His fingers are covered as he struggles to stay on his tiptoes, the nails of which I see are still painted black from the last time I was here. That’s a good sign. My stepfather must be in lock-up, or else he’d have wiped the kid’s toes clean.
I slip in, but before I can close the door, Matty turns and sees me. His five-year-old eyes light up, and he drops the butter knife. “Aro!”
I press my finger to my lips, kneeling down in front of him. “Shhh…” I kiss his forehead. “Where’s Mommy?”
He scratches his nose, getting peanut butter on his face. “At work.”
I swipe my thumb across his face, wiping off the mess, and then grab a paper towel, cleaning my own hand. I pick up the knife, helping him with the crackers. “Why are you awake?”
It’s after midnight. I remember counting the chimes I heard from the town clock in Shelburne Falls right before I left the hideout.
But instead of answering me, Matty takes one of the finished crackers and starts eating.
I watch him hold it with both hands, taking bite after bite. Like it’s something he’s afraid to lose.
My throat tightens.
He swallows as I finish the rest. “Are we going shopping for school supplies soon?” he asks.
“I promised, didn’t I?” I tell him.
And I’ve never broken a promise, because I never guarantee things I can’t deliver. Like a trip to Hawaii or a car or a college fund. I want to laugh at how gullible I was when she told me I actually had a savings account from when I was little.
I don’t care if I’m in prison. I’m taking him shopping for school supplies.
“Draw me anything lately?” I ask him.
He takes another cracker, shaking his head and not looking at me.
I narrow my eyes. He always has a picture for me. “Where are the pencils I gave you?”
“Daddy—”
“He’s not your dad.”
A cough drifts in from the living room, followed by the sound of an empty beer can knocking into another, and I tense. I don’t know why I ever give that little sliver of hope air to breathe. My stepdad’s not in lock-up, and she’ll never kick him out. He pays rent, after all.
Bianca and I have the same father, but Matty is the product of a fling that lasted about three months, six years ago. Not long after, John Drakos swooped in, finding a nice, comfortable support system of people to do his laundry, cook his meals, and clean up after him. My mom doesn’t want to go back to paying all her own bills.
I hand Matty his plate and squat down, telling him, “Go to your room and eat. Close the door.”
He nods, well-conditioned not to ask questions. I wait for him to go, hearing the TV play gunfire and explosions, laughter echoing afterward.
Another door shuts, and I hear footfalls hit the stairs, “Have fun up there, boy?”
I creep to the end of the wall, just on the other side of the living room. My sister’s boyfriend must be leaving.
“That headboard slams any harder, it’s go
“Jesus, man,” his friend laughs.
I peer around the corner, seeing Bianca’s boyfriend whip open the front door and walk out. “Sick asshole.”
He leaves, level-headed enough to know who’s bad news, and yet, he still leaves his girlfriend and her little brother with a guy like that.
Hawke comes to mind again and how he carried me away from the people he cared about inside Rivertown. Somehow, I don’t think he’d leave his girlfriend in a house like this.
I open the drawer next to the fridge, sifting through nails and screwdrivers of varying size and finding the long wooden handle. I pull out the hammer and shield it behind my leg, entering the living room. I stand in front of my stepdad, blocking his view of the TV. “Matty is awake. No one made him di