We Own the Sky(56)

I looked at some pictures on the wall with Jack, a school project from room 1C, words stuck over interlocking rainbows. Jack traced the letters with his fingers and softly spelled out the word. S H A R E. Share.

Outside, the air was sweet with the earthy tang of roasting chestnuts and mulled wine. On the patch of grass where we had stood to watch the fireworks, there were now stalls selling bric-a-brac, a juggler and a ball toss where you could win a teddy bear. Children charged around from stall to stall, buoyed on sugar and the looming end of term.

Jack suddenly looked very scared and gripped tightly to Anna’s hand. We

walked across the playground and passed some parents from Jack’s class, but they didn’t say hello, their heads bowed, pretending they were on their phones. It didn’t matter. I didn’t want their pity, their sideways glances, the lengths to which they went to pretend that nothing was wrong.

We headed toward the tombola and the hot-chocolate stand. Jack walked with an old person’s gait, carefully, as if he was on ice and he was scared to fall.

“Look, Jack,” Anna said, pointing to two boys. “Isn’t that Martin over there?”

Jack shrugged and tightened his grip on Anna’s hand. “Do you want to go and

say hello to him?” she said, as we walked past a stall selling handmade Christmas decorations.

Jack shook his head and looked away from where Martin was standing.

Martin Catalan was the first friend at school that Jack had really adored. We were always amused when Jack said his name. It was never just Martin, but always Martin Catalan.

According to Jack, Martin Catalan could do everything. He could run faster, throw farther, jump higher than any human. At the age of just three, he could read, write and add up with numbers bigger than a million. He had read books— the biggest books in the whole world—and was so good at football, he already played for Spain.

I had seen Martin Catalan once at a school function, and there was definitely something about him. While the other children had their shirts untucked, their noses running, Martin Catalan was pristine: a crisp white shirt and cords, his slicked-back hair emphasizing his broad Musketeer’s jaw.

“Why don’t you go and say hello, Jack?” I said. “I’m sure Martin would love to see you.”

Jack would normally correct me if I said Martin, insisting on the full Martin Catalan, but this time he didn’t answer and just buried his face into Anna’s coat.

A little later, while Anna was in line at the hot-chocolate stand, I lost sight of Jack. I had turned away for a moment to give Anna some change, and suddenly he was no longer there. I panicked, frantically looked around, until I saw him, a forlorn little figure standing under the floodlights, watching the children on the bouncy castle.

Jack stood, as still as a statue, taking it all in: the whoops of delight; the shoes haphazardly discarded on the tarpaulin; the bobbing heads above the bright yellow parapet, as the older boys pushed into each other, trying to collapse the castle’s sides.

“Are you okay, beautiful?” I said, putting my arm around him as Anna arrived with the hot chocolate. “Do you want to go and sit down somewhere?” I asked, but he pulled away from me, and even in the dark I could see the glisten of tears in his eyes.

“I want to go home,” Jack said, looking at the bouncy castle.

“But we just got here, Jack. I thought you wanted to see your friends.”

“I don’t have any friends. I want to go home.”

“No, sweetheart, don’t say that,” Anna said. “You’ve got lots of friends.”

Jack shook his head, defiant. “No, I don’t have any friends. You’re telling

lies.”

Just at that moment, Martin Catalan appeared beside us.

“Hello, Jack,” he said and smiled, his clothes and hair immaculately groomed.

Jack turned around and saw Martin and his face lit up.

“Do you want to come on the bouncy castle with us?” Martin said.

Jack was beaming and quickly trying to wipe his tears away without Martin seeing. “Can I, Mommy?” he said, looking up at Anna.

“I don’t know, Jack,” she said, watching some older boys doing belly flops.

“It’s very rough on there, with all the big boys.”

“It’s okay,” Martin said. “It’s my brother. I will tell him he has to get off.”

Without warning, Martin ran back to the bouncy castle and shouted something to the older boys. One of them, an older version of Martin, looked over toward us and then nodded and jumped down onto the mat. One by one, the other boys followed Martin’s brother until they all stood in a line blocking the entrance.

“Is it okay now, Mrs. Coates?” Martin said, as he came running back. “We can go there on our own, and my brother will stand guard and not let anyone else on.”

Jack looked up at Anna and then me.

“Okay,” Anna said, and I knew that it petrified her, but we knew we had to let him go.

“And can Tony and Emil come, as well?” Martin said, and we hadn’t noticed Jack’s friends lurking behind us. “I promise we won’t jump too high.”

“Of course,” I said, “but Jack, you be careful, all right?”

He nodded and they walked toward the bouncy castle, Martin’s hand