A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(4)

I make up ground quickly, skipping with long strides to the back of the  yard, banking off the berm and gaining speed. And then I hear the long  squeal of tires and the crunch of metal striking into metal hard and  fast.

The sound stops everyone and everything.

My breath stops too.

Taryn looks at me, and I'm sure my face shows nothing but emptiness and  fear. I walk down the hill, off the course, and begin to jog through the  middle of my yard, picking up speed the closer I get to the side door  that leads into our garage. My heart is beating wildly, and my ears hear  nothing-no clues, no questions from my friends, no more yelling, or  cries from my parents. All I hear is the whoosh of air and blood inside  my head and over my ears. Everything else is quiet, and the quiet scares  me.

I push through the side door and step into the garage, the man who was  arguing with my father is standing in the driveway, his hands on his  head while he paces like a lion circling prey around his car parked in  our driveway. The scratch in his sports car is long and deep, and my mom  is pressed to the screen of our front door, watching him cry over his  car while she cries over him.         

     



 

My eyes are wide, and I can't decide where to look. The kids from the  race are slowly streaming through the door, and everybody is seeing  this-everyone is seeing something awful happen to my family. I'm just  not sure what it is, and what this man with the blue car has to do with  it, and why Mom cares about his car so much.

Why does she care about him? And where did my daddy go?

My head is dizzy as I spin, looking from one thing to the next, my feet  full with the urge to run away, but my strength unable to take me  anywhere. The thunderous rumble of the engine comes first, followed  quickly by the shrill scream of rubber digging into road, of brakes  pressing on the wheels. Smoke pours from the sides of my dad's car. His  wheels spin wildly, and then there's a loud pop as the front tires of  his station wagon lift over the small hump in the driveway, catching at  least a foot of air before crashing down.

The headlights zero in on me.

My father's eyes hit mine.

He looks terrified.

I open my mouth to scream, but no sound leaves my lips. My father is  clinging to the steering wheel, madly jerking it with his hands, and I  shut my eyes, bracing myself for the inevitable.

I am going to die.

My body is thrust so hard I'm sure this is it-it's over-when I open my  eyelids again, I will be in heaven. But something keeps pushing me and  pulling me all at once. All breath escapes my lungs, and I fight to find  air, my back flat in the dead grass several feet away from the driveway  where my father's car now rests, steaming, the front end enveloped by  the sports car my dad drove into-through.

I was going to die. But someone saved me.

I gasp and I howl, a panicked search for feeling in my body. My skin is  numb and I can't breathe. Air. Air! All I want is air, and I reach and  claw at the body next to me, trying to sit up, to swallow, to make a  sound-any sound! My fingers grip at a gray T-shirt, and the arms wearing  it cling to me. Thin arms, like mine. I don't think they've ever let  go. My dad runs to me. My mom bursts through the screen door. The  mystery man is covering his mouth, still looking at his now  smashed-to-bits car behind us all.

And Christopher is holding me.

My lungs stutter, and I start to cough hard, the sensation of wind  passing through my throat almost too much to take after living without  it. I choke, leaning forward, my parents both pulling at me, each  wanting an arm, each wanting to take me and save me.

But Christopher is still holding me. He won't let go, even when they  tell him to. He fights away people tugging against us-blood dripping  over one of his eyes. I don't want him to let go. I want them to leave. I  want him to take me away.

I begin to cry, and my body shakes, but I suck in a hard breath because  the kids are still watching. Everybody is watching. Everybody is going  to know that something bad happened here today. Christopher squeezes me  tighter, and I wrap my hands around his forearms, holding them to me.

He holds me until all of the other kids go home.

He holds me until the police arrive.

He holds me until I tell him it's okay to let go.

And then he disappears.

For good.





One





Eight years later


I'm ditching softball practice. It's not required, not that required  would make me go either. They need me to win, and as long as they need  me, I'll show up when I want to. When they don't need me anymore, I'll  quit.

Wouldn't my father love that?

He probably wouldn't even notice, truthfully. My dad hasn't watched me  throw a ball since I was nine. My life was moving in one direction-the  perfect postcard family, smiles always on our faces, food on our table,  holidays, vacations and all that happy-home shit. Then my mom left in  the middle of the night after my dad crashed his car into the one owned  by the guy she was having an affair with. Seems Dad wasn't supposed to  be home that early and catch her packing her things to escape with some  dude named Kevin who was eight years younger than she. My dad was gone  when she finally left, drowning all his problems in a bottle of Jack at  some seedy, hole-in-the-wall bar in Southside.

I didn't really know what was happening then. I just knew that I had to  spend the summer with my grandparents in Fresno while my parents "worked  things out." Turns out, working things out meant my mom disappeared  completely. I'm not sure what hurt more-the fact that she didn't say  goodbye to me, or that she didn't want to take me with her … wherever it  is she went.

I hate her for leaving. But I hate my dad even more for not being there  to stop her. He's never been the same-checked out, except for the three  months of baseball he coaches every spring. He treats the guys on his  team like sons. Me? I'm the roommate that sometimes he bothers to  lecture when he's pissed off about life and needs someone to pass it off  on. I get the man who stumbles in late at night after the bar, sloppy  and blubbering about how sorry he is.         

     



 

He's only sorry when he's drunk. He only makes promises about being a  better dad when he's wasted. His promises are made in slurs. Other  times, he's just mean-the angry drunk, who says truths that I know live  somewhere deep inside. In the morning, I go right back into that box he  keeps me in-the one that's labeled: DO NOT TOUCH. More like, DO NOT  LOVE.

When I turn eighteen, he won't have that luxury anymore. He'll have to  start taking his problems out on someone else. Maybe he can turn on  himself. Though, I guess he does that already too.

Whatever.

It's the last day of winter break, and I'm waiting for Taryn at the  junior high baseball fields. She's skipping softball practice too. This  week was just tryouts for the newbies. Coach knows what I can do. And  Taryn doesn't get to play much anyway.

It's our last day of freedom before we go back into the chaos of South  High. I can't miss any more days of school this year. Dad got a letter. I  got a lecture. I rolled my eyes at first, but then he said he'd  transfer me to Carden if he had to. That's where they send the fuck-ups.  And as fucked up as I am, I don't belong at Carden.

A white truck pulls up on the opposite end of the field, kicking up dust  from the dirt road. It's hard to tell from here, but it looks like  three guys my age are getting out. I don't recognize them, and I wonder  if they're here to do a deal. That happens here sometimes; dealers  figure the junior high is the last place cops will look. The fields are  hard to get to, so a patrol car would be totally obvious.

Maybe that's why I wanted to come here.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I slide it into my hands so I can keep  an eye on the boys in the truck while I answer Taryn's text.

TARYN: Almost there. My lighter's jacked. I had to buy a new one.

ME: K. Three dudes just pulled up in a truck. Maybe they have some stuff.

I don't hit the hard stuff. But sometimes I like to smoke a joint or  take pills, like vikes or OC. I tried spice at the last party Taryn and I  went to, but it made me super paranoid. I don't need to add to my  anxiety; I need to escape it. I don't think I'll be getting anything  from these dudes, though. They're pulling bats out of the back of the  truck and a bucket of balls, which means they're probably coming over  here.

Shit.

My phone vibrates again against my leg with another text.

TARYN: I don't want any shit today. But are they cute?

I laugh softly, pressing the edge of my phone to my lips as I glance up  at the three figures walking toward me. The one in the middle is the  tallest, and he's wearing a dark blue sweatshirt and black shorts. It's  hard to tell from here, but his hair looks like it's light brown, maybe a  little long. It sticks out from the sides of his hat. The other two are  wearing gray sweatpants and black T-shirts, and the one on the right is  African American. They don't look familiar, and I wonder if they go to  North.

ME: Can't tell yet, but looks promising.