Then his head splits the surface.
He’s got so much water in his ears it takes him a moment to realise everyone is cheering.
For him?
Jack appears to be punching the air and yelling something about that’s how it’s done and Sam realises that no one else is backflipping off rocks. Where was the part where he stayed low profile? Seriously, Sam.
Jack cups hands around his mouth to shout, ‘That was badass!’
Moxie stands with her toes on the edge of a rock, her eyes traced with something like worry. Something like anger.
But Sam’s attention is snagged from her as someone else hollers, ‘Again!’ followed by more cheers.
‘But show me.’ Jack is already clambering back up to the higher ledge.
Jeremy treads water and then splashes water into Sam’s face. ‘Maniac.’ But he’s smiling. ‘Where’d you learn to do flips?’
‘Trampoline.’ His words taste of sand and salt. What are you supposed to do when you’re twelve and stuck bored in a backyard? He and Avery used to sketch house plans on their homework and practise flips and pretend they weren’t hungry. ‘It’s not hard.’
‘Oi! What’s your name again, blondie?’ Jack shouts from somewhere above them.
‘Sam?’ But he says it like a question.
‘Well, get up here. Where’d you even find this kid, Jeremy?’ Jack peers over the cliff edge, throwing pebbles at their heads.
Jeremy dodges and gets a mouthful of ocean. He goes under garbling.
Sam’s heart gives a catastrophic lurch and he waits for Jeremy to come back up and say I didn’t find him, followed by Moxie saying she’s never seen him until today, followed by them all realising he has stolen their lunch, their beach, their attention.
But Jeremy comes up with a handful of sand and strikes out for the rocks. ‘I’m about to grind this up your nose.’ His brother’s question is forgotten.
Jack shoots him a crude gesture and then waves fiercely at Sam. ‘Get up here, kid. I’m keeping you till you teach me that.’
Sam stops his frenetically moving arms and legs and lets himself sink under the waves for a second.
I’m keeping you.
Underwater, no one but the ocean sees him smile.
Sammy is seven and maybe Avery is dead.
Spiderweb lines of frost crinkle over their car windows, turning pink as the sun rises. They drove all night. Sammy needs to pee so badly and he wants Avery to wake up. Please please please. Avery’s chest moves in ragged little gasps in his sleep, a broken birdcage of tears.
The car pulls into a driveway, the engine rattles off. Sammy, now with Avery’s head in his lap, goes stiff. He doesn’t recognise this place, this street, this boxy white house with pea-green curtains. His dad goes to the boot and gets out Sammy’s backpack. Then he hammers the front door.
‘Karen? Karen, open up.’
A dog across the street barks.
A slow car rumbles past.
Avery shifts in his arms.
Sammy’s heart bounces and he knots fingers in Avery’s shirt as a whimper escapes his brother. Avery looks up and Sammy strokes his cheek and mumbles it’s OK even though that’s a lie. There’s something wrong with Avery’s eyes.
They’re dull and broken and
hollow.
There’s a whining screech as their car door is ripped open and their dad reaches in. Sammy snatches at Avery – but their dad is big and strong, bristles and wire. He drags Avery out.
Avery doesn’t even whimper.
Sammy scrambles after them, ready to scream and scream if he has to – but his dad is holding Avery like a baby, not like a naughty boy he’ll start hitting again. ‘Be on your best behaviour.’ His voice is raw.
Sammy follows him up the driveway where the front door has opened and a lady as tall as a ladder stands wrapped in a dressing gown patterned with tulips. Her lips are a line. Her brow furrows.
‘What’s going on, Clay?’ she snaps. ‘I just told you, Jen isn’t here. Why would she be here?’
But Sammy’s dad just shoves past her and takes Avery into the house.
Sammy hesitates on the step, shivering and so desperate to pee he thinks he might wet himself. His aunt stares.
‘Are you the autistic one?’ Her voice is a rubber band snap. ‘I haven’t seen you kids in four years. No, six.’
‘I’m Sammy,’ he whispers. He doesn’t remember her.
‘God, you’re the baby?’ She puts fingertips on his shoulder and pushes him inside, voice rising. ‘You need to explain what happened, Clay.’
The house is cold, the curtains thin; the lounge holds just a tiny TV and two wicker chairs. Avery sits in one now, hands curled over his head while he rocks.
His dad dumps their backpack on the floor and digs fingers through his hair. ‘They need to stay for a while, Karen.’
Aunt Karen’s jaw drops. ‘I’m not looking after your kids.’
‘Yeah, well I can’t— I just— I can’t deal with that.’ Their dad stabs a finger at Avery, who shrinks, like he’s being slapped again.
Like, in his head, their dad hasn’t stopped hitting him.
Then his dad yells. Then Aunt Karen yells. They shake fingers and point at doors and their dad hits the wall and Aunt Karen says she’s calling the police if he doesn’t calm down.
Sammy wants to cover Avery’s ears. His eyes. His whole trembling body.
Someone has to protect him. It’s supposed to be the big brother protecting the little brother, but for them it’s swapped, isn’t it? It crushes his ribs a little, knowing no one’s going to look out for him. But he can do this.
He shivers and watches Aunt Karen storm out and their dad roar that she’s keeping these goddamn kids for a while. Then he turns on his boys, eyes molten pools. He pulls something out of his pocket and moves towards Avery.
Sammy’s chest tightens. He throws himself between them, skinny arms raised to take the slap, the curse.
But his dad just holds out the toy car.
Sammy’s chest tightens, a fist on his lungs. Then he snatches the car. He turns icy eyes on his dad – and then as quick as a whip, he smashes the toy over his dad’s knuckles.
His dad gives a surprised grunt and looks down at the small cut on his hand.
Sammy knots his fingers around the car, ready ready to do it again.
‘You start hitting things,’ his dad says, voice low, ‘then you never stop and you end up like me.’ His laugh is cut glass. ‘Because that’s where it ends, Sammy boy. Blood and jail.’