The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(63)
“Sir?”
“Run. Up and down. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
He kept an eye on the kid over the next hour while he sat and penned his way through a stack of paperwork he’d brought with him from the station. He didn’t stop him, though, until he could see Brandon’s knees starting to wobble.
Whistling sharply, Ian motioned the kid to lurch down the steps one last time. He tossed Brandon a bottle of water and started walking, forcing the kid to follow him. It gave Brandon a chance to stretch out and cool down, sure, but it also felt a little like sadism.
This was probably why he’d never felt an inclination to coach anything.
“I can’t tell you not to be angry,” he said when Brandon’s breathing had settled out of wheezing gasps and into something more manageable. “You’re so full of rage, and you have reason to be. The world seems pretty intent on kicking you in the balls.”
The kid choked on his water.
“Your sister’s disappearance is shaping your life, and it always will. Even if she turns up at your door today, the experience, what you’ve gone through, will always have an impact on you. But, Son, you get to decide how it shapes you. You get to decide how you react to it.”
“I don’t—”
“I spent some time with your principal before coming to get you. He said every fight you’ve been in has been in defense of your female classmates.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know defending them doesn’t magically make Faith appear?”
“That’s not why.”
“Then why?”
“Because they shouldn’t be getting harassed!” snapped Brandon. “These assholes go around pulling on their clothes and touching them and saying shit, and when the girls complain, no one does anything! It isn’t right!”
“But why is it you?”
“Because no one else is doing it.”
Ian nodded slowly. “Drink your water. Slowly.”
The kid gave him a disgusted look, like he’d called him stupid or something.
“That desire to defend?” Ian continued after a minute. “To protect? That’s a good thing. And you’ll be able to do fuck-all with it if you get expelled for fighting.”
Brandon blinked at him.
“Put yourself between the girls and their harassers. Tell those assholes to back off. Document what you see, and give it to the administration. Bring it up at PTA meetings, at school board meetings. You carry on this crusade with your fists and nothing will happen except that you’ll get kicked out, and who’s going to help those girls then? But you get other boys to stand up for them, you demand a change, and you demand it loudly and of every single person who can possibly effect that change, and then you might actually get somewhere. It’s a more frustrating way to go about it,” he admitted, clearly startling the kid again. “It’ll often feel like you’re not getting anywhere. It’s nowhere near as satisfying as punching someone out. But if you want a change to last, you do it the hard way, not the way that feels better in the short term.
“Now, you’ve got a week’s suspension. You’re spending it with me. I’ll arrange for you to have limited off-hours access to the stadium so you can run the stairs. Get out some of that energy you keep channeling through your fists. After the suspension is done, you’ll be with me two days a week. The fighting stops, Brandon. And in return, I’ll show you other ways to protect people. Deal?”
Brandon stared at his offered hand, thinking it through. Good. “What if I backslide?”
“Then you backslide. We deal with it as it comes. But I need to know you’re working on it.”
The kid took his hand and shook it firmly. “Deal.”
“Good.” Ian started walking back toward their things. “And get rid of the cigarettes in your gym bag. You’re sixteen, for fuck’s sake, and a runner besides.”
The kid yelped behind him.
Ian grinned.
21
It takes me a minute or two to recognize the alarm in the morning. It isn’t mine, which is designed to scare me out of sleep and into marginal wakefulness. It’s Bran’s, a looped recording of Priya chanting “Wake up, wake up, wake up!” getting louder with each repetition. And since it’s not my alarm, and I’m warm and comfortable, I nestle back in against him and tug the edge of the comforter up over my ear.
“You know,” he mumbles into my hair, his voice rumbling in his chest, “you’re the one who actually has to get up.”
“Mmm.”
“I managed to buy some groceries last night. If you start getting ready, I’ll make breakfast.”
“Mmm.”
“And by breakfast, I mean triple-bacon breakfast burritos.”
“I’m up!” Except I haven’t moved.
Bran laughs and rolls off the bed, dragging me behind him and catching me at the edge to set me on my feet. “Shower,” he instructs. “You smell like smoke.”
“Fine.”
Once I’m clean and dressed—and have taken a picture of the bodice on the living room floor to send to Shira later—I head into the kitchen. It looks bizarre. Every cabinet—every cabinet, not just the ones he damaged—is missing its door, which really highlights just how little he has in his kitchen.