Chapter 3

Dylan came over for the first time on a Friday night.

Rachel got the living room ready ahead of time.

She stuffed the clothes from the couch into the laundry basket, tossed the empty bottles into the trash, and kicked Ollie's crayon box under the coffee table.

Watching her rush around, I suddenly felt like the whole house was about to be inspected.

I thought maybe it was a teacher or the landlord coming over.

But instead, it was a guy in a leather jacket.

His name was Dylan Brooks.

Dylan had really beautiful eyes, and he walked in carrying fried chicken and soda.

"Hey, guys," he said, setting the bag down on the table. "I heard you like fried chicken."

Ollie immediately ran over.

I stood at the kitchen door, not moving.

Rachel nudged me. "Carter, say hi."

I said, "Hi."

Dylan smiled and then gave my shoulder a heavy pat.

His hand landed hard, making my shoulder sink.

"Rachel said you're pretty capable," Dylan said. "The little man of the house, right?"

I didn't like what he said.

Being called the "little man" felt weird, like I was wearing clothes that were way too big for me.

But Rachel was smiling beside me.

Her smile was so bright, and she tried to make herself look younger, her eyes shining. It felt like someone had finally given her a break from all the bills and the kids.

I looked at her and suddenly didn't want to disappoint her.

So I smiled too.

"Yeah," I said. "I can look after Ollie."

Rachel reached out and ruffled my hair.

"See? I told you he's such a good boy," she said.

That night, Dylan stayed late.

He cracked some bar jokes, shared stories about driving across three states, and said he knew the lead singer of a band.

Rachel couldn't stop laughing.

Ollie finished his fried chicken, sauce all over his mouth, looking pretty goofy. I handed him a napkin and took the soda out of his hand.

Dylan caught it and shot Rachel a look.

"He's more reliable than most grown-ups I've met," Dylan said.

Rachel replied, "He's been like that ever since he was a kid."

I looked down.

I couldn't tell if that was supposed to be a compliment or something else.

Before bed, Ollie asked me, "Will Dylan be our dad?"

I was putting the dirty dishes in the sink.

I frowned, replying, "Don't say that."

"But Mom was really happy today," Ollie said.

I didn't answer.

I turned on the faucet, letting the sound of the water cover up whatever else Ollie was saying.

After that night, Dylan started coming over more and more often.

Sometimes, he'd bring food. Sometimes, he'd show up with nothing, put his feet up on the coffee table, and watch whatever game was on TV.

He'd call Rachel "babe".

Whenever she heard him call her that, Rachel would smile.

I learned to keep quiet whenever Dylan was around.

The less I spoke, the more my mom seemed like the girl she used to be, the one who smiled heartily.

*****

Ollie let the secret slip on an ordinary Tuesday.

That day, the school served grilled cheese sandwiches.

Ollie didn't like the ketchup in the sandwich, so he scraped it to the side of his plate. The kid next to him asked, "Does your mom ever make you sandwiches?"

"No, my brother does," Ollie answered.

The kid asked, "Your brother can cook?"

Ollie paused, thinking for a while.

Then he replied, "He can use the microwave. Sometimes he forgets how long to set it."

The lunch monitor caught what Ollie said.

After school, Jenny stopped me again.

This time, she looked serious.

"Carter, has your mom been home at night lately?" she asked.

My ears were buzzing.

I remembered what Rachel had told me—if anyone asked about home, I'd say everything was fine.

She'd said it while putting on mascara.

"Adults love to make a big deal out of nothing. You two aren't starving, are you?" she said.

I'd nodded then.

Now, Jenny crouched down in front of me, her eyes level with mine.

"You don't have to lie for anyone," she said.

That made me even more scared.

I always thought lying was what kept my mom safe.

It took me a while to realize that some lies weren't really to protect anyone else. They were for the kid inside who wasn't ready to let go of home.

I shoved my hand deep into my jacket pocket, squeezing the eraser as tight as I could.

"Mom's home at night," I said. "Sometimes, she goes to bed early."

Jenny watched me for a moment and said, "If you ever need help, let me know."

I nodded.

When I stepped out of the classroom, Ollie was squatting at the end of the hallway, fumbling with his shoelaces.

He still couldn't tie them. Every time, he pulled the loops into a tight knot.

I went over and knelt down to help him untangle it.

Ollie whispered, "Why did Ms. Miller talk to you?"

I didn't look at him.

"Don't tell anyone about what happens at home," I said.

Ollie paused, looking confused.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked.

I tugged hard at the shoelace, almost tearing the knot apart.

"If you don't say anything, you won't mess up," I said.

Ollie looked down.

He didn't say a word on the way home.

*****

When we got home, I poured him a bowl of cereal. Ollie sat in his chair, his eyes were red.

I saw it, but I pretended I didn't.

I felt hurt, too.

I wanted to say, "It's not that I hate you talking. I'm scared."

I was scared someone from school would show up at our house.

I was scared someone would notice Mom was gone.

I was scared someone would take you away from me.

But I couldn't bring myself to say any of that.

At nine, I could remember half the words on a medicine bottle, but I couldn't put into words why I was so afraid.