A List of Cages(3)

Russell doesn’t speak, just lifts the conch that sits on top of my dresser and turns it slowly in his hands. His fingers are long and thin like stretched putty.

“Getting homework done?” he finally asks.

“Yes,” I answer, and immediately feel guilty. It’s late and he’s just getting home from work, still neatly dressed with a tie around his neck, while I haven’t even opened my backpack yet.

He returns the conch to its place, then takes the notebook from my hands. He squints at it, turning it upside down, then sideways, then right side up again. He does this sometimes, a sort of joke about my terrible handwriting.

“What is this?” he asks.

“A book report.”

He gives me a sharp look, and I’m afraid he can tell I’m lying. I peek up at the deep fault lines in his forehead and under his eyes, trying to read him. Some nights when he comes home, usually after he’s been gone for a few days, he can seem drowsy, relaxed, almost like he just finished a big meal.

Other nights it’s as if there’s something moving just beneath his skin, something crawling and scratching to get out. On those nights it would be better to hear his office door shut. Lonely and locked out, but still better.

His mouth twists to the side in an almost smile. “You misspelled sinister.” He drops my notebook to the floor. “Come into the kitchen.”

I follow him to the other room, where he opens a take-out container. He stands at the black granite countertop, slicing his steak with a sharp knife and eating dripping red bites. The house is quiet except for the distant metal thumping of the water heater, like the sound the dryer makes if you leave coins in your pocket.

“Your principal called me today.” Russell’s voice is deep, calm, and steady, but his words prompt a heavy thumping in my chest. Mr. Pearce said he wouldn’t call if I promised to go to class, and I’d promised.

For just a second the image of my father standing to meet me outside the school flickers behind my eyes.

“Are you listening to me?”

I nod hastily, ashamed. I don’t work hard enough. Not like Russell, who works harder than anyone I know. He’s had to ever since his dad died when he was seventeen. Again I try to picture a young, frail Russell, but I can’t.

He slices the steak and takes another red bite. “How long have you lived here?”

My stomach goes cold, like I’ve swallowed winter. He’s going to kick me out. I’ve pulled this one too many times, and he’s done. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“Four years.”

“In all that time, what’s the only thing I’ve asked of you? What’s our only agreement?”

“That you can trust me.”

“And?” He takes another bite.

“You can trust me to do the right thing.”

“And?”

“You won’t have to look into what I’m doing.”

“I don’t ask too much of you, do I?” All the feeling that’s not in his voice starts jumping in the vein in his neck.

“No.”

“I understand your…limitations. I don’t expect A’s from you. I don’t even expect B’s. But sitting in a classroom isn’t too difficult, is it?”

“No.”

“I don’t like getting called by your school. I want to be able to trust you.”

“I’m sorry.” I really am.

He sets the knife next to the clean bone. “Go get it.”





SOMETHING TERRIBLE IS going to happen.

I usually wake up with that feeling at the bottom of my chest. It’s as if I’m blind and there’s something right beside me, and I could get away from it if only I could see. It’s a vague but gnawing idea that’s followed me into fourth period. The more I try to shake it off, the more it consumes me.

I realize I’ve zoned out when I notice my Art teacher, Miss Hooper, standing above me with a yellow paper square that reads: TO DR. WHITLOCK’S OFFICE.

I sigh.

The best part about finally getting into high school was that those meetings with the school psychologist were over. Then I found out the lady from my old middle school is working here now.

“Take your things,” Miss Hooper says, so I grab my backpack and step out into the hall.

“Julian?”

I spin around.

And the moment seems to slow.

It’s as if I’m standing still and the world is whipping past like a car down a dark street. And for just a second, headlights shine right on me. That’s what it’s like—standing frozen in the dark, then seeing him. Adam Blake. Leaning against the brick wall, somehow managing to look relaxed while fidgeting.

For just a second I feel a burst of pure happiness. I’ve always wondered what I’d say if I saw him again. Then it occurs to me that there’s nothing to say, except maybe I’m sorry, and my happiness falls away.

He breaks into a grin. I glance around to find who he’s smiling at, but no one is there.

“It’s me,” he says. “Adam.”

I don’t know why he’s telling me his name. Even if I didn’t already know, I’d know. I’ve only been in this school for a little while, but I’ve heard his name a hundred times, mostly from girls who are in love with him. Their fascination with him is a little confusing. He isn’t neat the way my mom told me a boy should look when she used to brush my hair in the morning. His brown hair is sloppy, as if he tried to comb it in one direction, got bored, and combed it in the other, then switched five more times.