A List of Cages(15)

He shrugs as if having a lot of friends is no big deal at all.





JULIAN PAUSES OUTSIDE Dr. Whitlock’s office, one of his skinny arms dangling to his side while the other arm reaches across his chest to squeeze his bicep, like it’s sore. He’s not that small—about the size of any other freshman—but he seems smaller because he’s always bent like he’s ducking a low ceiling.

When he finally heads inside, I drop onto the couch, prepared for a good forty minutes of boredom. I’m not sure why Dr. Whitlock even has an aide. I deliver maybe one note per period. I can’t even do any filing, because everything’s confidential.

While I’m answering texts, I make out a voice on the other side of the door—just hers—which isn’t surprising since he’s so freakin quiet. But he wasn’t always. Back in elementary school, he was anything but.

A memory pops into my head—Julian giving me this construction-paper card on the last day of fifth grade. All the kindergartners made ones for their buddies, and they were all really proud when they handed them to us. It was pretty adorable, actually. I think I still have mine somewhere. I didn’t expect to see him again after that. Then two years later, I came home to find a little boy sitting in the center of our yellow couch, holding a stuffed dog under one arm. When he looked up, his enormous eyes were like glass, something reflective instead of animated.

“Julian?” I said.

Mom whispered, “You know him?”

“Yes.” But it was like looking at a photo of a painting. Julian, twice removed. “We were reading buddies. Right, Julian?”

He didn’t answer, just stared straight ahead like a sleepwalker.

“Julian is going to be staying with us for a while,” Mom said.

Still, he said nothing.

“Julian.” Mom spoke carefully. “Adam and I will be right back.” She ushered me into the kitchen, and as soon as the doors swung shut behind us, she started to cry. My mom’s a pretty emotional person, but when it came to the foster kids who stayed with us sometimes, she always kept it together—no matter how bad the story was.

Knowing this, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. “What happened?”

She shook her head and breathed in fast. “His parents were on their way to pick him up from school. They were all going out of town for the long weekend.”

“What happened to them?” I repeated.

“They were in an accident.”

“And…”

“They died.”

“Both of them?” She nodded. “How?” I wasn’t really asking for details—just questioning how one boy’s life could be so instantly and completely obliterated.

She ignored the question. “He wouldn’t leave the school. He wouldn’t go with the social worker. He kept saying his parents were coming.”

My eyes drifted back toward the living room. It scared me. If something happened to my mom, I’d be the one sitting in some stranger’s living room.

“I need you to help me with him,” Mom said suddenly. It was a weird request, since I was always nice to the kids who stayed with us. But I just nodded and said okay.


Julian didn’t make a sound, not during dinner. Not when we watched TV. Not when Mom tucked him into the other twin bed in my room.

Then in the middle of the night, I was woken by a strangled whimper.

“Julian?” I climbed out of bed and stood over him. Tears were shining on his cheeks. “Want me to get my mom?”

He shook his head and began to cry, only I couldn’t really call it that.

It was convulsing.

It was dying.

It was the most pained noise I’ve ever heard another human being make. No one should be capable of that sort of agony and still live.

I was scared to stay with him. I was scared to leave him.

I didn’t know what to do, so I grabbed his stuffed dog and shoved it at him. He looked at it for a second, then convulsed even harder.

“I’ll get my mom,” I said.

“I want my mom.”

I didn’t know what to say—what could you say to something like that?

Still sobbing, he pulled a pillow over his face. Afraid he was going to suffocate, I pulled it away.

“I’m getting a headache. I need my dad. I need him right now!” He was hysterical. “I have a headache! I need him!”

“What does he do for it?”

“He fixes it.”

“How?”

“Rubs my head.”

I sat down beside him and rested my palm on his forehead like I was taking his temperature. “Like this?”

“No.” He ran his fingertips across his forehead like he was playing the piano.

I tried to mimic it. “Better?”

He continued to cry.

I’m not sure how long we sat there like that before he asked in a soft, wiped-out voice, “Where are they?”

“Didn’t…didn’t anyone tell you?”

“They died. I know.” He sounded so tired. “But where are they? Where did they go?”

At the time I didn’t get that he wasn’t asking where they were in a physical way. I didn’t know what to tell him, so I rubbed his head with a little more pressure. “Go to sleep, okay?”