A List of Cages(66)

“Agreed,” she says seriously. “Listen, Adam. It’s best you hear this now. Russell’s got a warrant out on him, but so far it’s for a child abuse charge and nothing more. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“B-but,” I sputter, “how is that possible? He tried to kill him.” Delores nods slowly. “You think Russell’s going to get away with it, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. You never can tell. Running off like that makes him look a lot guiltier, but the thing is, no one’s really chasing him. Fortunately for Julian, Russell doesn’t seem to know that.”





WHAT KEEPS YOU trapped?

Group starts out like it always does, the other kids resisting and rolling their eyes as if it’s an idiotic question.

I’m out of the wheelchair and sitting in an actual chair in the circle, wearing the brand-new sneakers Adam brought me today. They’re bright red, and I can imagine myself running in them.

No one speaks, but there’s a nervous strain in the air as if a live wire is snapping through the room. Kids are looking at the floor, at the ceiling, out the windows, at their hands. I squeeze my eyes shut, and I can feel it—pain—pouring out of everyone in the circle like smoke.

The counselor asks again: What keeps you trapped? When you’re done with this program and you go back to your lives, what can stop you? What keeps you from living the life you want? What keeps you from being free?

And I see it all at once—all the things that have kept me trapped. Not just Russell, but me—my fears.

Afraid of talking.

Afraid of trying.

Afraid of wanting.

Afraid of dreaming.

Thinking about the people I’ve lost—and afraid of losing more.

The counselor pushes until a few kids mutter answers. They pretend not to care, but they do, and like me they already know the answer to her questions. Soon their responses are rapid-fire. Drugs pills parents teachers him her fear friends me me me.

The things I know stay in my head as I stand on my own two feet at the end of the day, and I walk back to my room with my journal to write my list of cages.





“I NEED TO go back,” Julian says. “Back to Russell’s house.”

We’ve been home from the hospital for less than an hour. His bruises have faded, but you can still make them out like smudges around his eye and mouth. His fingers are still bandaged and broken, and there are scars on his back that’ll probably never disappear.

“Why?” I ask.

“There are some things I need.”

“Did you look through everything?” Delores and the police went to the house a couple of days ago to box up the contents of his room.

“Not everything is there.”

“If you need clothes, we can get clothes.”

“It’s not that. It’s…everything that was in the trunk.” Neither of us says anything for a minute, like we both need to recover from hearing that word.

As much as I don’t like that douche bag Clark, I say, “Okay, but we need to call the police, get an escort or something.” I’m not halfway through the sentence before he starts shaking his head.

“I can go by myself.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

He takes a seat on the sofa, looking exhausted. I feel bad for him, because he’s finally using his freakin words, but it seems like every time he does, the answer’s no.

“Fine,” I say. “No police, but we bring people with us.” I interrupt his protest before he can start. “That’s the only way. They can wait outside, okay? It’ll just be safer.”

“In case Russell comes?”

“Yeah.”

“But you said it doesn’t matter what he wants. That I’m not living with him either way.”

“I know.”

“So why?”

Because he tried to kill you! I want to shout. But sometimes it’s like talking to a five-year-old, and there are certain things you can’t tell a five-year-old.

“Can you just trust me on this?”

“I do trust you.”


Julian stands on the front porch with his key, but he’s making no move to actually insert it into the lock. Sometimes with Julian you have to push, but sometimes you have to wait.

I glance over my shoulder at Charlie, Jesse, and Matt. We’ve just finished our last day of high school—ever—and they should be out celebrating, so it says something that they’re all here, leaning against my van like a row of bodyguards.

Julian takes a shaky breath, unlocks the door, and we walk inside. I expected signs of an investigation, drawers yanked open, tables overturned, but the house is just as insanely neat as I remember it. He tiptoes carefully down the hall like he’s watching for land mines, then stops outside his bedroom door.

“Nothing’s in there,” I say, stepping in front of him. “It’s already been cleaned out.” I don’t know if the trunk is still in the room or not, but I don’t see what good it would do to look at that.

Julian nods, then turns around. On the opposite end of the house, he opens a door to the neatest garage I’ve ever seen. Everything’s boxed in plastic containers and marked with typed labels. We search through the orderly rows but come up with nothing that looks like it belongs to Julian.