Bad Boy Blues(5)

Someone walking down the dirt path that cuts through the woods.

The feeling of being watched that I’ve been experiencing all night comes back in full force. In fact, it brings on other things.

Things that I’d forgotten about.

Mad rush of my heart. The tightness in my chest like my lungs are starving for air. And those… butterflies in my stomach, with sharp, blade-like wings.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

It’s not possible, right? He’s not here. He went away three years ago.

I mean, I know that shoulder. I’m familiar with that elbow and that thigh. I’ve seen them almost every day ever since I was ten. I’ve watched them grow up and get bigger and stronger with age.

I could pick them out from a line-up, even if I were sleepwalking.

I could pick them out even though I haven’t seen them, seen him, in three years.

Then, I’m jumping out of my bed and dashing to the front door of the cottage. I throw it open and run outside in my bare feet.

The ground is hot and hard even through the grass that surrounds our front yard. But I don’t care about any of those things.

I care about what I saw.

But again, there’s no one as far as the eye can see. The night’s just the same as it was half an hour ago when I walked back to my cottage.

I look around, up and down, side to side.

Did I imagine him?

But why would I imagine him? Why would I imagine the guy I’ve hated for almost a decade?

Is this what it feels like when you lose your mind?

Maybe my parents’ death is affecting me in all the wrong ways.

A few seconds later, I’m back inside, in my bed, under the covers.

I close my eyes to go to sleep but all I can see is that shoulder and that elbow and him.





“Blue!”

There’s only one person on this earth who calls me that.

Three years ago, his voice used to be rough and low. Grumbling. I’m sure years must’ve matured it even more. Not that I care about it.

I don’t.

And neither do I care about what I saw last night. I think I made him up. It was a dream or something. A figment of my imagination.

Anyway, this voice is high and giggly, kind of cutesy. It belongs to my five-year-old neighbor, Arthur. We all call him Art and he calls me Blue.

So maybe there are two people who call me by that name.

I stop and turn around to find him running toward me. He has his backpack on his shoulders and he’s grinning at me.

I grin back. “Hey, big guy.”

Panting, he comes to a stop and I get down on my knees. He has blond hair and green eyes, and a perpetual cowlicky thing on the back of his head.

“Look!” He shows me his fist. “Did I do it right?”

I’ve been teaching him how to make a fist and, yup, he completely nailed it.

“It looks perfect.”

He beams. “Yay!”

Smiling, I pat at his cowlick. “You’re gonna destroy them.”

“You think?” he asks.

Art looks at me with such hope that my heart squeezes.

“Duh. Just don’t back down, okay? Always remember, we’re the underdogs. But contrary to what people think, underdogs are not weak. We fight back. In fact, we fight the hardest. People underestimate us and you know what, let them. That’s their biggest mistake. And don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise, my friend.”

He smiles and nods enthusiastically. “Okay!”

Art and I, we were destined to become friends. Like me, he’s an orphan too. Although his parents died when he was only two. Ever since then, he’s lived here on The Pleiades with his grandma, Doris, who’s also on the cleaning staff.

But other than that, the most important thing that links me to this five-year-old adorable and shy boy is the fact that we’re both the bullied. At least, I once was.

Art’s a little small for his age, so some kids at his school are giving him trouble for it. They push him around and threaten him, making him cry and turning school generally miserable.

Fuck them.

Bullies are cowards. They can’t stand on their own two feet so they hide behind empty threats. All they need to set them straight is a little pushback and I’ve been teaching Art how to do that. Since I have a little experience in that area.

We fist-pump and I stand. “I love you. I gotta run. But I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

He nods. “Is it pancake night?”

Since Doris is getting on in age, I help out with Art whenever I can. Tonight I’m babysitting him and since it’s Monday, we’re doing breakfast for dinner.

“You bet!”

After saying my goodbye, I’m running toward the main house where our daily meeting is going to start in about ten minutes.

Like last night, I punch in the code to the service entrance and get inside. Even from the top of the stairs, I can hear the hustle and bustle of the staff.

There are people coming in and out of the kitchen, the staff room. Women wear gray dresses with white trim on the collars and sleeves like me, and men wear white shirts with black pants. Our uniform here at The Pleiades.

There’s giggling and talking and even shoving. The entire house is awake and hard at work.

I climb down the stairs, call out hellos and his, until I reach the staff room. People are already sitting down and Tina, who went in earlier than me because she has no problem waking up early, is saving a seat for me.