.O

Kirby cant get her internet workin right so she asked me to post this up for her. razz

8

The good news was that we beat my dad home.

The bad news was that I didn’t know when he’d be back.

Kahmè babbled happily on while I cleaned in a rush, about adventures and all the ones we could have someday. By the way it sounded, she had an obsession with, or maybe even a fetish for, adventures of any kind. I didn’t pay attention, too busy organizing pillows and such, until she said, “And Evan, when your daddy comes home….”

I froze.

“…you gonna tell him everything we did?”

“Why the f— would I do that?” I couldn’t help being angry. She blinked at me, mildly injured by my tone.

“Well, you had lotsa fun, even though you said you didn’t know how…and we had tons of ‘ventures…. Won’t he be all happy?”

I shook my head at her—my dad, happy when he heard I had skipped chores to go play with some stupid Indian girl in another town? As f—ing if.

“Why not?”

She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand. I shook my head again, didn’t answer. She was quiet for a minute, then started to chatter once more; I went on cleaning, wondering when—

Someone knocked hard on the back door.

F—!

It only took me a moment to figure out that Kahmè couldn’t be seen here. “Go hide in the bathroom,” I hissed at her. “Don’t come out, whatever you do.”

“But why do I have to leave?” she pouted. She knew as well as I did that that was my dad outside. Hadn’t I told her that he couldn’t find out about her?

I tried to think of what Dad would do if he saw her—to both her and me. My imagination quailed at the thought.

“Just do it!”

Another heavy knock on the door. Oh s**t.

Kahmè started to whine about something, but I pushed her forcibly along and literally stuffed her into the bathroom, snapping at her to shut up. “Lock the door,” I told her, then ran to get the door.

My dad greeted me with an angry scowl, his arms full of grocery bags. He’d been waiting awhile, and he was tired and furious; he gave me a look I knew well, and I had just enough time to wince before he swung a bag of what felt like fruit at my head. The pain only came after I’d staggered back to my feet.

“Sorry, Dad,” I whispered, my cowed self again, but he wasn’t listening. He dumped the groceries on the table and was gone again. I was supposed to do something, I knew that, but I couldn’t remember what it was, my brain was scrambled; I just stood there and watched as he brought in the rest.

Then he turned and glared at me, and I panicked, trying even harder to remember what I was supposed to do.

“Put ‘em up,” he snapped at me, pushing me painfully in the right direction. I stumbled, tripped over my own feet…. And then he was gone, his car pulling out of the driveway, and I was on the floor. All I remembered was his cold voice telling me he didn’t work ten hours, etc., to come home and….

My stomach really hurt. I leaned over the kitchen sink, feeling familiarly queasy, but it had nothing to give.

When the nausea quelled a little, I knocked on the bathroom door and told Kahmè it was safe now. She bounced out, treating the whole episode like a game, and resumed her babbling. She was actually disappointed that my dad wasn’t there anymore, she was so deluded….

We were almost finished putting the groceries away, Kahmè throwing happy little fits as she took out all the raw ingredients she’d asked for, when she inevitably noticed the bruise forming on my cheek.

“What happened?” she demanded, snatching me and holding my head still as I struggled to escape. Her hands were surprisingly gentle, clinically exact.

“Umm…didn’t you know?” I lied quickly. “I dropped something, and when I went to get it a bag fell on my head, it made a huge noise, you didn’t hear anything?”

“No.” She was surprised, but she believed me, I could tell. She didn’t let go of me; instead, she hugged me hard. “Aww, poor Evan, it’s okay, I’ll make it better for you—”

“Stop that,” I ordered, pulling away. “What’re you talking about?”

“Well, since your daddy’s not here, you gotta have someone to—” She struggled for words. “I dunno. Be nice?”

“I’m fine,” I snapped. She let me go, turned back to the tomatoes (one of which had split on impact with me), biting her lip.

“Where is he again?” she asked me.

“It’s Saturday,” I pointed out, too nauseous and tired still to make up another lie. “He’s out drinking.”

“He’ll be back soon, though?”

“Depends. He’s usually back by two or so.”

She didn’t like that, not at all. “’Re you gonna be by yourself?”

“No, my mom’s watching me,” I said. I meant it to be sarcastic, but it was true. At least she hadn’t abandoned me all the way; like on the play set in the backyard, I felt her presence often.

“Oh.” Her expression cleared—she believed me? Did she know that I didn’t have a mom anymore? No, she probably did; I’d just assured her that a ghost was going to babysit me, and she had been satisfied. Somehow, knowing her, I wasn’t surprised.

She thought for a second, then suddenly froze me in place with a completely paradoxical question:

“Can I stay over?”

I couldn’t move. No one had ever asked me that before; I’d imagined myself saying that to people at school before, my former friends or someone entirely new, someone I admired—but never had I dreamed that someone would want to stay with ME, and never a GIRL!

…what would I say?

It wasn’t safe for her here, it really wasn’t, especially not today. I remembered numerous incidents from the past: Saturdays were hell for me. At least I was safe at school, for the most part. But on the weekends, my dad drank, and if someone made him mad—an insult, a lost card game, even a movie-esque bar fight—then I was f—ed. I’d been dragged out of bed at two or three in the morning too many times for me to count, my dad furious and out of control, ready to kick my a** or make me do eleven different chores or something equally impossible to exhausted, puny little three-A.M. me. Often it was some combination of all three, and I almost always failed to meet his inebriated expectations.

Even if he didn’t come and beat me in the morning, he still woke up with a b***h of a hangover every Sunday. He would boss me around, hit me hard if (but not only if) I made any noise, or, if I was very, very lucky, sleep all day. I wasn’t usually lucky.

But Kahmè was lucky, she was MY luck…. And I had to admit to myself, I really wanted her to stay with me. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so afraid, waiting in terror for my dad to come home—like I had been for four years.

Was that so selfish?

Yes, it would be; if we weren’t careful, she’d be hurt….

“All right,” I finally said, long after she’d given up and, dejected, started toying with the tomatoes. “You can stay over if you want.”

“REALLY?!” She tackled me, forcing me into a corner so I was unable to escape her. “Thank you thank you thank you Ev—”

“But you can’t stay all night,” I interrupted, determined to lay all the rules down now. “You have to go back at midnight, got it?”

“Oooh! Like Cinderella?”

A girl movie to the last; I’d never touched it, but everyone knew the story. I rolled my eyes. “Sure.” Whatever she wanted.

She hugged me again; I couldn’t believe how easy it was to make her happy. “It’ll be soooo fun, Evan, so fun! We’ll play games and bake stuff and roast marshmallows and—”

I let her babble on, promised her we’d do it all, even though I knew that there would never be enough time, and half the things she said weren’t even possible anyway. Marshmallows?

She insisted on starting dinner right then, so we could do something more fun immediately after. She made Mexican food, (something very rare, to me), and actually took the time to teach me how. I took careful notes on our grocery pad. Then she pulled out flour, eggs, milk, oil, and ten different spices, showing me how to make cookie batter, how to tell by taste and consistency instead of measurements what it lacked. She stuck them in with the Mexican food, and soon the smell of gravy, beans, and tortillas intermingled with the unmistakable aroma of snickerdoodles.

I couldn’t stop my mouth from watering; entrees were fine and everything, but cookies were my mom’s favorite, ages ago. The kitchen had always been filled with the smell, and I’d crack eggs with her, lick the spoon….

When Kahmè offered me the batter-soaked spoon, I thought I might cry.

“Kahmè, can you make cookies all the time?”

She beamed at me, showing all of her tiny teeth, and promised she would.

The Mexican food—enchiladas—held no interest to me; I let Kahmè have most of it, then scarfed three-quarters of the cookies. Kahmè laughed at me, but I’d felt happier than I could remember.

Somewhere in that time, I plucked up the courage to ask Kahmè: “So what about your dad? Where’s he?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Kahmè said cheerfully. “Mama loves him a whole lot. He’s just not around anymore, wasn’t ever, nope.”

“Doesn’t he love her back?’

“Yup! ‘S why they had me!”

Actually that probably hadn’t been it, but I hated to burst her bubble. “So why’s he gone?”

“Mama says, he said, that he was an explorer, an adventurer, an’ all.” Her eyes glazed over with awe. “He couldn’t never be tied down, nowhere, not even for Mama, he just wasn’t that way. Mama loved that ‘bout him, she said, she left her home and everything she had to follow him when she was just fifteen, they had so many ‘ventures, Evan! But then she had me, and Daddy made her stay on the rez until I was old enough, and then we’d all three go all ‘round the world!”

How easily she had swallowed it all, I marveled. It was pathetic. How could her mother feed her all of those lies? And yet she seemed perfectly happy hoping for that, just like she hoped her mother would come back for her. Poor Kahmè, alone and deluded.

“What about your mom?” came the inevitable question.

I sighed. “Dead.”

“Aww….” Her eyes grew wide, sad. One of those rare creatures who felt empathy for everything. “When?”

I wanted to tell her to mind her own business. I wanted to tell her to stop caring about the cold, harsh world that would never care back. But instead, I replied, “When I was eight.”

“What happened?”

I looked away—that was a part of my life that I didn’t like to think about. Still, I had to think. She had been hospitalized, died there after a few weeks. Now that I considered it, I had no idea what for. “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “She was just gone. And then she was in the hospital, and then she was gone again.”

Kahmè’s eyes grew even wider. “Did someone hurt her?”

I shook my head; that couldn’t have been it. “No. She was in there for a long time, that can’t have been it. I think she was just really sick….”

“With what?”

I honestly did not know, and I told her so. The tone in my voice convinced her to end the subject, but she didn’t forget about it; and when I was quieter, still lost in memories of my mother, she came over and hugged me, more softly than she ever had before.

She said what everyone said. “I’m sorry, Evan.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered to myself. But Kahmè meant it, I could tell. No one else had. It was always “I’m sorry, Evan,” turn away, talk to Dad, leave, forget all about us and our loss.

We finished dinner, ate all of the snickerdoodles, Kahmè drank half our milk all by herself. I liked milk, but I didn’t drink a lot; probably why I was so frail. Kahmè made me drink two glasses before she was happy. Then she bounced into our living room and started looking at the cabinet full of movies, scanning the titles for something she’d like.

“Awww. Evan!” she whined to me. “There aren’t any good movies.”

“Of course there aren’t.” I sat next to her, seeing no bright colors or happy VHS spines that would attract her attention. These were all ten years old at least, no one in my house had watched a movie since Dad had videotaped the Superbowl last year.

“Don’t you have any more? Like, Cinderella?”

I didn’t own Cinderella, but I knew what she meant. Disney movies, kid movies; cartoons and bright, happy colors. I didn’t want to disappoint her, even though it meant a lot of painful memory-digging for me, so I led her upstairs, to the hallway, beneath the cord hanging from the ceiling. I jumped up and used gravity to pull down the ladder, which folded down to rest at Kahmè’s feet.

“COOOOOOOL!” She scampered up there before I had a chance to explain to her. “What’s this Evan is it a secret why’s it here what’s it got Evan wow this is so cool—“

“Kahmè, don’t move!” I yelled urgently, my heart racing in panic. She froze while I raced up there, afraid to move. “Don’t step on the sheetrock,” I begged her. “You’ll fall through the ceiling.” God, she’d scared me…I hadn’t seen my life flash before my eyes, but I had seen my dad killing me, and that was pretty much the same thing. “Walk on the boards, see, right here, don’t go out of the light.”

“Light?”

I fumbled for the light switch, and a naked bulb lit a circle of my attic. It was dusty, moldy, comprised of plywood laid between supporting beams, surrounded by bare plywood walls and films of dust. I had never been up here before, but I had seen my dad disappear up that unsteady ladder to fix a large metal thing, to get down Christmas decorations (all we ever did was put lights on the tree and stick it in front of the window, so it would look like we were celebrating when we weren’t) or to find some other lost article in this dusty sea. It looked, pretty much, like everyone else’s attic.

There were three boxes that got a corner to themselves, marked with my name. There was the box of BABY STUFF, there was EVAN’S TOYS, and there was one that just said EVAN in my dad’s thin handwriting. It was just the way my house had been before Mom had died; my toys had either been in a box somewhere or in my toy chest, untouched for the most part because of all the fun I had just playing with my mom. I knew my movies were buried in there somewhere, just not which one they’d be in.

I hadn’t seen any of these before; I opened the one marked BABY STUFF and poked through it. Baby clothes, baby shower gifts, little shitty plastic things that lit up and talked. I tried one, taking it out and turning it on; it exploded in a bout of high-pitched robotic talking that made me jump. I quickly turned it off again. Aside from being a bit dusty, everything in here probably worked perfectly. Even if I had used them, I hadn’t been the kind of child that would destroy everything he touched, torture Barbie for fun.

This box held no nostalgia, I had been too young to remember all of this, except an old brown teddy bear that Kahmè had to pull out and hug at once, given to me when I was small, the only toy I ever played with. She asked what everything was, and I explained it all to her as best as I could. My mom had packed all of this away, I could tell, everything was so neatly and tenderly folded. I recognized the soft blue blanket from my crib, embroidered with my full name and a little happy duck; there were old mittens and beanies, a diaper bag full of little shoes. There was one big shoebox that was not neatly stacked in there, however; I opened it and found something that made my heart swell.

A snow globe, a little thing with a smiling moon and stars that played a lullaby. Mom had given it to me when I was born, and I had loved it. But as distraught as I was when she had died, and feeling immensely wronged and betrayed, I had hidden it under the sink in the bathroom. By the looks of it, my dad had found it and put it away forever, along with some stuff I didn’t recognize, a bunch of letters and a gleaming ebony jewelry box with ivory designs, the contrast striking like piano keys, an antique. I opened it, and found that it was filled with jewelry, everything from hemp-strung wish beads to silver heart earrings to a diamond ring in a faded silk case. If I had known what all of that was then, I might have felt a little sorry for my dad, stuffing every happy memory into a box and shoving it away.

Kahmè watched me as I put all of the other things back, took the snow globe, and twisted the key. The tinkling tune of my lullaby filled the dusty air. I smiled as I remembered, then frowned as I recognized the tune—this wasn’t right, that couldn’t be right.

“4000 breaths, and everything’s over,” I sang under my breath as the song started anew. “Count to ten, look around, everything is done….” I stopped there; no, that couldn’t be right. What kind of lullaby was that?

No, I remembered different words. Maybe my memory was slacking, and I couldn’t remember the song well anymore. After all, I didn’t care about the music, just the words and the idea.

“That’s pretty,” Kahmè told me dreamily when the tune finally slowed and stopped. I nodded, too confused to object. I returned the snow globe, sealed the box again; enough of that, thank you.

The next box, EVAN’S TOYS, was actually my old toy box, just a wooden crate painted in faded colors, yellow and blue and white. I opened it, dug through it; I found old birthday presents, Hot Wheels play sets and Transformers and Pokèmon cards and God knew what else. Some of them were still in their packaging. I reached the bottom, coated in McDonald’s tinker toys, Legos, and melted candy, but found nothing more.

Kahmè had been unusually quiet in the stillness of the attic, silenced by the heavy atmosphere of sadness and old memories. She sat by me now as I searched, burying her hand sadly into the sea of plastic.

“I never had anything like those,” she told me quietly.

I paused, and looked at her. “Well, of course you didn’t,” I said. “You’re a girl, you’d have different toys.”

She shook her head, reached into the toy box and took out an unopened box with an action figure inside. Spiderman. I’d seen the movie, read the comics, but never had patience for the toys. “No. I mean things like this. American stuff. A lot of the kids on the rez had Barbies…and dolls…and play houses, like yours, but I never did….”

She used her teeth to open the box, freed Spiderman from his twist-tie bonds, and actually hugged it, like the little lump of molded plastic was a crying baby.

“Can I keep him?” she asked me, her eyes wide and lonely in the dim light. I was surprised, but I told her to take anything she wanted. She picked through the box; I watched her take everything out of its box, then put it back, take marbles, action figures, Pokèmon cards with cat things on them, Hot Wheels cars, and a plastic pirate into the front pocket of her sweatshirt. She found a pair of chatter teeth, wound it up, jumped with surprise and laughed at it as it bounced around on her palm. That was the last thing she pocketed, though she continued to look through the orphaned toys. Then she asked me for all of their names, made up her own, and drifted away to play with them, making Spiderman fly like a bird through the maze of boxes and plastic and plywood.

I closed my toy box, locked it, and moved on. The last box was more of a plastic crate, huge and containing multiple other boxes all stacked together; they were organized, but not as securely placed as they would have been if my mom had placed them in there. I took them all out, one at a time, except the one at the bottom, fitted so snugly in that I couldn’t budge it. I opened that box and started; mirrors, layered with dust, greeted me, my own eyes staring blindly back at me. I quickly closed the box and put it away.

The biggest one was filled with clothes, my clothes from ages three to seven, things I’d worn for special occasions, for birthday parties, for pajamas. They were folded neatly, Mom had saved these, but Dad had stolen them and stuffed them away in here.

The next box had photographs, hundreds of them all literally thrown together, some worn and faded, some ripped into pieces, some the kind of Polaroids that you paid for at theme parks, some so old that they were black-and-white. I quickly put this box away; I hated pictures. Luckily most were facedown, except for a few of me, huge-eyed and pale even when I was little, clinging to my mother’s leg.

There was a box filled with broken crystal and china, the pieces of my mom’s cookie plate, and a dented silver tea set. My mother’s. I remembered the first day my dad had hit me, how I had run away from him, heard him breaking things in the kitchen; these must have been his targets. I shuddered.

The next box was filled with Disney movies and the equivalent, one on top of the other; I blinked and realized that I had forgotten why we were there at all.

“Kahmè!” I called; she looked up from an old rocking chair across the attic. “I found ‘em!”

She scrambled over, hugging Spiderman so he could “see” too, running her fingers over the dusty VHSs. The Rescuers, The Great Mouse Detective, Toy Story, Pocahontas and Mulan. She laughed at those two, and at Sleeping Beauty; she seemed to recognize all of them by the pictures on the front alone. I supposed that anyone would raise an eyebrow if they saw that a twelve-year-old boy who lived with his dad owned Sleeping Beauty.

“My mom loved it,” I explained in my defense. “She thought it was romantic.” I smiled as I remembered my mom singing along with Aurora, her voice sweet but off-key; then I sighed at the sadness of the memory. “And I liked the part with the dragon.” I’d sword-fight an invisible Maleficent, hack through thorn trees, run laughing across the room to kiss my mother, lying on the couch, her curly black hair spilling over the cushions. She’d awake, we’d laugh and play another game, and then go make some cookies. Our Saturday ritual. I shivered as the icy chill of her ghost haunting me seeped into the room.

“Why Mulan? And Pocahontas?”

“Mulan was a cross-dresser, not really a princess or anything, and I liked Mushu. Mom loved Cri-Kee. And Pocahontas…well, it was just COOL. She was hardcore.”

Kahmè laughed at me. I scowled at her and told her to just shut up and pick a movie. She chose Pocahontas, because “she’s Native American too.”

“Wasn’t she a Powhatan?”

“So? One world, one people, Evan. Duh.”

I let her have her way, looking over the movies again. Mom and I had watched all of them so many times, sometimes buying a new one, but mostly just watching it all again, happy endings and adventures, magic and sword fighting, romance….

Kahmè went exploring again while I stacked the movies away, leaving that box open so we could return Pocahontas later. I found the last box, the one I hadn’t looked through yet, and just out of curiosity I opened it. It was full of memorabilia, key chains and prizes and shot glasses and a t-shirt that said I LOVE VEGAS on it, and various other things that looked twenty, thirty years old. Again, I didn’t realize what they truly were, because I didn’t look or think hard enough. Had I really cared, I would have looked at the label on the box; my mom was annoyed by labels on things and covered them with tape and wrote things on top of them in her small, pretty handwriting.

I packed everything away again, placing the movie box on top, and Kahmè and I left the attic, back into the fading evening sun that poured through the windows of the hallway. I didn’t look behind me as I turned off the light and left, but I felt a shiver down my spine and knew my mother was there in the attic, sitting in the rocking chair, sifting through all our things, watching me go.



“See, what did I tell you?” I grinned. “Hardcore.”

Kahmè and I were curled up on the couch with popcorn, fresh cookies, and strawberries with sugar. I’d have to vacuum again, but I was having the time of my life.

Pocahontas had just ridden a canoe off of a waterfall while singing at the top of her lungs, only proving my theory that she rocked, regardless of her sex. She was a lot braver than me, anyway.

“’Course she is,” Kahmè scoffed at me through a mouthful of popcorn. “She’s Native American.”

I laughed. We watched happily as Pocahontas (who, I argued vehemently, was NOT a princess, no matter what Kahmè said) rode the rapids; then we sobered up as she stopped at the fork, wondering which path to take. Our eyes followed her as we, silenced by the mystique of Mother Willow, heard of the strange things happening in the Powhatan’s land.

“I can do that,” Kahmè said yet again as Pocahontas climbed a tree. Then: “Oooooh.”

Kahmè had never seen this movie before. She probably had never seen any movie before, or maybe a few times at friends’ houses. It amazed her how similar Pocahontas’s life was to her own, except for the palefaces of course.

She giggled as the skinny assistant to the governor hovered in the background. “Look, Evan, it’s you!”

I frowned; that wasn’t even funny. The sad part was, that guy was like me, waiting hand and foot on a big muscular guy with vivid dreams of greatness, taking a ton of verbal harassment along the way. At least Ratcliffe didn’t beat people. He just shot them.

Kahmè was very into the movie, gasping and even screaming as gunshots fired and Powhatans were hurt. She cuddled up next to me and kept freaking out when they were trying to execute John Smith, I had to calm her down, tell her it wasn’t real, but she only stopped when Pocahontas flew in to save the day. She started crying when Smith was shot, and the movie left her sobbing as we watched Pocahontas wave goodbye to him as he left Virginia.

I told her that there was a second movie, that Pocahontas went to England with him after he came back, and she lived there forever and ever. I didn’t say what the history books said, that she died of some disease there and was buried thousands of miles from her home; I didn’t say what else happened in Pocahontas II, that she left Smith for John Rolfe at the end. She wanted to see the second one, but I lied and said I didn’t have it. That one was depressing anyway.

My lying cheered her up. She declined the offer to see another movie, instead chattering on about how great Pocahontas was while she followed me into the attic again. The place felt haunted; I returned the movie and followed Kahmè out. Mom, I imagined, watched me go; I couldn’t help turning to look back, and though my eyes saw nothing, I could imagine her there. I gave her a faint smile, the first time I didn’t resent her; and I felt her glow.

I turned away and left the attic, where all the memories and mysteries hid; I would not return to that place for 824 days, when I was fifteen and quite honestly had nowhere else to go.

To: ch 8 - I gotta admit I didn't think he would allow her to stay but of course this is his first step to realization and it makes me wonder ever more.....how DID his mom die?

O.o
o.O
o.o

scary scary....

but yeh, Kahme reminds me of that very happy-go-lucky kid at the candy store who has a pocketful of cash. razz

Nice work keep it up...and uhh.. HOW DO YOU WRITE SO FAST???

kk, next chapter here! smile - she blames vista

9

Finally giving in to her excited pleas, no doubt born of the media portrayal of a slumber party with girls in similar designer silks, I left Kahmè alone in my room so she could steal my pajamas and presumably (though I was trying not to think about it) put them on. She seemed to be oblivious to the fact that I was not rich, the media was never right, and first and foremost, I was not a girl. But if it made her happy to run around in my favorite blue shirt and the only pair of pajama pants I owned, rolled up three times because I was so much taller than her. This was after she’d taken a bath (her insistence) and dried herself off (mine). It was, by far, the strangest—and most entertaining—night I could remember.

It was only nine by then. I had cleaned the living room when she had taken her bath, and after my own we stayed in my room, playing Kahmè-orchestrated games and going through all of my stuff. There wasn’t much of it, just old homework and junk. She made me explain what everything was, and read all of the English assignments to her, all the stupid little paragraphs I’d written. I didn’t like to look at some of these, the ones with bad grades, the ones I’d been punished for. But Kahmè didn’t think they were bad, she couldn’t tell what the grade was anyway and thought I was brilliant for getting as far as I did.

One thing that displeased her was how bare my room was. There was a bed, a desk, a lamp, a dresser, a window; and not much aside from that. My room was dark blue, with a matching bedspread, very plain, like a hotel room. Kahmè said it felt unlived in, like no one had loved it enough to tape things all over the walls and write on the window in lipstick like she’d done with hers. Where was I supposed to get lipstick?

When I asked her this, she immediately leapt up and started rummaging through the bathroom. I didn’t expect her to find any—after all, only Dad and I lived here—but to my utter surprise, and shock, she found a little matte black case in the back of the otherwise empty bottom drawer, opening it to find my mother’s makeup. I’d sat on the counter and watched her put it on, watching her turn prettier with every new powder or cream.

“See, Evan?” Kahmè told me, waving a little golden tube in the air. “I found you some, mm, what color is it—?”

I snatched it away from her, closing the case and stuffing it back where it belonged. “Don’t touch that!” I snapped at her. “What’s wrong with you?”

Her eyes grew wide again. “What?”

“That’s my MOM’S! You’re not allowed to use it, no one is—”

“But she died,” Kahmè reminded me, confused.

“Don’t you think I know that?” I shut the drawer, arranged everything back again, purposely avoiding her eyes in the mirror. I watched her carefully as she froze; then her expression softened, and I quite honestly think she forgot all about it.

“Okay. Let’s go play, Evan….”

I calmed myself down, reminded myself that it wasn’t her fault, she didn’t know. Mom wouldn’t have minded if Kahmè had used her lipstick. Dad would have, though, in my defense. I sighed and went back to my room, where Kahmè immediately tackled me in a game of Evan’s-the-enemy-again; this time it was palefaces versus Pocahontas. I played along, distracted, until she floored me with one of her weird little Indian moves; then it was war.

She beat me, but that isn’t important. Nor is it important that she’s a girl, and I’m not. So there.

I was used to staying up until one, and being awoken anytime after that, so I had no problem staying up; Kahmè, however, was accustomed to sleeping at sunset, only recently trying to stay up past that. She curled up under my blanket for a game of hide-and-seek and never emerged; when I discovered her there, she was asleep.

I really didn’t know what to do with her. Should I wake her up, tell her to focus and get ready to leave? Should I wait until midnight? Should I leave her there?

I didn’t know. I couldn’t leave her, what if my dad came in and…? And where would I sleep if she…? And where would I go if Dad…?

But she looked so happy and helpless there…I couldn’t wake her up…..

In the end I grabbed my newest book and made myself a bed on the couch, quailing a little at the thought of what I was doing but determined never to let cowardice stand in my way. In standing between my dad when he came home and his bedroom, I was planting myself in the center of a target that I already dominated anyway. If he was angry he’d give me hell for sure; even if he wasn’t, he would probably yell at me for staying up late, being lazy, being too much of a p***y to sleep in my own bed.

But if he was determined to beat me anyway, Kahmè would get in the way. He had to see me here, or else he would go check my room. Kahmè had spared me from more than three lashings to date; now I would spare her from total annihilation. It didn’t seem extreme at the time; I really thought that my dad would be merciless, beating the intruder in his house until she was in no state to tell anyone anything. I thought he would quite literally kill her, like I often feared he would do to me. Even when I did my best I was hurt badly enough; what if Dad knew how deeply I’d disobeyed him, how much I’d stood up to him when I had no right to?

I was drifting off, unable to focus on Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix for much longer, when my driveway was suddenly awash with bright car lights. My heart jolted into overtime; I couldn’t breathe. I tried to look normal as he got out, glancing at the mantelpiece: one forty-two A.M. Right on time, I supposed.

Dad unlocked the door with his key (with a little difficulty, I noticed as my heart raced) and trudged inside. He locked it again, turned around, and saw me. I hid behind my book.

“Evan?” He stared at me, bewildered—for now. “What the f— are you doing up so late?”

“Waiting for you, Dad,” I said innocently. “How was it?”

s**t, s**t, shitshitshitshit—I wondered if this was how soldiers felt before the battle started.

Dad blinked at me, shook his head, and mumbled something as he passed me, stomping heavily up the stairs. “Sleep in your own damn bed,” he added to me, and then he was gone, passed out in his own room.

I stared after him, my heart still pounding, unable to believe my luck. What had just happened? My dad had yelled at me with so little intensity that it could have constituted as normal conversation; he had ignored my clear breach of etiquette and standards; and he had, most importantly, not hit me. Oh my God…how f—ing lucky could one person be?

I couldn’t stop myself from smiling in relief as I collected my things and went back into my room. Kahmè was still curled up on my bed, so I slept on the floor; I hated it, but it was safer than downstairs.

“’Night,” I whispered to her before I closed my eyes. I would be as nice to her as it was humanly possible to be. She was my luck, and I would guard her with my life.



I kept waking up at hour or half-hour intervals all night, still edgy and refusing to believe my luck. Perhaps it was the floor, the scratchy material of the carpet; perhaps it was my dad’s snoring that spooked me too much for me to sleep. I was afraid for that sound to stop, I was so afraid that he would change his mind after all….

When I woke up and my alarm clock said it was 5:37, I decided I’d had enough. I got up and knelt on the bed next to the lump that was Kahmè, shaking her shoulder and hissing, “Kahmè! C’mon, wake up—”

She mumbled something that sounded like, “Don’t wanna haircut….”

“What? C’mon, Kahmè, get up…time to go home….”

She blinked and opened her eyes, confused and disoriented. “What? Where’m I? Evan?”

“My room,” I told her as she stretched and rolled over. “You fell asleep.”

“Oh!” She yawned, blinked like an owl. “’M sorry, Evan! Mm…wha…time’s it?”

“’Bout midnight,” I lied. “C’mon, let’s go outside now.”

“Mm, but my clothes ‘n’ stuff….”

“It’s okay, just take them with you,” I told her, picking up her jeans and t-shirt and stuffing them into her sleepy arms. “You can borrow my pajamas.”

“They’re real comfy, Evan,” she told me as I led her to the door.

“Thanks, Kahmè. Shh,” I added as I opened my door. She nodded and stumbled after me, down the hall. The windows were pitch-black, the sound of Dad’s snoring deafening. Please don’t wake up, Dad, please….

We tiptoed down the stairs and stole into the backyard. I don’t think Kahmè even saw my dad’s car in the driveway, nor did she seem to register that my dad was already home, snoring away in his room. She was too stoned from exhaustion to see that the moon was gone from the sky, which was orange-tinted on the horizon.

I helped her into the play set, tucked her into her bed, and echoed her sleepy goodnight as I slid to the ground. I tried to keep silent as I hurried through the house, finally shutting my door and diving into my bed. My heart raced like a criminal’s after a successful crime job: exhilarated, flushed with victory.

The pillow was damp, still smelled like shampoo. I turned it over and settled myself into the warm sheets, smiling. My dad could do whatever he liked to me, but Kahmè was safe; I could sleep now. And I did.



“EVAN!”

My dad pounded on the door, jerking me out of my deep sleep. It had been a nice one, devoid of nightmares for once. I sighed and rolled over; sometimes nightmares were better, I was already facing reality before I even woke up. No adjusting required.

Another pound on my door.

“Evan, GET UP, this house is a wreck, filthy, do you hear me? Get your a** up and get to work, lazy child—”

“’M up,” I called groggily, checking my clock. 10:26. Someone was up early.

My dad stopped pounding, muttering to himself as he went away. He’d probably given himself a headache. I slid out of bed, not bothering to get dressed; Sunday was a day for staying in your pajamas, wasn’t it?

I went downstairs and, yawning, grabbed some eggs and a skillet for breakfast. My dad was already there, resting his head on the table, still dressed in last night’s smelly, . “Make me some coffee,” was his greeting. Good morning, Dad. Love you too.

Sometimes I was allowed into the liquor cabinet, like on special occasions, mostly on Sundays. I opened it up, grabbed the coffee dust or whatever the hell that s**t was, and turned on the coffeepot. I knew how to make coffee by now, though I still hadn’t perfected the art.

“Umm,” I asked quietly, “how much do I put in?”

My dad groaned, glaring at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Stupid child,” he snapped at me. “A lot, just a lot….”

I estimated what “a lot” would be, dumped it in. Dad groaned again. I would’ve felt bad for him if he wasn’t such a b*****d. As it was, I felt bad for him anyway. After all, whose fault was it that he’d become an alcoholic? Not his, though I couldn’t decide if it was mine or Mom’s.

While the coffee brewed, I made scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Dad pushed it away, probably too nauseous to stomach it, but I was firm. “You need to eat, Dad.” He chunked a fork at me, but I ignored the pain above my eye and got him a new one; this time he dug in as if he could chew the hangover away.

Honestly, I didn’t enjoy Sundays, but they were certainly better than any other day. Dad didn’t have the stamina to beat me that much, or at least for very long; he just threw things at me and cursed under his breath. Maybe not so much to other people, but to me, it was definitely an improvement.

On Sundays Dad found fault in everything I did; it was actually a bit liberating, I didn’t have to worry too much about pleasing him. He pushed away his plate after only eating less than half of it, and I took it at once and devoured the rest. Dad sneered at me. “No shame,” he muttered, “waiting for leftovers like a f—ing dog, didn’t raise you to beg for food….”

Yes you had, Dad, before I started cooking. Don’t even.

Just as I was finishing the scrambled eggs, the coffeemaker beeped; it was ready. I poured some into a mug and set it in front of my dad, dangerously off my guard; and usually when people weren’t on their guard, they weren’t paying attention—they made mistakes, and they paid for them.

Thank God for reflexes, because if I had any less of them, or if they weren’t so sharp from years of dodging and skulking in the shadows, I’d never have thrown up my hand—automatically, by the way, and good thing too—when my dad choked on the first sip—oh f—, sugar, cream, goddammit!—and I’d never have caught the coffee cup as he flung it at my head.

Boiling coffee slopped onto my shoulder and down my arm, splattered onto my face; I gasped in pain, swallowing a cry, tightening my grip on the top of the coffee cup so hard that I nearly cracked it. My dad was shouting at me, but the flare of pain drowned him out; I whimpered and ran to the sink, dropping the cup in and splashing cold water onto my face, over my hand. I soaked a dishtowel in water and wrapped it around some ice cubes, not knowing where to press it, my arm or my face or…goddammit, that hurt! The motherf—er just threw COFFEE at me!

Dad stopped yelling when I stopped listening, sinking to the floor and blinking back tears as I pressed the towel to my face. “F—ing baby,” he snarled at me. “Can’t do anything right….”

Ow, ow, ow, ow…. I knew that eventually I’d have to get up, but I couldn’t. My skin smarted and burned, it HURT, it was all over me…. I pulled off my shirt, pressing the rag to my shoulder, biting my lip so I wouldn’t cry….

“WILL YOU KEEP YOUR F—ING SHIRT ON FOR ONCE, EVAN?!” my dad shouted, chunking my fork at me. I deflected it with my good arm; by habit, I had to let thrown objects hit me somewhere, otherwise it would hit something else, or Dad would get pissed that he hadn’t hit me and throw something heavier around, like me.

Reluctantly, I stuffed my head and arms back into my shirt, wincing as the hot cloth dragged over the burns forming on my arm. God, Dad, I had to WRITE with that arm! At least I hadn’t dropped the cup, at least he couldn’t beat me for that…shitty coffee wasn’t as bad as breaking something valuable….

I didn’t want to, I really didn’t want to, but I didn’t have the energy to fight him off now; I stumbled up, cleaned off the coffee cup, and poured another cup in there, this time remembering to add sugar and cream and stir it as best as I could one-handed. The other I kept tucked next to me, protecting it; my arm, my HAND, I couldn’t move it without it aching….

Dad didn’t complain about the coffee this time. I slunk away, curling up in the corner of the kitchen and nursing my wounds. “F—ing pansy,” he sneered after me, but I was too scared to reply in case he did it again. Stupid, stupid, stupid, how could I forget something so simple? I brought this upon myself, I couldn’t be angry at Dad, he was right to punish me…my ARM….

“What’s your problem now?” he demanded when he had finished his coffee and I had not done as I should have, waited on him like he was paying me for it. I stood up, shaky on my feet, walked over, took his cup.

“I can’t move my fingers, Dad,” I whimpered, silently begging him to care about me, to do something about it. “I gotta write, what’m I gonna do?”

As usual, he scoffed at my fears and my pain, glaring flatly at me, disgusted with what he saw. “Maybe you should try to be f—ing normal for once,” he suggested coldly. “Learn to write with the proper f—ing hand. Leave it to your mother to let you be as weird as you wanted….”

That hurt. I couldn’t help that, I couldn’t. I wanted to object, but there were a lot of things he could still throw at me, like the chair or even the table if he wanted. My dad had muscles that scared less directly affected people than me, bulging arms and shoulders; I was the only one that knew what they could really do.

I felt tears come to my eyes; why didn’t he care? How could he be so cruel to me? Didn’t he realize? It was my ARM, my entire arm was turning bright, angry red from above my elbow to the tips of my fingers, and it was all his fault—

No, it was mine—

His—

Mine—

I didn’t know what to think anymore.

I turned away, washing out the cup a second time, clumsily now that I had one hand. Dad got up; I refused to look at him. I heard him clomp up the stairs, into his bedroom, onto his bed again. He wouldn’t be back for awhile.

I started to cry as the burn throbbed; medicine, I needed medicine, pain medicine, maybe Dad still had it— I stumbled up the stairs, gripping the rail for support, threw myself into the bathroom. I ran my arm under the sink again, bit back a cry of pain at the sting, with my other hand rummaged through the drawers. There had to be some kind of cream…over-the-counter crap…Neosporin, or something….

I found nothing. Desperate, I tugged at the doors of the little medicine cabinet, but they were safely locked with a neat little contraption, a chain slipped into a plastic tube and wrapped around the handles, effectively and attractively locking me out. What was the f—ing combination, it hurt so badly….

I gave up, tore off my stained clothes and ran a bath as freezing as the water could go. The cold attacked my body, and I had to fight to make myself stay there. I buried my head and my arm in the water, feeling pure bliss seep into the wounds. Just my nose stuck out above the surface, sucking in the warm air.

I stayed in the bathtub for a very, very long time. Eventually, I started shivering; I tried to ignore it, but it just got worse, and the burns started to throb. I let the water drain away, curling up at the bottom like a drowned bug, an abandoned kitten, pathetic and cold. I reached up and pulled the perpetual towel from its rack, wrapped it around myself, started to sob as the material scratched the new wounds. It HURT, why did it hurt, why did he have to do that to me, just asking would have worked fine…. Why, why…?

Somehow, I still don’t know how, I found the strength to get up and get dressed again, in a warm hoodie, mittens, and jeans. Maybe I was just so used to getting up, doing something else, returning back to normal life, that I couldn’t be pathetic for long anymore. I thought of Kahmè; I felt bad for making her sleep outside in the cold. I’d make it up to her. I’d make her breakfast…lunch, I corrected myself, glancing at the clock. I pulled the hood up on my shirt, resting my injured hand in my pocket, and took it slow as I went downstairs and grabbed the skillet again, scrubbing it off one more time, carefully, before I started to make a cheese omelet. Then with the rest of the old package of eggs, I made two pieces of French toast, stacking it all onto a plate with a fork and bringing it outside.

Kahmè was awake; I heard her playing with her new toys, happily oblivious to my presence. I knocked on the side of the slide before lifting the plate up, an offering to a saint. She squealed when she saw it and snatched it, thanking me endlessly with her mouth full. I handed her the glass of milk I’d brought, which was received with another cry of delight.

“Evan, you’re so NICE…anf yanevu said…CINNAMON BREAD! Dunno…whuyoocaleht….”

“Can’t understand you, Kahmè,” I told her, smiling just a little—it sent bolts of agony across my face. “It’s French toast.”

“Ah, cool! French people are such good cooks. And, and…and this thing! What is it?”

“An omelet.”

“What’s it made of, Evan?”

“Cheese and eggs.”

“Eggs?”

“Yeah?”

“Um…what’re they from?”

I raised an eyebrow at the air, leaning against the slide. “You don’t know?”

“No. What is it?”

I tried to think of a way to explain it to her without making her go all vegan on me. I’d either have to lie, or tell the entire truth at once. I didn’t really feel like lying, so I said, “Chickens lay them all the time, they gotta get rid of them somehow. Some of ‘em grow up to be chicken babies, but the ones that don’t just sit there. People eat ‘em, ‘cause they have all the nutrients the baby chicken woulda used.”

“I’m eating a baby chicken?” she squeaked, rendering my efforts fruitless.

“No. It could have been, but nothing was ever alive in there.”

“Poor chicken,” she mourned. “It was never ever alive….”

“For heaven’s sake, Kahmè. Just eat the damn omelet.” Pain made me testy.

“Will chickens be mad at me?”

“Honestly, Kahmè, it’s like someone eating your fingernail clippings. Would YOU mind?”

“Ah, I see.” I heard her attack her food again, none the wiser. Whatever worked, right?

Munch, clink, munch, a birdcall. It was very quiet today, too quiet. It unnerved me.

“Come up here and talk to me,” Kahmè called down after a minute.

“Mm-mm.” I slid down to the ground, hiding in my hood. “I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong?” I could tell she was watching me. I twitched my good hand in a gesture I thought would look careless, casual.

“Just tired.”

“Come up here, Evan,” she urged me. “You can sleep in my bed.”

“No, it’s honestly okay….”

“Well, I’ll just drop your plate down, ‘kay?”

“Kahmè, that is GLASS don’t you dare—”

“Come get it!”

I sighed, dragged myself one-handed up the ladder, cursing under my breath. It took a lot more effort than I’d thought; when I finally got up there, I was out of breath and in pain again.

“Gimme that,” I snapped, grabbing the plate from her.

Her eyes locked onto my wrist, even after the sleeve fell back over it. s**t. s**t, s**t, s**t.

“What?” I demanded. “What now?”

Her eyes were wide, staring, I couldn’t make them stop no matter what I did. “Your hand, Evan,” she told me, pointing. “What happened?”

“Nothing. What’re you talking about?”

“It’s all red and weird-looking….”

“No it isn’t, there’s nothing there, Kahmè,” I convinced her desperately. Please believe me, please just accept this, please….

She shook her head. “No, there is, Evan, show me—”

“No, leave me alone, there’s nothing there!”

“Yes there…IS….”

“OW!” I screamed as she grabbed my arm. “OW, F—, OW DON’T TOUCH ME, DON’T TOUCH IT—”

She released me, startled; I crawled to a corner of the playhouse and clutched my arm to my chest, tears dripping from my eyes as I gritted my teeth, sucked in a breath, waited for the pain to end.

“Evan, your face,” she whispered. Great Spirit…. What happened, Evan…?”

“Nothing,” I insisted, swallowing a sob. “Nothing happened, leave me alone….”

“You got burned, what burned you, Evan?” she insisted, edging a bit closer. I tried to back away, but I was trapped.

“I just spilled it, it was an accident, don’t touch it, Kahmè—”

“I won’t, it’s okay—”

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” I screamed as her hand inched toward me, inevitable and painful. She frowned, turned her hand over, and pressed the back to my forehead.

“Spirits, you’re COLD, Evan! What’d you do?”

“Just took a bath,” I insisted, as if I was talking to my dad, begging him not to hurt me anymore, explaining myself. “That’s all, go away, Kahmè….”

“How far’s it go down?”

I shook my head. “I dunno, go away—OW!” I yelled again when she softly touched my shirt, in the center of my chest. I started sobbing, unable to help myself. “Don’t touch it don’t touch it, ow, OW—”

Kahmè took my good hand, looked it over, then squeezed it. “Go get in my bed, Evan,” she told me. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t hurt me, Kahmè,” I begged her, beyond reason by then.

“I’m not gonna, I won’t, just getting some stuff from your kitch—”

“No, DON’T!” I screamed. “Don’t do that, don’t, my dad’ll wake up and he’ll be mad, Kahmè—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be quiet. Lay down,” she ordered me, pulling and pushing me toward the bed. I did as she said, let her tuck me in, screeching as she touched my arm again.

“Sorry, sorry, Evan,” she whispered, patting my head very lightly before she disappeared. I felt an unnatural panic seeping through me, I couldn’t bear it…I started to count…. One, two, three-four-five-six-seven-God-I-couldn’t-breathe-twelve-thirteen, fourteen…fifteen…sixteen-seventeen-eighteen-nineteen-twenty—

Kahmè came back at 421. I watched her first in relief, then in fear as she took a steaming bowl of water and crushed herbs into it, spices from our kitchen, something that made the water fizz. It wasn’t water after all, it was Sprite.

“Dissolves better when it’s fizzy,” she told me.

I watched the Sprite turn an iffy shade of green. She told me to drink it then, but I wouldn’t, it was hot and I didn’t want it to burn me; she disappeared again and returned with ice, handling it awkwardly and clumsily, and stirred it into the drink until it was lukewarm. Then I drank it all, not even registering the taste until it was gone. It tasted, mostly, like very fizzy grass, with an unusual aftertaste. It made me feel warm, it alleviated the pressure inside of my head.

Kahmè gave me an odd look. “Evan, you gotta take off your shirt,” she told me.

I paled further. “No.” She’d see everything, all the bruises….

She didn’t argue; she just took what looked like a spiky cucumber and tore off the end. The inside was coated with sticky sap; she rubbed this onto my forehead, down my nose and onto my cheek. Instant coolness visited the affected areas; I sighed and closed my eyes.

“It looks like a constellation on your face,” Kahmè joked, obviously not knowing what to say in a situation like this. “What’d you spill, Evan?”

“Coffee,” I murmured. “What’s that plant?”

“Ah…aloe vera, in English. Is that English?”

“I think it’s Latin….”

“Oh. Evan?”

“Mm?”

“What’s coffee?”

I had to laugh at that one. “It’s a boring grown-up drink.”

“Why’d you have it then?”

“I was giving it to my dad.” I wished so much that I’d put sugar and cream into it now, it wouldn’t have been so hot and strong….

“Ah. I see.” She threw away that bit of plant, tore off a new one; this time she rubbed it down my neck, and onto the back of my hand. “Gotta take your shirt off, Evan, or it’ll never get healed.”

She really was my angel; how could I refuse her now? I did as she said, though I hated to lie to her about the bruises….

She said nothing, did nothing about them as she rubbed the aloe vera onto my skin. The pain lessened considerably; I thought I might fall asleep like that. She turned my arm carefully over, rubbed sap onto the other side. This felt so nice….

“You’ve got another bruise on your forehead,” she accused me. My stomach sank.

“Where?”

She pointed to the place where the fork had hit me. “There. What happened?”

“I’m just really clumsy, Kahmè….”

She accepted that with a sigh, saying nothing more about my injuries. Why wouldn’t she? It must be very obvious, even with all the red everywhere….

I couldn't remember if there even were any more. Odd. Time flew with her.

She kept rubbing the stuff onto me until the plant was dry. Then she took a roll of gauze and started measuring, ripping a piece off with her teeth.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I had it. First aid an’ all that.”

“What’re you gonna do with it?”

“Mm….” She thought for a moment. “Wait here.”

She jumped down and dashed to the other side of the yard; I heard, strangely, the sound of the water hose for a moment, and then it was quiet, and she was back.

“Back.”

“What’re you gonna do with that?” I asked her warily, staring at the big glob of mud in her hands.

“Best thing for everything,” she told me happily, then started smearing it onto my arm with two fingers. Her touch hurt, but then the places were cool, relieved. She spread mud over my entire arm, then started wrapping the gauze around it with the precision of a surgeon general, whatever that was. She ran out of gauze just above my elbow, tied it off and started a new piece. Then she daubed mud onto my shoulder and wrapped that up too, as best as she could. I looked like a mummy, but I felt wonderful.

“Just lay down,” she told me, covering me up again. “You’ll be okay, I’ll take good care of you….”

“I know you will, Kahmè,” I murmured, before my exhaustion kicked in. “You’re my best friend.”

Yes, it is ew-ish.

Evan is still a chicken, as we see in ch. 10. It's gonna take a lot more to defeat the monster that is his dad.

Wrong.

If you must know, epitome happens close to the end, when Evan is 15.

Note: you now know that he lives to 15. But you knew that anyway.

True, true.

What chapter am I on?

Ah, 10. I'm almost done, I swear; I just haven't typed it up yet. IT's getting annoyingly...ick. Let's just say that.

I hate Mr. Evan's Dad. (whose name I can't decide on.)