I wake up before dawn, knowing that Langston will wake as soon as the sun touches his face. I have very little time to do this.
Carefully, I rise off Langston’s arm.
He doesn’t move.
I smile at my sleeping boy. Then I grab the T-shirt, hat, and jeans he took off when it got too hot last night. He’s sleeping on the blanket only in his boxers.
I run off back to my house through the early morning hours. Once inside, I quickly throw on Langston’s clothes.
His jeans and T-shirt fit pretty well since we are about the same size. Then I pull my hair up in a bun and shove it under my hat.
I look at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. Everything girly about me is gone. If I have to speak, this won’t work. But I have to try. I have to try to protect the boy who always protects me.
I run across the street as the sun begins to climb.
I glance back and don’t see Langston following me. He’s going to be pissed, but I don’t care. I have to do this for him, just like he would for me.
I take a deep breath when I reach the front door, trying to prepare myself. I’ve dealt with more pain than most eight-year-olds have. I know what it feels like to be hungry. To sleep alone. To fear someone will break in and hurt you at night.
But I’ve never been physically hurt before.
I push the hat down as low as I can over my eyes and push the door open loudly. I practically stomp inside, ensuring that anyone inside can hear me.
“I told you to be home an hour after the funeral,” Langston’s father says in a booming voice.
I don’t look up, but I see his boot covered feet in front of me.
“I had to stay up all night to get your shit packed because you ran off.”
He wasn’t worried where Langston was. Missing free labor and not being able to sit back and drink beer all night were his only concerns.
“Look at me, boy!”
I don’t.
That pushes him over the edge.
Slap.
I feel it hard across my cheek. My instinct is to run. Or, at the very least, try and fight back to protect myself.
I can’t. I have to endure this for Langston. Spending his final night with me shouldn’t get him beaten.
“You stupid fucking son of a bitch.”
A punch to my chest knocks me to the ground. I land hard on my ass. I’m going to have a bruise in both places.
I focus my energy on keeping my face pointed at the ground to hide my true identity from Mr. Pearce. From the smell of alcohol oozing off his breath, I doubt he’d look close enough to notice, though.
Kick.
My body flings from his boot in my back. I’m not much of a crier, but that does it. I can’t hold back my tears. For the first time, I realize why Langston is a crier. There is no other way to deal with this kind of pain except to cry.
I dissolve into my body as the pain wrecks me. My sensitive skin bruises while my ribs crunch as he kicks me over and over.
I’ve lost track of how many times he’s kicked me.
His curse words have all muffled together.
Without warning, he grabs my arm and forces me into a standing position.
“Get out of my sight. I can’t look at you. Clean yourself up and come back when you are presentable.” He releases my arm, and I stumble, trying to remain on my feet.
The world is spinning; tears stream down my cheeks, everything in my body hurts. But somehow I stay upright.
“Cynthia will be here at five to pick us up and take us to our new home. If you are one minute late, I’ll beat you until you’re dead. Understand, Langston?”
I nod. Even if I wanted to speak, I couldn’t.
“Get out!” he yells.
Finally, I run.
Every step I take requires all of my energy, to put one foot in front of the other, to keep from falling flat on my face.
This is Langston’s life. This will always be his life until he’s old enough to put a stop to it. He might be getting a fancier house to live in, but it won’t stop his father.
At least I was able to prevent one more beating he had to endure. If I could, I’d take all the pain for him, but I can’t.
As soon as I’m out of the house, I consider my options.
I thought I’d be able to go back to my house afterward. I could change clothes, put on a couple of bandaids and tell Langston I fell off my bike or something. But there is no hiding what I did—no hiding the bruises, the blood, the tears.
Langston will be pissed at me. He’ll be angry and might even confront his dad, which would make everything I did moot. I’m not going to let that happen.
Yesterday was about making memories together.
Today was supposed to be about saying goodbye. About finding a way to connect in our new normal.
New tears spring.
We just lost our last day together because of me.
But I saved him from a beating. It was worth it. Even if I don’t say goodbye.
I can’t stay here.
Langston will eventually go home after he looks for me. I just have to make sure he shows up by five o’clock.
I run into my house and find a utility bill on the counter. I turn the envelope over and grab a marker before writing Langston a note.
Killer,
I had to go with my mom to work today. I’ll try to make it back before you leave at five. If I don’t make it back in time, I’ll see you soon.
—Huntress
I grab some of the cash Langston and I stole, and then I leave. I’m not sure if I’ll return in time to see Langston before he leaves, but I can’t spend the entire day with him. He’d figure it out, and that would break me worse than Mr. Pearce’s boot did.
The seconds, minutes, hours drag as I ride the bus to the mall and buy some new clothes that fit me, covering my arms and legs. I look at myself in the mirror in the public bathroom. The only visible mark now is where he grabbed my neck.
I brush my hair so it hangs down over my neck, making it that much harder for anyone to notice.
Finally, I take the four-thirty bus back home.
I don’t know if I’ll make it in time to see Langston before he leaves. I leave it up to fate.
I walk down our street at ten til five.
I’m not sure what to do. Do I go over to Langston’s? Or do I just go to my own house and try to forget about the boy?
“I didn’t think you’d show,” Langston says from his house’s doorstep, making my decision for me.
“I’m sorry, I did everything I could to get back. Mom needed me to help her clean houses—”
“Liar.”
I frown.
“Your mother got home at noon. Want to try another lie, or do you want to tell me why you didn’t spend my last day here with me?” He stands up and starts to approach me.
A vein is popping in his forehead, but he’s wearing a T-shirt and shorts, and I don’t spot any visible bruises.
I exhale a sigh of relief. I saved him from a beating. I would give up my last day with him over and over again if it meant I could spare him pain.
“I’m waiting. What lie are you going to tell me, Liesel?”
Liesel? He’s pissed. He never calls me Liesel.
“Hugh, down the street, invited me over. I couldn’t say no. He’s going to be my only friend once you’re gone.”