The Names They Gave Us(44)

I stand before the wall of faith, a line of talismans representing so much more.

And I say a final last prayer, this one in gratitude that there are people in the world who will protect kids with a fire that makes them sprint after cars, fight systems, curse with rage.

It’s enough to make you believe.

Maybe not in symbols; maybe not in gods. But certainly in people.

During afternoon rest time, I stop by Miss Suzette’s. I haven’t seen Jones anywhere, and I can’t get it out of my mind: the look on his face as that car sped off.

“Hey, sugar,” Miss Suzette says, glancing up from bandaging a sixth grader’s arm.

“Hey. Jones isn’t here, is he? A few campers have asked me where he is.”

“Not here. But I’m gonna guess he’s in the gym. You’ll probably want this.” She reaches for a first aid kit, nylon-sided and orange. When I frown, she says, “That ridiculous child never bothers to wrap and glove his hands when he’s worked up. Stubborn as gravity. You’re gonna find him with a punching bag and broken skin on his knuckles, guaranteed.”

She’s right. I enter the gym quietly. In the back corner, there’s the worn-out punching bag and a worn-out counselor.

His glasses are off, and he’s in a plain white undershirt—his usual panache stripped away. His eyes focus on their mark, and his fist plows forward. Thwap, thwap—the sound of skin against the heavy, swaying bag.

If Jones hears me, he doesn’t let on. I hang back, doubting that he’d even want me here.

One balled fist protects his left jaw as the other snaps out. Then the other—smack, smack—until he finally stills.

It’s the first time he hasn’t smiled at the sight of me. He wipes his forehead on his shirt sleeve. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Indeed, he has at least two visibly split knuckles.

“Miss Suzette?” He gestures at the first aid kit in my hand. When I nod, he hangs his head. “Damn. She knows me too well. What’d she call me?”

“What? Nothing.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

I step toward him. “Well, the phrase ‘that ridiculous child’ may have been used.”

“There it is.”

He sits on the nearby windowsill and slides his glasses back on. It’s a Superman to Clark Kent transformation—clearly the same guy. But Clark Kent, you want to care for. Superman is there to protect you. My hesitation dissipates, and I sit beside him, unzipping the first aid kit.

“I can do it,” he says.

“My mom’s a nurse.”

“I know, but—” He cuts himself off, losing the will to argue. I’m already taking his broad hand in mine and shaking out an antiseptic towelette. He doesn’t flinch as I wipe the cuts clean, though it leaves them looking raw. I pad the white medical tape with a bit of gauze and wrap it carefully around the first knuckle.

“When did you learn how to box?”

“Started at eleven.” He snorts, shaking his head. “I was really confused and angry, so my parents put me in boxing class.”

“That was smart of them, to give you an outlet.”

“Yeah, well. They kind of had to.” With his free hand, he gestures toward himself. “I’m a black guy, Lucy. It’s different for us.”

Heavens, I didn’t even think about that. I imagine this boy, with his broad smile and good heart, hunched down and scowling in a middle school classroom. Acting out, pushing back. Would teachers have seen past to the core of him, to his sweetness and pain? Would anyone have?

As I start on the next finger, he sighs. “My older sister killed herself when I was ten. I found her. That’s my checked bag.”

My lungs collapse inside me, breath choked in my throat. I look up at him, but he’s staring down at his hands. “Oh, God,” I say.

“Yeah. It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay. But I deal with it now. Daybreak saved my whole life, that’s for sure.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words land terribly thin, but they’re all I can manage. I try to focus on wrapping the tape. “I’m so, so sorry, Henry.”

His name just comes out. Maybe because I heard Rhea say it; maybe because, right now, I don’t see all-star counselor Jones, charisma radiating off him like light. I see a boy named Henry, tender souled and tougher than I guessed.

“It was a long time ago. I just wanted you to know why all this messes with me.” He shakes his head. “JJ’s like me at that age, so much caged up. I thought I could . . . I don’t know. Change it for him.”

“But don’t you think he knows that? And don’t you think that counts for something?” When Jones only looks at me, I keep babbling. “Now he has this mental image of a cool older guy who can break up a fight, but who gets that you need to cry and let it out. He knows there are people who will be on his side and see past his anger. And no, maybe it won’t change everything. But it sure isn’t nothing.”

I present his finished hands to him, and he flexes his fingers—soft white tape around four of his knuckles.

“Thank you, Lucy,” he says quietly.

“Anytime. Well, not any time. If you wake me up from my precious, hard-won sleep, I will come at you with my own fists.”

It’s enough to make him smile. “I’ll wear gloves next time. Though you make a great nurse.”