Part 29 (2/2)
”Yeah. There's no doubt.” I walk the length of the hallway, twisting to get past Mom. It's not very long. I walk from the front door past the coats, the kitchen, the bathroom, my parents' room, mine. Fifteen not-very-big paces. Then back again. Water is trickling out from under the bathroom door. But the yelling's died down. Mom grabs a tea towel and shoves it under the door.
”Where did you find him?”
”He found me. I didn't know, Mom. I didn't know he was like this. A street kid! He had no idea what happened to him. Didn't know he was a wolf.”
Mom looks distressed. She puts her hand on my shoulder. It's the first time she's touched me since last night. I am so relieved I almost cry.
”He doesn't have any family to tell him what he is, Mom. He's homeless. I don't think he's had much education. Or food for that matter. Did you see how skinny he is?”
”Yes. He is a wretch. It will be good for him upstate,” Mom says. ”The Wilkins will help him.” She goes into the kitchen. Opens the windows. Then gets out the mop and cleans the floor.
I pace. Now's not the time to tell her what the Greats plan to do with him. Each time I pa.s.s the bathroom door, it smells a little less bad. Dad is probably was.h.i.+ng away evidence. Zach's blood and DNA from under the boy's fingernails. Not that it matters, because we won't be turning him over to the police. But still. It bothers me.
I am imagining how Zach's blood and DNA got there. A surge of hate sweeps through me.
I can't wait till he's up on the farm meeting the Greats. I can't wait till they tear him apart limb by limb. I hope they let me join in. Werewolves punis.h.i.+ng their own. I wonder if there's a special ritual for it. I doubt it. It's not like the Greats have much of a ritual for anything. Stuff just happens the way it's always happened.
I want to make a fuss. I want to celebrate killing the white boy. Let off fireworks. Not that they allow fireworks on the farm. Makes the horses skittish and freaks out my kin. We wolves don't hold much with fire or loud noises. Too often it's gunshots and a bullet in our side.
But he knew it was Zach. Your boy, he said.
Dad opens the door, nods grimly at me, then closes it behind him before I can peek. ”His name is Pete,” Dad says, before disappearing into his bedroom.
Pete? It hasn't occurred to me to ask the boy's name. Hasn't occurred to me that he'd have one. Dad comes back out with some clothes and a towel, then returns to the bathroom.
If I didn't know better, I'd say Dad was enjoying himself.
I'm not. Nor is Mom, in the kitchen, cleaning.
I wonder what the white boy-what Pete-thinks of all of this.
AFTER.
Clean, the white boy still looks bad. He's got scabs and scars all over him, and the black eye I gave him is already a lurid mess of greens, blues, and purples. He smiles at me, which only renders him more hideous and makes my heart contract with guilt. How could I have punched someone so beaten down? So pathetic?
Dad inventories Pete's injuries, old and new. His ribs are bandaged as well as Dad could manage. ”I think at least one of them is broken,” Dad says, and I try not to cringe. ”Pete's had a rough time.”
No kidding. When we take him upstate it's going to get rougher. But half of me wants him to die. I want my life back. I'm willing for Pete to give his in exchange. He killed Zach; he deserves what the Greats give him.
Dad is on the phone, trying to borrow a car. Mom hands the boy a cold pack. I slouch against the fridge, watching.
”Cold,” he says, dropping the pack.
She picks it up. ”It's for your eye,” she tells him.
”My eye?” he asks. He's sitting at the table under the bikes, where he's eaten practically all the food we have, including four bowls of cereal. He tore into the food worse than I ever have, pulled each plateful close, and hunched over in case we change our minds and s.n.a.t.c.h it from him. I can't help thinking that this may be his last meal.
He looks at me for confirmation.
”Yes,” I tell him. ”It's to stop the swelling.”
He lets Mom put the pack on his eye.
” 'S there more food?” the boy asks.
Mom pours him another bowl of cereal with the last dribble of milk. He plows into it. One hand holding the pack to his eye, the other spooning cereal into his mouth.
The boy's skinnier than I thought. Dad's clothes hang off him like he's made of string and air. He's younger, too. Looks more twelve than fourteen. That might account for how stupid he is. Or it could be all the beatings he's had. Or the lack of food. Brain damage or malnutrition or both. Mom asks him how long since he last ate. He shrugs.
She shakes her head and tuts, sounding for a second like Grandmother. I don't tell her so.
”You are sure you killed Zachary?” she asks, sitting opposite him at the table and giving him her warmest smile.
The boy pauses briefly in his eating, nods. ”Was me,” he says almost cheerfully. A little bit of cereal flies out of his mouth.
Mom discreetly wipes the fleck of cereal from her cheek. I can see she's struggling to comprehend. ”Where were you born, Pete?”
”Dunno.”
”Where are your parents from?”
”Dunno.”
”What happened to them?”
He shrugs.
Mom sighs. ”Why are you not in an orphanage? With a foster family?”
”Dunno.”
”You live on the streets?”
”Parks, too. Benches. Stoops. Slept in sewers. I can sleep anywhere.” He sounds proud of his sleeping skills.
”Mon dieu. Does anyone know how you live?”
He looks up. The cereal's all gone. ”How'd you mean?”
”Do you have any friends? Anyone who looks after you?”
”Nope. Just me.” He's not sad or upset. It's how things are, that's all.
”I cannot believe you live like this!” Mom says, her voice rising. She's plenty upset on the boy's behalf. ”With no help or support? Pete, it is so wrong.”
The boy shrugs.
<script>