Little Battles (20 page)

Most of what happened next was a blur. Mr. Campbell, the principal, yelled at me. It, too, was satisfying. He said something about the school board and then left the room. David spoke to me, but my mind didn’t hear him. I watched as he quickly pressed buttons on his phone, no doubt alerting Stephen and everyone else about my status as Chris Anderson’s facial re-constructionist.

Sophie’s father came in with the sheriff and sighed loudly when he saw me. I supposed that he was here with the paramedics or EMTs that would have been first responders. I felt very calm, nearly all of my anger lying dormant again. The sheriff asked me a few questions, but David answered them when it was clear that I wasn’t speaking.

When Sophie’s father wanted to look at my bloody, throbbing hands, I tucked them painfully under my arms, unwilling to let him touch or see them. Stephen would set the broken bones and clean the cuts over my knuckles where the skin had given way to bone as I’d pounded them against Chris’s face.

I felt calm and almost relaxed. My explosive reaction had given way to a neutral state of mind. It was almost as if I hadn’t done those things. I had simply watched the action unfold and was reviewing it like an episode of “The Real World” on the DVR.

It was a while longer before David was allowed to lead me out of the building and to his car. I wasn’t worried about my car, but I was about Sophie.

In under a half-hour, I was sitting in Stephen’s study, facing him and Robin. I had no idea which hat she was wearing: concerned maternal figure, or cold, analyzing therapist. Stephen was openly studying me as a doctor would study a cancerous cell on a slide under a microscope.

“What happened at school, Elliott?”

I sighed in frustration. They knew what happened. David had told them. The principal had called, and Stephen had been working today. He was probably there when they brought Chris in. I hated when they played dumb.

“D-d-didn’t the sc-school tell you?”

Stephen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was Robin who summed it all up.

“You were fighting with the Anderson boy, but what were you fighting about?”

“H-h-hhhhe’s a d-dick.”

Although he cocked an eyebrow, Stephen’s face remained clinical. “According to David, he’s been mean to you since middle school. Robin is asking what specifically happened today.”

“N-n-nothing h-happened t-t-today.”

Robin smiled and I didn’t like it. “Elliott, you don’t fight. You don’t even argue, and now you’re suspended for getting into a fistfight with someone you usually let intimidate you. Please let us know what’s happening. What made you hit him?”

My jaw was tensed, causing me pain. I didn’t want to tell them anything, because it wasn’t their business, and they were clearly ill-suited to help people like Sophie and me. But my mouth made sounds that formed words. “H-hhhe f-f-f-f-fffffucked SSSSSoph-ph-phie at a p-party w-when sssshe was p-p-passed out.” I’d never used that word before.

“Oh,” was all Stephen could contribute, while Robin frowned.

“Did she tell you that?” she finally asked.

“Y-yes.”

“And you were protecting her today?” I said nothing. “What do you think about what Chris did? Do you have any feelings about it?”

“Hhhe’s a r-r-rrrrapist! And it m-m-mmmakes m-me m-mmad.”

“Did she say that he raped her?”

“N-n-no, b-but one c-can’t ggggive c-consent if they’re n-not c-c-c-c-c…aw-w-wake.”

The room was quiet for a moment, and then Stephen took a deep breath. “You broke Chris’s jaw, Elliott.”

“G-g-ggggood.”

He looked up in shock, but I hardened my expression. Maybe Chris wouldn’t be able to talk now.

“You broke his nose.”

My jaw tightened.

“I hadn’t thought you capable of that.”

Neither had I.

I was happy that I found her online after Stephen and Robin let me go to my room.

EDalton123: Are you there?

YoSoph: What the fuck, Elliott? Did you do that shit to Anderson?

Apparently I wasn’t quite as over my agitation as I thought, because I had no idea what her tone was and if she was upset with me, and pushing me away, or being sincere. I didn’t think I could handle her being upset with me for hitting him.

EDalton123: Yes.

YoSoph: Why?

EDalton123: You don’t know?

YoSoph: Don’t get in trouble because of me. That’s fucked up. I’m not worth that shit.

EDalton123: Yes, you are.

YoSoph: That’s jacked.

EDalton123: Fine, I hit him because he’s an asshole, which in no way involves you, so my getting in trouble wasn’t because of you. Is that better?

YoSoph: No.

EDalton123: Are you mad?

YoSoph: At you? No. Why would I be? Anderson never looked so good.

EDalton123: Funny. Come over tomorrow?

YoSoph: Tom’s being a parent. I’m “grounded.” BTW, did you tell Dr. Dalton or Wallace about me smoking pot?

I’d never told either of them, even if we’d had a hypothetical discussion about it.

EDalton123: No.

YoSoph: All my shit’s gone and I don’t appreciate it.

EDalton123: You don’t have to get high all the time.

YoSoph: Whatever, Elliott. So what’s your punishment for beating Anderson?

EDalton123: It’s not really a punishment. I have the rest of the week off of school.

YoSoph: I’ll skip tomorrow and take the bus to see you.

EDalton123: Don’t get in trouble for me.

YoSoph: I’ll get in trouble for me then. Is that better?

EDalton123: No. But I want you to come over anyway.

YoSoph: What time will everyone be gone over there?

EDalton123: Stephen works at 10, so probably 9:30.

YoSoph: In case you did hit him because of me, thank you.

I sighed.

EDalton123: You’re welcome.

It was just a little after ten in the morning when Sophie rang the doorbell. I didn’t want her to get in trouble for skipping school or for breaking her father’s grounding rules, but I was extremely happy that she was here.

“Trick or treat,” she said with a smile as I opened the door.

I smiled back, having forgotten that it was Halloween. “H-h-hhhi.” I motioned to the red pointy horns atop her head. “N-nice.”

Stepping aside, I invited her in. “They sell them at work. I thought they were perfect for me, since I’m apparently corrupting you into school suspensions and bare-knuckle boxing.” She came in, bringing her lovely scent with her, but stopped short when she saw my hands, and gently touched them. “Jesus, Elliott.”

I flinched and knew she wouldn’t like what she saw. “They d-d-don’t hhhurt.”

She shut the door before taking my bandaged hands. “That’s bullshit. I know that hurts.”

“It w-was w-w-worth it.”

I was surprised but delighted when she pressed into me, burying her head in my chest as she coiled and fisted her hands in my shirt. I’d begun to work on pure instinct around Sophie, and my arms very naturally reached out and pulled her close to me, as close as she could possibly get.

I breathed her in and felt charged and replenished.

She did not pull away from me after a few short moments like she usually did. Instead, she let me hold her like that for what had to be close to three minutes. It was unexpected, and gave me more time to get used to the feeling of someone being that close.

There was no speaking or noise of any kind. Our arms were wrapped around each other loosely, almost just hanging on. I could feel the rise and fall of her chest against my torso. Her ear was over my ribcage in just the right place that I knew she was listening to my overactive heart thump, but I could only hear the quiet pull of my own breath.

Even though this small moment of simple and unguarded affection lasted longer than usual, it was no less abrupt and jarring when she pulled away so completely that I was left with nothing but the quickly fading warmth she’d left behind.

She was at least three feet away from me now, her face heavily guarded as if I’d just tried to steal something precious from her. But she had initiated that contact, so whatever her expression meant, it couldn’t have been directed at me.

“Do you want me to make you breakfast?”

I had already eaten a piece of toast, but if she wanted to cook me something, there was no way I was going to say no. I figured she wouldn’t offer to cook for me if she didn’t
want
to, and it really had been a long time since I’d had this many home-cooked meals. Sophie’s food was good. It wasn’t throw-together things. She was skilled and talented. Regardless of why she’d started when she was young, she was good at it. Even the meal she cooked a few days ago, the one she said wouldn’t be awesome, had been incredibly delicious. I was not a food critic, but Sophie layered flavors and textures in her food, and I would venture to guess that her creations were just as good as five-star restaurants.

I nodded. “I-I-I m-made c-coffee.”

Sophie did what she always did when she entered the kitchen; she opened up every cabinet and drawer, the freezer and the refrigerator in turn, checking out the contents. “Doesn’t Dr. Dalton make good money?”

I shrugged, combining it with a nod because I didn’t know why she was asking.

“I thought people who made good money would eat good food. Every time I come over here it’s like you have a box of Lucky Charms, Wonder bread, a gallon of the cheapest brand of milk, and that’s it. Shouldn’t you guys be eating the good shit?”

“N-n-no one cooks.” I found it interesting that while she didn’t like to prepare food, and got annoyed when people brought up her own eating habits, she seemed to care an awful lot about what other people ate.

“Well, what do you eat every day? Because Dr. Dalton should know those Hot Pockets are nutritionally void.”

“C-c-can I help you w-with that?” I asked as she started pulling things out from the cupboards.

“Not with those you can’t.”

I looked down at my hands and suddenly wished they didn’t hurt anymore so that I could have been useful.

“I mean, really, what the hell is this?” she asked, holding up some kind of boxed dinner. She didn’t let me answer. “It’s shit,” she said shaking her head. “You should learn how to cook, Elliott. What will you do if no one can buy you take-out anymore? You’ll get sick because PB&J and grilled cheese aren’t enough to sustain life for long.”

I knew that, logically, she was right. I should know how to take care of myself if no one else was around, and I knew she was speaking from experience.

“How many of those did you break?”

I glanced at her, caught off-guard by her sudden change of topic, and she nodded toward my hands. I pulled them off of the island and into my lap. “F-f-four.”

She sighed, but then turned back to the food on the counter. “How will you play music now?”

It didn’t really matter how I would play music, because I would gladly give it up for the rest of my life if it meant that I could save her from people like Chris. “I-I’ll p-play it in m-my hhhead.”

I continued to watch her, noting how quickly she worked and the way she placed the knife down on the cutting board the same way each time. She found a clean dishtowel in the drawer and spray cleaner under the sink, and would clean every spot on the counter after it had been used.

She washed her hands five times in eight minutes, each time rolling her shoulders back as she did. Her hair was pulled over one shoulder, exposing the entire length of one side of her beautiful neck. It was not the side with the fork scar. It was blemish-free.

I had no idea what she was making, but I enjoyed watching her make it.

“Kate must not have taken her stuff when she left, huh?”

I straightened up, confused, wondering why she suddenly mentioned Kate. “W-what?”

“It’s easily a couple of hundred dollars for this knife alone. She probably liked to spend money on shit like that, right?”

Kate did spend money on kitchen things. I supposed because she liked to cook. “I g-guess.”

“Because this is name-brand shit, Elliott. It didn’t come from Wal-Mart. It’s a shame no one uses it.”

“Y-you’re using it.”

She finished chopping onion, rinsed her knife, wiped the spot on the counter where the wet vegetables had rested, and then put all of the dishes carefully into the dishwasher.

“Are you mad at Kate for leaving?”

I took a deep breath, not really knowing how to answer the question. We’d been saving things like this for e-mails, and while I had no problem sharing the answer with Sophie, my mouth and mind probably wouldn’t give me the opportunity to
speak
about it effectively. But she’d asked, and I didn’t want to set a precedent for not answering a question.

“I-it w-wasn’t her fffault she didn’t w-want k-kids. E-e-essssspecially k-kids liiike us. They sssshould’ve talked about it b-before they got m-married.”

“You’re such an incredibly forgiving person, Elliott. It’s fucking insane how forgiving you are. How can you do that?”

I looked down at my hands in my lap and felt powerless as lines of Scripture ran through my head. I wished the words would fade because they hindered more than they helped, and although I didn’t want to, they slipped out of my mouth without my conscious mind’s permission.

“I, even I, am He who blots out your transgressions for My own sake; and I will not remember your sins. Put Me in remembrance; let us contend together; state your case, that you may be acquitted.”

I looked up to see Sophie openly gaping at me, her brows knit together as her eyes danced about my face. “What the fuck is that? And how can you say that shit without stuttering?”

I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before drawing in another. “I-it’s a B-B-Bible vvvverse ab-bout ffffforgiveness.”

She looked at me expectantly. “And?”

I shook my head. This was not the right time to have a conversation about Bible verses and stuttering. I felt the panic rise and realized that perhaps the conversation was too far gone to stop. I hadn’t meant to say anything and
definitely
not Scripture. Now that it was out in the open and I hadn’t stuttered once, questions were out there too.

My chest felt tight. Too tight. I wished that I could breathe and behave like a normal person instead of what was happening to me now. My hands were fists as I struggled for breath, my eyes shut as tight as my jaw was clenched. It felt like forever since I’d taken in enough oxygen.

Suddenly there were hands in my hair, and the soothing touch triggered the chemical reaction needed to calm my brain. My chest relaxed as my fingers loosened up. My jaw went slack and my thoughts righted themselves.

“Do you like omelets?” As I slowly opened my eyes, I nodded, my panting breaths slowing to manageable gasps for air. She put her face close to mine, her lips near my ear. “I would hold your hand, Elliott, but I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” I breathed deeply and then she was gone, putting a pan on the stove and pouring in oil. “So if you could only listen to one song for the rest of the week, what would it be?”

Her question shocked me; it was so different from what the current tension level called for, but I slowly recognized it as her way of easing that tension, and returning us to safer topics.

“Ar-are you going to w-wear those all d-day?” I pointed again to the red, sparkly horns.

She smiled at me and took a sip of her coffee before answering. “I was thinking about it.” She shrugged, and her smile made me feel honored that she had given it to me. “Maybe I’ll go out after dark to get some candy I shouldn’t eat. I’ll be a true rebel hellion then, skipping out on my grounding to go trick-or-treating.”

“W-why do you get upset w-when people t-talk about your d-diabetes?”

Sophie placed her mug on the table and sighed, then pushed her plate away. I had hoped she would’ve eaten everything she’d served herself. It was more than evident that she’d lost weight since moving here, and I suspected that her drug use was the cause. I hadn’t meant to cause her to stop eating breakfast by asking her a question. It was stupid.

I was stupid for asking.

“Because no one’s
ever
cared. It’s ridiculous for people to suddenly be concerned about what the hell I eat or how much insulin I use. I’ve managed to stay alive for seventeen years, most of them without the help of anyone’s super-diabetic coaching techniques.”

“B-b-but you hhhaven’t been able to mmm-mmm…” I couldn’t say the word “manage” so I started a new sentence. “You’ve hhhhad ssssseveral t-times w-where you…”

“Those were times I forgot to eat.”

“H-h-how do you fffforget to eat?” Didn’t her stomach remind her when she needed to feed herself?

She stood and gathered her plate, and went back into the kitchen. As I finished my omelet, I heard running water and then some very loud crinkling. When she returned, she came to my side of the table and leaned back against it, looking down at me.

“You can trick-or-treat with me. Here,” she said, holding out something silver and circular. “It’s a halo.” I carefully took the aluminum foil ring from her hand, and smiled. “Next year, you can dress up as Faramir. All I’ll need is some scraggly hair and a loincloth, and I’ll be all set as Gollum.”