A List of Cages(70)

“I will miss you.” She sighs. “Very much. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to go.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Julian will be fine, Adam. I did a good job raising you, didn’t I?”

“Adequate.”

She laughs and mutters, “Punky Brewster.” Then she gets serious again, but I wish she wouldn’t. I’ve had enough serious to last a lifetime. “I know you want to take care of him. Everyone you’re close to…they all need you so much.”

For a minute, we don’t talk, just half-watch the final round till she says, “Someone like you has to be around people. You can’t be alone so much.”

“I’m not alone.”

She frowns at me like I’m deliberately trying to be difficult. “If you won’t go out, then have people over. You were planning that graduation party. You could still have it.”

“It’s a little late for that now.”

“Have one anyway.” She sounds way too insistent about something that doesn’t even really matter.

“I don’t know.”

“Just something small. It would be good for you. For both of you.”

“Yeah…maybe just a few people.”

“Like Emerald?”

“Maybe.”





IT’S A SMALL party compared to the one Emerald had back in December, only fifteen or twenty people, but the noise and chaos are still too much. I open the back door, and cross the yard to sit on the grass beneath a giant tree. Its branches dip low and wide, hanging around me like a curtain.

The last time I was outside was when we went to Russell’s house. Once we got home, Adam parked in the garage.

He keeps telling me I need fresh air, that sitting in front of the window like a cat isn’t the same. Part of me misses the sun and the way it felt to ride my bike as fast I could. But whenever I would imagine leaving, I’d see the blue sky like the ocean—no walls or shore or end in sight. And I’d see myself disappear.

Tonight, when all Adam’s friends arrived, I could tell how much they missed him. Most of them told him openly, and the others just kept watching him like they couldn’t get their fill of his face. They were nice to me too, almost but never quite hugging me, as if they were afraid touching would hurt me.

I breathe in deep. My lungs expand and it only hurts a little.

The air smells sweet, warm, real. Maybe Adam was right about going outside. It’s nice. I dig my fingers into the grass. Press deeper, into the soil, and I picture my mother standing on our old back porch, shielding her eyes from the sun.

I can still hear the music from inside, but I’m far enough away that it’s just a pulse without words. I close my eyes.

“Julian?” It’s the voice I’ve heard in my head like a rusty echo a million times.

My eyes fly open. Russell’s silhouette is near the open gate, just a few feet away. He begins walking toward me. I want to run or yell, but I can’t. I have absolutely no control over my body.

As Russell passes the back porch, the motion sensor light turns on, and I can see him clearly. Unshaved, unwashed, unhappy. He’s looking at me, and I realize that I have no control over my body because it’s not my body to control.

My eyes flick to the back door. He seems to know what I’m thinking. Quickly, he crouches down—then he springs all of his weight toward me. On me. One of his arms winds around my stomach, pulling my back into his chest, while his other arm encircles my neck. I can feel his heart against my shoulder blades, his chin on top of my head. I can smell him, bitter soil and sweat. He tightens his hold, both arms wrapped around me. It’s the closest to a hug we’ve ever shared.

“Why did you leave?” he asks. “You told me you wanted a chance, and you left.”

“I had to. Adam—”

His forearm tightens across my throat. “I’m the one who took you in. Me. But no matter what I do for you, you still hate me.”

I grab at his arm, twisting in his grasp. I can’t breathe.

Abruptly, he lets me go. I suck in a pained breath before turning around to face him.

“I…I don’t hate you,” I say, and I mean it. “I know you’re just unhappy.”

His eyes flicker in hopeful confusion. “Then you want to come with me?”

I remember the video. The expression on his face when he was hitting me. All the times he found a reason to punish me. Not to make me better, but because he enjoyed it.

“No. You hurt me. It’s not okay to hurt people. Even if you’re unhappy.”

His face turns to ice, and then it cracks. “I never touched you,” he growls. “In all these years, I never put my hands on you.” He leans in close, his eyes on fire. “Did I?”

I shake my head.

“I could have, but I didn’t. You don’t even think about that. About what I had to do.”

The porch light dies, plunging us into darkness, but it doesn’t really matter. I was never good at reading him anyway.

I feel one hand wrap around my throat, and there’s just a hint of pain. I should be afraid, but I feel empty. I remember my father’s hands. My mother’s hands. What hands are meant to do.

His fingers tighten, lifting me like a puppet until I’m on my feet. When he starts dragging me toward the open gate, the numbness flies away. My mouth goes wide. His hand slaps across my lips. As I kick and claw at his arm, I feel something wet against my neck, then the sharp sting of teeth.