CHAPTER 25

VEG HELPS US CARRY CHAD TO WHERE THE TRAIL MEETS THE road, and Brian follows us with Chad’s two bikes, a few bottles of water, and a handful of paper napkins. After they leave, Chad crawls into the woods to throw up. Antonio goes with him to make sure he doesn’t choke again. I hold the phone in case Dad gets lost. Text messages scroll past: u coming back? from Brian G, howz raggy? from Veg, im gonna get u loser from J Laiken.

Veg is worried about Chad. Someone’s mad at Antonio. Could J Laiken be Josh?

All the effort seems to wake Chad up and makes him fidgety too. He picks at his stained bandage, then unrolls it. Underneath the inflamed skin oozes.

“Does it hurt?” I ask him.

“My stomach hurts.” He sniffs. “Why did he kick me?” His words are so slurred I can barely make them out.

Antonio answers, “’Cause you barfed on his brother’s bike.”

I glance quickly at Antonio, his face now dark in the twilight. I may be slow to understand things, but that’s still a rotten excuse to kick a smaller kid.

Antonio’s phone plays a rap song. He punches a button and lifts it to his ear. “Hello . . . Mr. Thornton? . . . This is Antonio Baran. Max’s friend. Kiara and Chad are with me. . . . Are you on State Route Twelve? . . . It’s one mile past the Highway Six overpass. Beresford Road entrance to Beresford Estates . . . No, you’ve gone too far. Turn around.”

Chad moans. I shush him. I want to hear everything, but only Antonio’s side comes through.

“Kiara’s fine. Chad had a fight, though. It wasn’t his fault. Some kid went off on him.”

Antonio faces the street, where lines of cars are parked on both sides, as far as I can see. A couple walks toward us, arm in arm.

“Yes, there was drinking. Not Kiara, though,” Antonio says. The couple passes us without a word of greeting. “Are you at Beresford Road now? . . . Go all the way to the end of the road. You can’t miss the cars.”

Two minutes later, the lights of Dad’s truck blind me. He and Antonio load the bikes in first and tie them down. No one talks, but Chad mumbles softly. We lift him to the back of the truck and pull him across the bed.

Antonio and I crouch low and hang on to the bikes in silence while Dad drives. We couldn’t have heard each other anyway, with the wind and road noise.

“I’m surprised your dad didn’t bite my head off,” Antonio says at a traffic light.

“He doesn’t bite,” I say. “He’s way too old.”

“I don’t mean that.” Antonio smiles for a second. “He’s taking it a lot more calmly than my mom would.”

“Or mine. But Dad isn’t the flipping-out type.” More like the do-nothing type, according to Mami. But right now, I’m grateful that my dad is so mellow.

When we get home, Dad tells us to bring Chad upstairs to the bathroom, then goes inside to make coffee. Antonio tries to carry Chad through the back door, but he stretches out his arms and kicks at Antonio while shouting, “Leave me outside!”

“Fine with me,” Antonio says as he sets Chad on the back step. It’s fine with me too. I don’t want to bring Chad in smelling like he does. While Antonio stays with him, I dig out some of the clothes my brothers left behind—boxer shorts, sweatpants, a science fair T-shirt, and a T-shirt from the Willingham High School marching band. Two sets—for Antonio as well as for Chad. I take soap, shampoo, hydrogen peroxide, and gauze from the bathroom and go downstairs.

Outside, under the porch light, Antonio holds Chad’s head up while Dad tips the coffee mug to his mouth. “Why don’t you let him sleep?” I ask. “Now he’s going to be hyper all night.”

“I’d like him to sober up a bit first.”

“I’m sorry we made you leave work early,” I mumble. “Maybe you can make it up . . .” I stop myself before saying next week.

Dad grunts. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“I’m not in trouble, am I?” I realize I sound like a little kid—in front of Antonio. Hot blood rushes to my face.

“I don’t know what to think,” Dad snaps. Of course I didn’t tell him I was going to a party, and he certainly wouldn’t have suspected it. Why would he? I haven’t been invited to a party in years.

After Chad finishes the coffee, I turn on the hose and spray him. Even though it’s a warm evening and he’s full of hot coffee, he shivers. His dark lips stand out on his face. Dad goes inside for a blanket.

“I’m going to set things straight with your father.” Antonio folds his arms across his chest and lets his breath out slowly. “He was right, what he said on the phone. You two had no business at a high school party in another town.”

Still, I don’t want to think of my first party in four years as a giant mistake like the other one. “You had fun riding, didn’t you, Chad?”

He nods weakly.

“And I’m going to make some great videos. Right?” But when I look at them, I’m the only one smiling.

Antonio takes a set of dry clothes and pushes them toward Chad. “Can you get dressed by yourself?” he asks.

Chad fumbles with a wet T-shirt that sticks to his body.

“Okay, raise your arms, little buddy,” Antonio says.

Chad holds both arms straight up. I step to his other side and into the foul musk that still clings to him despite my efforts with the hose. When we pull the T-shirt inside out over Chad’s head, I gasp. Across his pale back are crisscrossed scars and welts.

Chad must have heard me. “Wha?” he asks.

“What happened to your back?”

“I fell.”

I turn away while Antonio helps him into Max’s sweatpants.

He didn’t fall. Scrapes from wipeouts don’t look like that.

Chad sags against Antonio, who helps him to sit down again and then sits next to him. I sit on Chad’s other side.

I imagine us as Rogue, Gambit, and Wolverine, seated side by side in the X-Mansion after Rogue and Wolverine rescued the injured Gambit. They made sure he stayed with the X-Men and didn’t return to his family of thieves.

Antonio leans forward, his head in his hands. My Wolverine doesn’t know what to do. But I think he was wrong about Chad being trouble. Chad’s family forced him to do what he did and beat him if he didn’t.

“Do they hit Brandon too?” I ask.

“No.” Chad’s voice weakens. “I make sure of that.”

“You protect him?”

Chad nods. “I’m ruined. But he should have a good life.”

“You’re not ruined.”

“Yeah, I am. Look at me. I’m gonna run away with Brandon ’fore they do it to him.”

I blink. How can Chad be ruined when he cares so much for his brother?

Chad burps, then mumbles, “I don’t feel so good.”

I hear and feel footsteps behind me. Dad pokes Antonio with a plastic bucket. Antonio jerks upright, grabs it, and holds it in front of Chad in time to catch a rush of sour coffee.

Dad crouches behind Chad and rubs his back. Chad flinches and moans.

“Careful, Dad. His back is all beat up.”

My father rests a hand on Chad’s bony shoulder, holding him steady. “I heard you talk about it.”

Which means he heard how Chad took the blows for Brandon. “So what can we do to help them?” I ask.

If my father were Professor X, he would do something. But I’d never thought of Dad as a superhero. So when he says, “I’m going to have to speak to some people. This can’t go on,” I don’t know if I believe him.

What Dad can do: Clean and rebandage Chad’s arm. Put him to bed in Max’s bottom bunk. That’s it. Half an hour later, someone picks Antonio up. He won’t tell me who. I go upstairs to my room.

The next morning, when I peek into my brothers’ room to check on him, Chad is snoring. Back in my room on the opposite side of the house, I glance out the window, half-expecting Dad and Mr. Elliott to jam in the park with their guitar and banjo even though it’s only seven thirty, still too early for them to get together. I wonder what Dad will say to Mr. Elliott about last night.

Around nine, Brandon comes outside. Is he waiting for Chad to come home? Should I go to the park and tell him what happened and that his brother’s all right?

While I’m changing from my pajamas into a shirt and jeans, a police car with two officers inside drives down Washington Avenue. The car stops across from the park and idles for a couple of minutes. Squinting, I see one cop hold up what looks like a clipboard. Brandon runs inside his house. But instead of getting out of their car, the cops pull back into traffic and out of my view.

Brandon didn’t need to run inside. They weren’t looking for the Elliotts. They’re just passing through.

Someone knocks hard on our front door. The cops? Looking for us? Legs trembling, I run downstairs right behind Dad, who is already dressed. “That was fast,” he mumbles.

“What’s so fast?” I ask him, but get no answer.

Dad opens the door. Two police officers stand on the other side. They show their badges. One says, “We’re looking for Jeremy Thornton. He reported a case of child abuse.”

My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. Dad called the cops?

A brief flash of light comes from behind me, from the park, and an explosion shatters the air. The entire house rocks. My hands fly to the top of my head. The two cops take off running.