Dillon

Wish Me Luck!

I stand just outside of the light that comes from the Hillcox's den. The big double doors are open and I can see Robby's mom and dad sitting on the couch, side-by-side, lit by the glow of the television and the small, soft lamp on the end table. Somehow I've had fucked up, but, for the life of me, I can't figure out how. Everything seemed to be going so well. Robby and I haven't argued. I've tried to remember my manners. I haven't broken anything or spilled anything. The four of us; Robby, me, and Mr. and Mrs. Hillcox, had laughed, shared popcorn, and watched a movie together. While it's true that Mrs. Hillcox did have to call up the stairs for us to settle down and go to bed, it was only once and it didn't seem like a big deal. How did I fuck it up? Everything was going great.

It had to have been something that happened after Robby and I went upstairs. We had been laughing, joking, and pushing around a bit. When his mom called up, we quit, and I went into the bathroom to change into my sweats and t-shirt, then to pee and brush my teeth. Their house is old and recently restored. The doorknob was made of glass and shaped like a diamond. I almost didn't want to touch it for fear that I would leave smudges. Robby was waiting in the bedroom for his turn.

Or at least that's what I thought. Instead, when I came out, the bedroom was empty. I put my clothes and toothbrush away, surprised that he was gone. It made me feel a little uneasy. Maybe he went to get a drink of water, I thought, or maybe he thought of something he needed to tell his folks. But he was gone for a while. And, the longer he was gone, the more uneasy I became. I didn't like being alone in Robby's room; I've never stayed over at his house before. In fact, this is my first sleepover ever. What if something went missing? For sure they'd blame me for stealing it. Moments later my uneasiness was justified. Robby came in looking upset, almost like he'd been crying. Never meeting my eye, he told me that his parents wanted to see me. Then he went straight into the bathroom.

I know what's about to happen. I'll walk in there, they'll scold me for whatever I've done, tell me what a shithead I am, and then they'll take me back. Of course if it were my folks it would be worse than a scolding, but Robby's parents don't seem like that type.

It's a relief, in some respect. I've had been on edge all week about this sleepover. I'm just not used to things like this. I always say and do the wrong things. I can't even get simple things right. It doesn't matter. They can take me back; that's fine. I'll crawl into my own bed and forget this ever happened.

Well, that's not true. I'm telling myself it doesn't matter, but it does. I think that Robby's the closest I've ever come to having a real friend. He's so easy to talk to and really seems to like hanging out. I guess I kinda got hopeful. In the end, it's one more lesson in what being hopeful gets you; nothing but disappointment.

Still, how did I fuck this up? What did I do?

Robby and I share many of the same classes, but we really move in different crowds. Well, it's more accurate to say that Robby moves in a different crowd; I pretty much move around by myself. Robby's smart, funny, and outgoing. He always seems to be laughing. There's something about the way he talks to people that makes them like him. And, he always has this great, inviting smile. It makes you smile back even if you don't want to. I don't think there is anyone in sixth grade that wouldn't want to be his friend. All of them would love to be here instead of me.

Because we're both new to the middle school, just starting sixth grade, we're both at the bottom of the pecking order. Because I'm "that group home kid," I'm mostly left alone. People just assume I'm trouble. And, that's OK. It saves me from having everyone figure out what a retard I am. School is a real struggle for me and I hate it. My guess is that those boys resented Robby's popularity. They had him pinned against the wall in the boy's locker room. I didn't intend to get involved; it's just that I can't stand bullies. I really didn't do that much, just let them know that if it was a fight they wanted, I wasn't going any place. Like with most bullies, that was enough.

That's what started me and Robby talking. At first I thought he was doing it because he felt he had to. We really don't have that much in common. Then, he started doing things like looking for me in the lunchroom and insisting I sit next to him. And, because he seemed to accept me, the others seemed to accept me, too. It was always busy at the table. It seemed like everyone in the sixth grade wanted to sit there.

I stand in the shadow and wonder what the next few minutes will be like. Robby's parents kinda scare me, which is funny. Given my dad, you'd think that no one would scare me. I think one thing that scares me is how smart they are. His dad's a lawyer and his mom's doctor. They're bound to figure out what a dumbass I really am. I wondered for a moment on the way down the stairs if maybe that was what this was about, but I doubt they'd yell at me and send me home for that. Probably just tell Robby not to see me anymore.

The other thing that scares me is that I can't figure out what sort of parents they are. Neither one seems like a screamer, and that bothers me. I mean, no one likes to be screamed at, but most of the time you can tell when a screamer's going to start swinging on you. You can't always tell with the quiet ones. My dad's a quiet one. With him you never knew it was coming until you found yourself on the floor with your lip bleeding and your ears ringing. Robby's parents have been pretty low key all evening, smiling a lot and laughing along with us at the movie.

Thinking back, I'm kinda surprised about how the evening has gone. They haven't been drinking, or at least not anything I've seen. I mean, Robby's mom's had a glass of wine, his dad hasn't had anything. I'm usually pretty keen on picking up family tension and haven't felt anything. Both of Robby's parents seem really mellow. Even when Robby got pouty about going to bed, they seemed unfazed.

Well, it's not going to get any better by waiting, so, time to get this over.

"Umm… Robby said you wanted to see me?" I say in a small voice, stepping into the light and pointing back up the stairs.

"Josh, thank you, come in… please," Mrs. Hillcox says. I can see that I surprised her a bit as I stepped out of the shadow. Robby's dad reaches for the remote that sits on the coffee table and mutes the television. They're watching a murder mystery on the public television station. I've never watched public television before. The show looked interesting and I wouldn't have minded staying up and watching it. The detective is an elderly woman from England. Unlike detective shows I know, she doesn't run around having shoot outs. Instead she solves crimes as she knits. I take a few, hesitant steps forward into the light and stop.

"Come, sit here," Mrs. Hillcox says, and she pats the coffee table in front of the sofa. That makes me even more uneasy. Their furniture is all so shiny and nice. I'm sure to mess it up if I sit on it.

Her smile catches me as it has many times this evening. I love looking at it. It seems so… so… I don't know, honest I guess is the right word. Her smile is one I see only rarely. It's the sort of smile that uses her whole face. It's a comforting smile. It's the kind of smile that makes you smile back even if you don't want to. It's very different from what I see from my teachers and the staff at the home. Those are smiles trying to be smiles. Robby gets his smile from her.

The walk across the room is uncomfortable. I feel self-conscious. It reminds me of how big their house is and how out of place I am in it. They actually have two living rooms! Robby told me that one was for company, the other one, the one where we watched TV, the one where I stand now, is for family. I glance at Mr. Hillcox as I cross the room. I worry about what he might do. So far, he's just sitting back comfortably. He doesn't seem mad but I keep my eye on him.

There's plenty of room between the couch and the coffee table, but still I squeeze up tight against it so that I don't bump Mrs. Hillcox. I catch her scent once again as I pass. It's not like anything I've smelled before. It's a fresh and exotic scent and I find that I really enjoy it. The girls at school all smell like baskets of fruit. Her scent is enjoyable. It's also quite light. I don't think she uses very much.

I pause, my hands in front of me, not able to bring myself to sit on their furniture.

"Good ahead and sit. It's OK," she says and smiles at me again. I sit on my hands so that I don't scratch the table and so that my hands don't shake.

Her eyes shift for a moment over to her husband. I can tell that she's nervous and that makes me nervous. My mouth is dry.

"Mr. Hillcox and I want you to know that we think you're a great friend for Robby," she begins. She smiles at me again, but it's not as strong as before. I try to smile back, but I'm too nervous to do it well. In part, I'm not really sure I believe her. If she really knew me, I'm sure I wouldn't be in their house or allowed to be Robby's friend. She twists her hands in front of her as she considers what to say next. "We also really appreciate that you stood up for him at school."

I'm surprised to hear that Robby told them about that. I never would have told my parents. Dad would have called me a pussy. I shrug and make a noise that's supposed to be a thank you. There's a long pause before she continues and I can see we've arrived at heart of the matter. I wish she would just yell at me and get it over with, but what she says next surprises and confuses me.

"Josh, are you OK? Is anybody hurting you?" she asks.

I sit up a bit as I think about this question. I'm sure that my confusion shows.

"Uhh… well, Robby and I were just wrestlin around a bit. I mean… that's all, really. Nobody got hurt." I pause, then blurt out, "Did I hurt him?"

"No, no, no!" she says quickly. "No, he's fine," she shakes her head and smiles, then gets serious again. "No, Josh, what I mean is, is anyone at the group home or anyone at school hurting you?"

Again I'm confused. I try to think about what she might mean other than the obvious, and that doesn't seem to make sense. I can tell that Mr. Hillcox is watching me closely even though I keep my eyes on Robby's mom.

"Err… no ma'am, everyone's real nice at the home, and at school, too." It's the only thing I can think of to say. It's not strictly true but it is mostly true. I mean, some of the staff at the home are real assholes and a few are outright creepy, but overall it's OK. Then the next question comes and I'm shocked.

"Josh, would you take off your shirt so that we can see?"

FUCK! She KNOWS! Except, how does she know? She couldn't know. But why else would she ask me those questions and then ask me to take my shirt off?

This is my best kept secret. Only a few people in the world know; my social worker, the folks at the hospital when the cops took me there, the director at the group home. I'm pretty sure that no one at school knows. So how could she know?

"Why?" I ask; my voice soft.

I've worked hard to protect my secret. I always wear long sleeves, even on the hottest day, and I don't change in gym class. Most boys at the home walk back and forth to the shower room wrapped only in a towel. I always carry my clean clothes with me and use the little cubicles to change in.

"We just want to be sure you're OK," she offers. I look over at Robby's dad and see that he's still studying me.

I think about what to do next. I could refuse, but I'm pretty sure that would end up being a scene. I wonder if I could stall for time, maybe ask them a bunch of questions and hope they'll forget.

"Josh?" she says.

I scramble to try to think, but she's caught me so off guard that my mind's a muddle.

"Please Josh?" she says, but it's clearly not a question. "Just let me look real quick."

I sit there frozen. My mind doesn't work and neither do my arms. She continues to watch and I can tell she'll keep asking until I do it. I try to think of some bargain I can make, but nothing comes to me. Suddenly I realize there's no avoiding it. It's going to happen. It's going to be easier just to get it over with.

I think of the fall-out at school when everyone there finds out. Robby will have a field day with this. Shit, just when I was starting to enjoy being a part of the group. If any of the guys give me grief I'll beat the crap out of them. Shit, I actually was starting to like a couple of them and to think they might like me.

A moment later I sit on the coffee table, my arms on my legs, my t-shirt crumbled in my hands. At first I stare at the back of the couch in front of me. The cool air of the living room washes over me. I feel my emotions stir but I push them back down. Then I draw the courage to look.

Mr. Hillcox is looking toward the wall next to him. I can see that his eyes are misty. It embarrasses me and I drop my head before raising it again to look at Robby's mom.

She's waiting for me. She's not looking at my body but at me. Her eyes trap mine. I want to look away but I can't. She seems to look inside of me as if I were made of glass. It's like she sees everything I'm thinking and feeling and it's painful. There's so much there I don't want her to see, but I can't look away.

She leans forward, closing the distance between us, her eyes still on mine. Without looking away, one hand comes out and a single finger touches my forearm.

"Cigarette burn?" she asks softly.

A flash of emotions hits me. I don't need to look; I know that spot on my arm well. I can still smell the burning skin. Still locked on her eyes, I give a small nod.

She releases my gaze and looks down at my arm. She takes my hand gently in her own, pulls my arm out full length, then runs her the fingers softly up my arm, stopping and exploring each of the many marks. Her breathing has become hard. Her movement stirs the air and I smell her perfume once again.

I watch as she examines each scar. Each scar comes with a memory. They are the story of my childhood.

She stops on the ridges on my bicep. They are my initials, J–A–C, formed by disfigured flesh. She looks at me quizzically.

"Soldering iron," I say. My voice is ragged. I'm terribly embarrassed and I don't know why.

A soldering iron is an interesting tool; hot enough to melt lead, yet it burns skin slowly. You can hold it in place for a while and make interesting patterns.

I sit up straight and drop my arms to my side as she pushes softly on my shoulder. With one hand she reaches for her reading glasses on the end table while she studies the long diagonal slash on my chest. Her fingernails click on the frames as she snaps them open. They perch low on her nose and she tilts her head back slightly to look through them. Then I feel her finger run gently down my chest, following the trail left there many years ago.

"Josh, who stitched this up? This wasn't done by a doctor, was it?" she asks gently but certainly.

I shake my head as I drop my eyes. My emotions well up again; stronger than I have felt in some time. It's no longer as easy to hold them back.

"It was my dad," I answer, my voice barely a whisper.

"What happened?"

I think about how to answer. My throat is tight. I know I can't tell the story; not without coming apart. Instead I just shrug.

"Josh, what happened?" Her voice is soft again; she's trying to coax the answer from me.

"Box cutter," is all I can squeeze out.

She cocks her head slightly and looks at me concerned. "This wasn't an accident, was it?" she says. Again I shrug.

"What did he stitch you with?" Her tone is insistent.

"Huh?" I'm not sure what she's asking.

"What did he use to stitch you up? Thread?"

"Fishing line."

"Did he give you anything for pain?" The question comes quickly. I shake my head.

Of course he didn't give me anything for pain. Pain, after all, was what the game was all about. If there wasn't any pain, then we wouldn't be playing our game.

Except it really wasn't a game. If it had been a real game, I would have had a chance to win. It wasn't until I was about eight that I realized there was no winning the game, at least not for me. He said it was to toughen me up but it always ended with me crying. If I tried to be brave and not cry, he continued until I did. If he thought I cried too early, it meant I was weak and he'd continue in order to toughen me up. I always lost; I always cried.

The variations on the game were limited only by his imagination. Simple versions were played with cigarettes. More elaborate versions involved the soldering iron, vice grips, or the box cutter. Sometimes he just used his hands, finding tender places to squeeze or twist. Sometimes he played with his fist.

I trembled each time I realized we were going to play. My stomach rolled, churned, and knotted. I'd fight not to pee myself. He liked the anticipation. He liked seeing me squirm. He'd take whatever he was going to use that time and finger it absentmindedly, pretending not to notice me, but watching me all the same.

My reverie is broken by her touch. She still holds my one hand. She pulls forward and, at the same time, touches the back of my shoulder. I turn on the coffee table to let her see.

I know what it looks like; I've seen it in a mirror. My back is stripped like a zebra's. I feel her fingers trace one of the grooves. Then she releases my arm and I turn to face her once again. Again I struggle to control myself. I'm not sure why, but I don't want to cry in front of her. Maybe my dad has taught me something valuable.

She looks at me and I read the question in her eyes. I nod toward a large plant in one corner of the room. I had spotted it earlier. She follows my glance, looks confused, then understands. There's a stick beside the stem of the plant that holds it upright.

"The bamboo cane?" she asks, and I nod. I hate bamboo. The end splits and frays if you repeatedly beat it on something. Your blood becomes sticky and it pulls on your skin.

"Who did this?" There's anger in her voice and in her eyes.

I try to answer, but I can't get my voice to work. The answer gets stuck in my throat. Finally I croak, "My dad." I'm blinking furiously. The questions that follow come sternly and quickly.

"You live in a group home now, right?" I nod.

"Do you still see your dad?" Her voice is intense. I shake my head.

"Where is he?"

"Prison," is my answer. "He's a lifer. Three strikes." My voice becomes stronger as I say this; I like saying it.

She turns to Mr. Hillcox who answers her silent question. "Three-time offender," he offers. "Violent crimes. Twenty-five year minimum sentence." He's sitting forward now, too.

"Armed robbery," I add, and he nods.

She sits back on the couch, lost for a moment. I've kneaded my shirt into a tiny ball. Then she looks at me, her eyes soft.

"Josh, can I ask where your mom is?"

That question hits hard. My emotions rise again. They feel so strong that I'm afraid that they'll suffocate me.

I give her the simple, one-word answer; dead. What I don't tell her, what I can't tell her, is about walking into the house that day after school, about dropping my book bag by the front door, about feeling the unusual stillness, about my voice pin-balling about the quiet house as I called for her, about walking down the hall, about standing in front of the bathroom door, about knocking softly, about calling out in a small voice, "Mom? Mom? You in there, mom?," about gently pushing the door open, about seeing her face as white as the porcelain tub in which she laid, about the wine colored bath water, about my dad's box cutter lying on the side of the tub, about her breasts bobbing in the ripples from the still dripping faucet, about backing out and pulling the door closed, about sitting in front of the TV with a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, about falling asleep on the couch under a quilt and the glow of the television.

The next day I picked up my book bag, walked to the bus stop and went back to school, unwashed and unchanged. I noticed the smell when I came home, so I did what I saw my dad do when he smoked pot; I took a wet towel and stuffed it under the door. And that helped. I had cereal again for dinner and fell asleep on the couch while watching TV.

The day after that, when I came home from school, I turned the corner onto my block and saw the police were there. I should've turned around right away. If I had, I don't think they ever would've noticed me. But I was drawn to the house and the scene outside. Walking past on the sidewalk, I saw our next-door neighbor talking with an officer who was taking notes. He saw me and pointed. I ran.

I could hear the officer's heavy footsteps behind me as we raced away. But, as I ran, I realized I didn't know where I was going. I knew I'd reach the end of the block and turn either left or right, then I'd reach the end of the next block and turn either left or right, and then the next, and then the next, and then the next. And so I just stopped.

That's when I met Mrs. Jamison, my social worker. And that's how I ended up in the home. I know that Mrs. Jamison worked to find me a foster family, and she tells me she's still trying, but I know it will never happen. I scare people. They think that boys from violent homes are violent boys. They think I'll strangle their cat, set fire to their house, and molest their kids. Instead I know that the group home is my new home. I've been there for two years now, since I was ten. It will be my home for some time to come.

"Josh, honey, go ahead and put your shirt back on." The sound of her voice startles me. I jump.

The emotions hit me again. They catch me by surprise. I have to fight with all my strength to keep them away.

As I put on my shirt, I think of the scars they can't see, the ones that don't show, and the ones I'll never talk about. It's funny how those other scars make me feel more alone than the ones that can be seen.

I can't remember the first time I was on my knees, between my dad's legs, while he watched TV. It just seemed like something I'd always been doing. And, I really didn't mind. For one thing, I learned that if I did a good job, we wouldn't play the game. So I learned to do a very good job. And, when my dad's friends came over, I'd do them, too. I was his gift to them. The jizz was the only bad part. I didn't mind the rest. I either swallowed or let them cum all over my face. Different men liked different things.

It all changed when I turned eight. I was lying on the floor, in the living room, watching TV. He was in his chair. I could tell he was agitated and that worried me. Then he called me over and I was sure we were going to play the game. He started to tell me how much I disgusted him and that I was nothing but a little faggot. He pulled me between his legs and I started for his zipper. He stopped me with a slap, then stripped me and laid me over the arm of the couch. Then came the pain. My ass was on fire. As he fucked me, he explained that since I acted like a pussy, he was going to treat me like a pussy.

My ass became a gift for his friends as well. But it was a special gift. Getting blown was a small thing. Any visitor to our house could get blown. Getting to take me back into the bedroom was special.

My head pops free from my shirt and I comb my fingers through my hair. Then I see her waiting.

"Baby, if anyone hurts you again, you let us know, OK?"

I have to look away when she says this. It makes me angry when people say this. I mean, what did people think my life was like? What did they think would happen if CPS came to the house? I sure as hell wasn't going to say anything. It was an accident, I'd say; I was clumsy; I tripped and fell. Then, when they left, my dad would beat the shit out of me for sure. Mrs. Jamison told me it shouldn't make me angry. She explained that people said that for themselves and not so much for me. She said they felt bad about what happened and were trying to find something positive they could do.

The anger I feel at her remark helps. For a moment the emotions retreat. I stand a bit unsteadily and have to put a hand down to keep from falling. As I go to walk past, I tell her that I'll go get my stuff.

She reaches out and gently grabs my wrist. I turn and see she's confused.

"What did you say?" she asks.

"I'll go get my stuff," I repeat, my voice is small and seems to get swallowed by the large room.

There's a pause as she looks at me, trying to understand. "Why would you get your stuff?"

"S-s-so you can take me back," I stutter.

Her eyes hold mine once again. Again I feel them searching me. As she does, I feel the emotions creeping back and I realize that it's something about the way she looks at me that draws them out of their shadow.

"Why would we take you back?"

I feel myself begin to tremble. I look about at the room. It's so neat, so clean, so perfect. The room seems to swim a bit as my eyes water up.

"Because your house is so beautiful," I say in a ragged voice, looking out the door, wishing for the safety of the darkness.

"Josh! I don't understand."

I look at her, trying to figure this all out. Does she really not see what's so obvious or is she trying to torture me by forcing me to say it out loud? I want to leave the room, but she's still holding on to me. But then I look down and see that we're holding each other. I see that I have her wrist in my hand just as she has mine in hers, and now I'm the one who's confused. Why am I holding on? Finally I can take the tension no more and I blurt out the answer that hurts so much.

"Because I'm so ugly!"

And as I say this, it feels like a barrier breaks. A tidal wave of pain, anger, and fear envelope me, picking me up and tossing me about. I can't breathe; I can't fight my way back to the surface; I can't find air. I struggle at first, I fight to regain control, but the emotions are too strong and they've been held back for too long. I've lost the strength to fight. I surrender and sink beneath the wave.

How it happens, I don't know. All I know is that I find myself on the couch beside her, wrapped in her arms, my face pressed into her soft breasts. My nose is filled again with that wonderful scent. I feel the soft, silky, slippery fabric of her blouse against my cheek. I feel Robby's dad slide over on the couch and I feel his hands on me, as well. But his touch is not the lecherous groping of the men I have known before. Instead his hands are warm, and soft, and strong. It's funny how being between them makes me feel. I have fought against these feelings for years now. When I was in their grip I felt like they would ravage me. Now, pressed between Robby's mom and dad, it feels OK to be out of control. It feels OK to cry. And so, for the first time in my life, I let go.

It takes a while, but eventually I stop crying. When I do, I sit up between them; each has an arm around me. My tears have stopped, but the sniffles won't leave. I glance once or twice at her blouse and wonder if I've ruined it. It's soaked by my tears and my snot. Their touch is warm and reassuring. Every so often she leans in, runs her fingers through my hair, and kisses me on the head.

Mr. Hillcox says something about getting some tissues. He half rises from the couch and stops. I follow his gaze and see him. There in the high back chair across the room, hidden in its shadows, I see Robby. His legs are pulled up tight against his chest. I cannot see the lower half of his face behind his knees, but I can see his eyes that glisten with tears. I wonder how long he has been there and how much he has heard. Looking at him, I realize that he has her eyes. And now I know why I like talking with him so much. Because he looks at me the way she does.

Mr. and Mrs. Hillcox let us stay up and watch one more TV show. It's another episode of the detective show. The detective has eyes that sparkle. I thought that I might not like a show with so little action, but with this show, you really have to think hard to figure out who did it. Robby and I sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch. We each have a bowl of ice cream. When the show ends, we go back upstairs and to bed. Neither one of us fuss. The crying had made me tired.

Again I use the bathroom first. I brush my teeth and pee once more. The room is dark when I come out. Robby's tired, too. I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling as Robby takes his turn. I see the bathroom light bounce off the ceiling just before he closes the door.

What makes me look, I can't say, but I do. And when I do, the final piece of tonight's puzzle falls into place. A small, bright spot of light pours out of the bathroom door through the keyhole. I climb off the bed slowly. I feel myself drawn to it. The next thing I know, I'm on my knees in front of it and I look. And now I know how Mrs. Hillcox discovered my secret. Back in bed, I wonder what I'll say to Robby.

We lie next to each other, each staring at the ceiling. We both came up here exhausted; now neither one of us can sleep. I hear the rustle of the sheets as Robby stirs, his leg rubs against mine. I turn on my side to face him. I catch his eyes as they flick my direction, then turn back toward the ceiling. I think first about what I'm feeling and then about what I'm going to say.

"Thanks!" I say softly. I pull the sheet up tight under my chin.

Robby turns his head and stares, then rolls over to face me. His shaggy, brown hair falls across his face and he pushes it back with one hand.

"What do you mean?" he asks, but there is no question in his voice. He knows I know.

"You told what you saw."

He looks at the sheet and twists it about in one hand. We're close and I can feel his breath on my face. It's warm and pepperminty. He's quiet, then says, "I was scared."

He looks at me again, neither one of us turns away. Finally I begin to smile.

"Dude, you were spying on me in the bathroom," I say and I'm smiling big.

"Nah uh!" he says, but he's laughing. I like his laugh; it's light and musical. We shove back-and-forth a bit. I reach in to tickle him and he fights to keep my hands away. We do that for a couple of minutes, then the mood turns serious again.

"Can I see?" he asks. I look at him for a bit, then I push the sheet down and pull off my shirt.

My body glows in the red light of the clock on the bed stand. Robby studies me, then, just like his mother, he reaches out and traces the scar on my chest with his finger.

"Why?" he asks.

Why? It's the question that baffled me for so many years. Why? For so long I believed the answers that my dad gave me. Why? Because I was stupid. Why? Because I was ugly. Why? Because I was useless. Why? Because I was a worthless piece of shit. Why? Because I was a pussy and he needed to make me into a man. I spent endless hours in the night searching for the answer to that one-word question.

Robby's mom knew the answer, and that's way she never asked me the question. I kept waiting for her to, but she didn't. It took me years to learn the answer. It wasn't until long after the abuse was over, long after my dad was in prison, long after my mom killed herself, long after I moved into the group home, that I discovered the answer.

Why? There was no why! It had nothing to do with me. There was nothing I was doing to make it happen; there was nothing I could do to make it stop. Why? I look at Robby and give him the simple answer that eluded me for so long.

"Because he was a mother fucking, cock sucking, son of a bitch," is my answer. My voice is plain, there is no anger.

Robby looks at me while I say this, then back at my chest. His finger leaves my scar and circles about my chest.

"Can I see your back?" he asks. I look at him, then roll onto my stomach.

He shifts up onto one elbow. I feel his hand float across my back. His touch is warm, and soft, and strong like his father's. A moment later, I feel him shift. He straddles me and begins to rub my back.

Slowly I become aware of a new feeling, something I've felt only rarely. A tingle comes from where he is touching, travels down my spine and into my groin.

"Sit up and let me roll over," I say and I feel his weight leave my back. I roll over, my hips brushing against his thighs.

Lying on my back now, he settles down onto my thighs. His eyes travel across me. I know that look; I know what he wants. Many men have looked at me that way. And I know that I want it too. But I also see that he doesn't know how to ask or how to begin. I let my own eyes run over him and I feel my own lust grow. Unlike me, he spends a lot of time in the sun. His body is almost black in the dim light. His thighs are pale; his small, tight underwear glows red in the light from the clock. I feel my own breath quicken.

Knowing that I need to lead, I run my hands up his legs, my thumbs on his inner thigh. I stop just short of the elastic on his underwear. His eyes follow my hands, his hands rest on my forearms. I take him above the elbow and pull him softly forward. He lays flat across me. His body is warm. I let my hands travel slowly down his back. They never stop as they reach his underwear. Instead I let them plunge beneath the waistband. Using my hands, I grind his hips into mine. We're both hard.

He's up on his hands working his hips against my own. His head is down. His hair covers his face. His breathing is hard and fast and I feel it on my chest. Suddenly I'm moved to do something I never have before. I'm afraid it will spoil everything and make him pull away, but I can't stop myself. My hands come up, embrace his cheeks, and I pull his face to mine. He kisses me eagerly.

Rarely have I felt this way before. Sex was always something I 'did', not something I was a part of. Sure, some of the guys who took me into the bedroom would do stuff to me. They might play with my cock or even suck it. But that was only to get them in the mood. It was just a prelude to them fucking me. This is different. This is like nothing I've experienced before. Suddenly I no longer feel like I'm the expert who's leading Robby through this. Suddenly I'm as eager as he is.

I roll Robby over onto his back. Then I'm down between his legs. He lifts his hips as I pull his underwear down. He lifts his legs high so that I can get them off his feet. He watches with a fire in his eyes as I lie between his legs, my face at his crotch.

His smell is like nothing I've experienced before. I'm used to the musky smell of men. Robby's not like that. His smell is clean and boyish. I start on the inside of his thigh next to his balls. I suck his flesh. Then I move on to his balls. He squirms and arches his back as I suck them in and probe them with my tongue. His hands are grasping at my head as if he's trying to hold on. My nose bumps against his iron-hard cock. Finally, I take him into my mouth, plunging deep on the very first gulp. I press my tongue hard on the underside of his cock as I rise back up. I twirl my tongue around the head before plunging down again.

His breathing is fast and ragged, his hips thrust up hard each time I go down. I soon abandon any effort to be fancy. Instead, I bob up-and-down quickly. He has his hands on my head, holding me down. He's small enough that I have no trouble breathing and have no tendency to gag. In fact, for the first time, I find that blowing someone is getting me more and more excited.

Finally he thrusts up hard and stays there, grinding his hips into my face. A small, high-pitched squeak breaks from him. I can feel his cock pulse against my tongue, but nothing comes out. Then his hips drop down and he sighs.

He cuddles against me, his body damp with perspiration. I fondle myself carelessly. I'm still rock hard and contemplate slipping into the bathroom and jerking off on the toilet. Suddenly I feel his hand push mine aside and he begins to stroke me lazily.

"Fuck, Josh!" he sighs.

"Like that?" I whisper into his hair. Instead of answering, he begins to slide down my body.

I grab his shoulder. "You don't have to."

He looks at me, his expression a mixture of joy and wolfishness. The next thing I feel is his warm, wet mouth on me.

I never knew I could experience such pleasure before. Sex with someone you love, and sex when it's your choice, is not anything I've experienced before. I don't know why it should be different, but it is. No one has ever made me cum before. It happens fast. Moments after he starts, my mind and my body go numb with pleasure.

***

The warm sunshine pours in the bedroom window. It's early, so the light is soft and tinged with orange. My guess is that mom and dad are up already. They're always up early. It seems to be something that comes with age.

I try to stretch between the crisp, white sheets, but a lump on the bed blocks my leg. I smile, reach down, grab Mrs. Jamison, and bring her up to me. She nestles in between my arm and my chest and purrs gently.

Her name is a joke, of course. Robby, mom, and dad know half the joke; Mrs. Jamison, the real Mrs. Jamison, my social worker, knows the rest.

Robby and I had been friends for a couple of months. Mrs. Hillcox was driving me home after another sleepover. She asked me if I thought I might prefer living with a foster family instead of in the home. Robby had a strange grin. Looking back I feel real stupid that I didn't know what her question really meant. Instead, I made a joke about people being afraid that I'd strangle their cat. The next day I found out they had applied to be my foster parents. That weekend they surprised me with a kitten. They said that they needed to have a cat if I was going to strangle it.

I named her Mrs. Jamison because of all that she – the real Mrs. Jamison – has done for me. That's what I tell everyone. I also named her Mrs. Jamison, because like the real Mrs. Jamison, she sticks with me regardless and listens without judging. She's a good therapy cat. I talk to her quite a bit.

I decide that I'll lay here for just a bit longer. I want to get an early start on the day. Today's my day to cut the grass and I want to get it done early so that I can go to the roller rink this afternoon. Cynthia will be there.

I spend a moment and study my arms. The scars there are mostly gone. Some of the spots don't have any hair and I'm told that they will likely always be that way. Still, I'm not used to seeing my skin so smooth. One day each month mom or dad take me to a plastic surgeon. He uses something like sandpaper on my skin. Taking off the scars hurts and my skin is red and raw afterwards, but it's nothing like the pain that put them there. My initials are still on my bicep. I asked that they be left there. With my arms pretty clean, he's working on my back. He says that the scar on my chest and a few on my back are too deep to be rubbed off. They will stay with me.

I look across the room at Robby lying in the other bed. He's kinda funny to look at when he sleeps. He tends to sleep with his mouth open. Wrinkles from the sheet have made a pattern on his skin. If he doesn't wake up soon, I'll wank and then go downstairs for breakfast. If he does wake up, I'll talk him into doing it together or maybe into trading blow jobs. Trust me; it won't be hard to persuade him.

Robby and I share a room. There's plenty of space in the house and mom and dad had set aside a room of my own, but both Robby and I like being together. Sometimes we'll spend the whole night in the same bed, but not as often anymore. I can see a day coming when we'll want more space.

School's going pretty good. No, that's not right, school's going great. Ends up that I'm not quite the dumbass I thought I was. Mr. and Mrs. Hillcox, wait, no, mom and dad – God, I'm have trouble getting used to calling them that – got me some testing when I first moved in. Then I spent a few months with a private tutor for a couple of hours each day after school and suddenly school was easy. I actually enjoy going now, but I haven't told anyone that except Mrs. Jamison.

My scars are no longer a secret at school. I think I just got tired of hiding them. Anyway, one day I got brave. I brought a set of gym clothes and changed in the locker room. I kept my eyes buried in in my locker, but I heard the place go quiet. Then the kid next to me spoke up. "Jesus Josh! That's wicked!" And that was pretty much the end of it. Now it's just routine. I get asked about them every once in a while, mostly by girls. I tell them I don't want to talk about it.

Being Robby's brother sure makes things nice. It's like having instant friends. I found out from Robby that most kids at school are scared of me. He says that the scars add to my reputation. That makes me laugh.

But, not everything in life is good. There are still emotional issues and I'm not sure they will ever go away. Sometimes I just can't keep my old dad's voice out of my head.

One day my new dad hauled me off to the hardware store. He wanted to build a new picnic table in the backyard and wanted me to help. We got back and started sawing boards. He had me watch him make some cuts, then handed me the circular saw. God! I couldn't believe it! Me! He trusted me to do it!

Anyway, he watched me make a couple cuts, then he actually left me to work by myself. I cut all the boards for the top of the table but, when I gathered them up to take them to the backyard, I realized I had cut one too short. Shit! Suddenly my old dad's voice flooded my head. Way to go retard! What a fuck up you are! I felt like I betrayed my new dad. I felt like I couldn't face him, so I ran off to my room and shut myself in. I laid there on my bed telling myself how worthless I was.

Well, eventually he came and found me. I ignored his knock, but he came in anyway. I lay there on my stomach, my face buried in the pillow. I couldn't look at him.

It ends up he hadn't noticed my mistake, just that I was gone. He got worried when I didn't come back. When I told him what I had done, he just laughed. He said that he always bought extra supplies because he was always making mistakes like that. He led me back out to the garage, told me to cut a new board. Then, without even staying to watch, he carried the others off.

I worry a lot about my new dad. I wonder sometimes what I'll do if he tries stuff with me. I mean, of course I'll do it, no matter what it is. I feel like I owe it to him. But, at the same time, I doubt he'll try anything. He just doesn't look at me in that way.

There are other problems, too. I have trouble figuring out what other people are really feeling and I have trouble gauging how strongly I'm reacting. Frustration sets me off. I find it especially hard with mom and dad because their emotions are pretty nuanced at times.

The start of puberty has pretty much meant the end of the bedwetting. God, wasn't that mortifying. Mrs. Jamison – the real Mrs. Jamison, not the cat – insisted that it be discussed as a part of one of our foster parent conferences. Those were meetings we had to discuss stuff before I moved in. She insisted I tell them about it. The way Mrs. Hillcox – I mean mom – handled it was cool. She showed me where clean sheets were kept and showed me how to run the washer. After that, nothing more was said. The first couple of times it happened, Robby got up and helped, then he just started to sleep through the whole thing.

I have other little emotional eruptions sometimes, but mom says they're because I'm a teenager and not because there's something wrong with me. She says that they're a good sign. She says they show that I'm settling in. She says that I wouldn't have them unless I felt safe. I notice Robby gets them, too.

The first one happened about four months back when they told me I couldn't go to the roller rink because I hadn't cut the grass like I'd been told. I stormed around, told them how unfair it was, and argued. They both stood firm. Finally I went out and started. Anyway, my temper cooled as I worked. About halfway through, I stopped, sat under a tree and thought about things and I realized they were right. It took me a while to work up the courage, but eventually I went in and told them that. It's funny, how hard that was.

Where's life going? I don't know. I'm just pretty much taking it a day at a time. But then, I'm only halfway through seventh grade. Plenty of time to think about it. Mom asked me that same question just a month ago and I gave her that answer. She looked at me thoughtfully for a minute, then said good answer and smiled.

Right now I'm looking only as far as this afternoon with Cynthia and then to this evening. This afternoon will be a blast. Cynthia and I have been seeing each other since school started. We haven't been on an official date or anything. Her parents say she has to wait till she's fifteen. But, we like to hang out together.

This evening's going to be tough, though. You see, this evening's when I'm going to sit down with mom and tell all; all the details of what happened to me; all the things my dad – old dad that is – did. I kinda threw out the idea to Mrs. Jamison and she liked it. She knows I've been holding this stuff back, even from her. She says it might help with the nightmares.

I've practiced a bit with Mrs. Jamison; the cat, that is. I just needed to hear what it sounded like out loud. Mrs. Jamison sat quietly while I practiced, her large, soft eyes never left mine. I want it to be just mom and me when I do this. I don't think I can say those things in front of dad. I can't face him and have him hear how his new son used to suck cock and stuff.

Why tonight? I'm not sure I know. It just somehow seems right. I'm not even sure why I thought to do it. I could have gone my whole life and kept it to myself. It could have been my secret. I think I'm telling because it's an important part of my life; an important part of who I am. It's shaped me. It seems that as long as I keep it a secret, my old dad still has some control over me. If I'm going to get that control back, I think I need to be able to talk about it.

Mom knows something's coming. She knows it's important to me. She looked at me that way she does, that probing sort of way, that way that feels like she's sorting through my insides, when I told her I wanted to talk. I've grown comfortable with the way she looks at me and no longer turn away when she does. I thought she might insist that we talk right away, but she was comfortable when I suggested we do it this evening.

It's going to be a long night. I'm pretty sure I'll go to bed with a pounding headache.

Wish me luck!

The End