“My throat hurts,” Solomon said.
“Of course it does. You were screaming for what felt like forever.”
“I’m sorry, about that freak-out.”
“I know. It’s okay. We’re okay.”
We walked. It was almost all the way dark, already. Without my realizing it, we’d followed the train tracks back into town. We made our way to my house, through the twilight streets. The evening smelled like woodsmoke.
“You fell,” he said, when we got to my front door. “I remembered. That day. You fell.”
“Out of your treehouse,” I said, because suddenly I was remembering too.
“Connor’s,” he said.
“You were living there too, then.”
We waited for more to come, but none did. We went inside.
The walk had taken longer than I’d thought it would. Dad would be home soon. I couldn’t say that to Solomon, or he’d leave.
And go where? And do what? Hungry, still smelling, would he head back for that bar or the bridge he sometimes slept under? I led him upstairs. We would take our chances. If my dad had something to say, he could take it up with me.
Solomon took a long time showering. I didn’t blame him. He had always loved how hot our water got. When he came out, towel around his waist and wet hair dripping, I couldn’t help but smile. From pride. Admiration. He had become such a beautiful man.
He turned on my radio. Ms. Jackson, our favorite DJ. The Graveyard Shift: Weird Songs for Weird Wonderful People.
“One day she’s going to be playing my songs,” he said, and smiled, and I knew with complete certainty that he was right.
Then he picked up his dirty T-shirt and I snatched it out of his hand.
“You can’t put this filthy thing back on, idiot,” I said. “I’ll wash it for you.”
“What am I supposed to wear in the meantime?”
“Not that towel,” I said. “It wouldn’t be safe for you to walk down the street. Everyone would want a piece of you.”
He smiled. Blushed. I pulled a backpack out from under my bed and tossed it to him.
“These are my clothes,” he said. “Where did you get these?”
“From your aunt,” I said. “She dropped them off a couple months ago. Said you would probably come by here more often than there. And anyway, she had bought a bunch of new stuff for you, in case you did come by her place. Those might be a little small.”
He dressed in front of me, utterly unashamed.
“She’s worried about you,” I said.
“I know. It’s just so crowded there, and she works so much so she’s hardly ever even home. And her boyfriend is . . . not so fond of gay people.”
“Sounds like she needs a new boyfriend.”
He smiled, like he wished it was that simple.
Downstairs, the door slammed. Solomon flinched. “Your dad?”
“Probably,” I said.
But it was both of them. I could hear my mother and father heading for the kitchen, arguing about something.
“It’s okay,” I said, seeing how Solomon’s breathing had sped up.
“I want to go,” he said.
“Wait. I know you’re hungry,” I said. “Stay for dinner. He won’t say anything. I’ll make sure of it.”
“I want to go,” he said, and his voice sounded smaller this time.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go downstairs first, and make sure the coast is clear.”
I tiptoed down the stairs, and checked to make sure Dad was in the kitchen. I beckoned to Solomon, and he descended.
I knew we were caught by the way Solomon came down the stairs. His tread was so heavy, and the steps were old creaky wood.
“Solomon?” my father said, coming fast out of the kitchen.
“Sir,” Solomon said, without turning around.
“Ash, you know you’re not allowed to have boys over when no one is home,” he said.
“Solomon is my friend, Dad.” You fucking idiot, I added, in-brain only.
“Have a good night, Solomon,” my father said. He moved to open the front door.
They hadn’t always been like this. Dad had no problem with Solomon, back when we were little. I couldn’t understand what had changed.
“Wait! Stay for dinner, Solomon!” Mom called from behind Dad. “We brought home spaghetti from the church fund-raiser over at Grace Abounding. There’s plenty!”
“No,” Solomon said, and hurried outside.
“Solomon, wait,” I called out the door. I grabbed one of the Styrofoam spaghetti containers, and a metal fork, and some napkins, and brought them outside and handed them to him. My dad reached out his hand to stop me, but I swatted it away.
“Thanks,” Solomon said, standing there awkwardly in clothes that were slightly too small for him. He shifted the food into one hand, to wave goodbye. I tried not to think about him eating it by himself in the dark somewhere, down by the train tracks or on the bumper of someone’s pickup truck.
There’s a photograph of the two of us. Taken when we were ten. It’s on the table by my bed. Two frowning kids, fully clothed, in a bathtub. Look at it and you’ll think you’re seeing a pair of miserable refugees. You can’t see the adventure Solomon was taking us on, narrating a whole complicated, amazing story where we were infiltrating an evil kingdom, and defeating their army of ghosts. You can’t see that this is the happiest we’ll ever be. All of that is unphotographable.
Going back in, I closed the door behind me as quietly as I could. Mom was using her soothing voice on Dad, which, like always, was having no effect.
“You can’t be mad at that poor boy for what his mother did,” she said.
“George is a friend of mine,” Dad argued. George, aka Mr. Barrett; Solomon’s stepfather and Connor’s father. “He’s a good man. And the awful things that woman did . . .”
He trailed off when he saw me.
“What did she do?” I asked, stepping into the kitchen.
Mom turned toward me, deer-in-headlights style. Dad turned away. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing you need to worry about.”
“What did Solomon’s mother do to Connor’s dad?” I asked.
“You’re too young to know the details,” Dad said, his voice firm in that way that meant he would not be changing his mind.
“Anyway, what does it matter what she did? It has nothing to do with Solomon. What do you have against him?” I asked. “He’s not my boyfriend. And I mean, you know he’s gay, right?”
“Solomon is confused,” Dad said. “And he’s sick. Who’s to say what he is?”
I groaned. “He’s my best friend. You can’t seriously believe he would hurt me.”
“I’m not saying he would hurt you on purpose.”
“This isn’t Of Mice and Men, Dad,” I said.
“Ash, he’s delusional. And he has persecution fantasies. So who’s to say he won’t suddenly decide that you’re the one persecuting him, and do something terrible to you?”
I stared at him, the silence stretching between us. “What makes you say that?” I asked.
“I’m eating dinner in my office,” he said, taking his plate and going.
I skipped dinner altogether. Instead, I paced back and forth in my room. I read old interviews with Diane Arbus, on the internet. I did laundry.
I did not wash Solomon’s T-shirt. I put it in a pillowcase under my bed. It smelled bad, but it smelled like him.
Ms. Jackson was still playing in my room. Her cigarette-scratchy voice sounded ancient, impossibly wise.
“Temperature’s dropping tonight, beloveds,” she said. “Better find a good book or a warm body to curl up with by the fire.”
I put my headphones on, tuned out everything else. But no matter how loud I turned up my music, I couldn’t drown out the remembered sound of Solomon screaming.
My father was only looking out for me. I knew this. To him, Solomon wasn’t the sweet, shy little boy he had been. He was a big, strong, scary man. In my head, in the abstract, I understood my father.
But in my heart, in that moment, I hated him.
Because it had never occurred to me to be afraid of Solomon before. Not even when he shoved me down a few hours before.
I had never been afraid.
And now, a little part of me was.