Shattered Glass(83)

“Can’t, um…start until it’s done. The primer’s done. I can’t start until the primer’s done. Painting. I can’t start painting until the primer’s done.”

I could only stare back at him. It was like he thought faster than he talked, but didn’t wait until he had a full sentence. Was that his meds? “I have an Xbox,” I pointed out and then went to point at my laptop as well, only to see a sheet covering my coffee table. “And somewhere under that mess is a laptop. I even have porn.”

“Oh…um…” More blushing and a small shuffle away from me. “I, um…porn…”

“Gay?”

“I—” He studied his knees. “Reckon I’m not sure, sir.”

I remembered why he was in his predicament suddenly and cursed my own stupidity. “Sorry, that was insensitive. I also have tons of regular movies.”

Smile flashing, he said, “Yessir. It’s okay,” in a strained voice.

“Sir? Sir’s my father. Actually never mind. My father is ‘Dick’. I’m Austin.” His skin practically glowed with shades of red most artists would kill for. “It’s okay if you are, you know?”

He laughed boyishly and granted me another shy, approving smile. I had a feeling all his smiles today were just the smallest bit forced. He was trying, I speculated, to keep us all from worrying about him. “Hoped maybe I was like Peter,” he said. “Don’t think I am.”

“Why would you hope that? Do you think something’s wrong with being gay, Cai?” The temptation to ruffle his hair was extreme enough that I gripped the edges of the sofa on either side of me and scrutinized the wet spots of paint spattered on my sheets.

“Oh…no.” He laughed again. “Just…well, better chances, right?”

“Chances at what?”

“Love?”

He blushed brighter and laughed harder at my look, wiping the back of his hand along his forehead and leaving a cheerful, blue stain of paint behind. “Cai, I might just join your cult.”

“My…cult, s—Austin?” He bit one side of his lip. Was that something he’s learned from Peter? Or Peter from him? Cai’s gesture was unique in the way his nose wrinkled up. It was adorkable. I definitely wanted my kids to be like this one.

Minus the whole cold-blooded killer part.

Unless they were girls and just starting to date. Then I might arm my kids with grenades.

“So what are you going to do with my wall?”

He followed my gaze, head tilting in deliberation. “Something like Starry Night with a more modern gothic feel?”

My head canted the opposite of his as I, too, examined the blue space. “Not that tree, though. It’s too creepy.”

“The dark, deformed church?” He murmured. “Kinda makes a beautiful sense, don’t it?”

I closed my eyes and pictured Van Gogh’s masterpiece. The small peaceful town, the brilliant blues of the tumultuous sky, and the golden moon and stars. Among all those bright, hopeful hues, the tall dark tree-like structure could be a distorted version of the church below.

“You think churches are evil?”

Instead of answering he said, “I didn’t kill him, sir…Austin.” He had the softest voice, his accent buried beneath breath. I strained to hear him.

“You’re pleading guilty.”

“Yessir. Ms. Jackson didn’t approve, either, but then I told her I did it. And how it’d be easier to prove than innocence. Don’t think she believed me.”

“You gave her the strategy?”

He started another blush, piling it on the others. Soon, I was going to have to turn up the air conditioning, before he overheated the house. “Yessir. But I don’t want you to think I killed him. I would have. But I didn’t. But Miss Jackson can’t let me lie in court, you know?”

Which was more shocking? The ‘I would have’, the ‘I didn’t’, or the strategy?

Or was the most extraordinary thing that I believed him?

“I can understand those feelings.”

“Think so?”

“No,” I said.

We stared at the wall. The coffee maker huffed and puffed in the background before exhaling in completion. Then silence.

“I was saving myself,” he murmured. “Antiquated and silly, but I was.”

Before I could joke about antiquated being a big word for a sixteen year old, I told myself Cai could school me seven ways to Sunday with his IQ. While my brain scrambled for something clever to say, he schooled me in another way.

“Did you know that diagnosing bipolar disorder in children is nearly impossible?”