“I’ll help you with your plan,” I say as I wrap myself around her.
She hugs me and buries her face into my shoulder. “I know.”
Chapter Eleven
I find Fathom on the floor—again. The hole in the paper is a little larger and the light is a little brighter. I picture a day when I come here and find a gaping tear the entire neighborhood can see through, but I’ll deal with that then. For now I want to keep the rational conversation from the day before going. Besides, he’s beaten worse than yesterday. There’s a gash on the bridge of his nose, and his upper lip is ragged. Both ears are scraped raw, and there’s caked blood in the cuticles of his right hand.
“Everyone I know is covered in bruises,” I say when I kneel down to him.
He looks up at me, alarmed. Checking on his injuries is clearly a violation of his personal space, so I back off and find a desk to set Mrs. Sullivan’s burlap sack of books upon.
“Listen, we could treat the antibiotics like we’re going to treat teaching you to read. No one has to know.”
He shakes his head. “I would know.”
“If this is some crap about being a man, then—”
“This is our way, Lyric Walker. I know you do not understand because you are small of mind—”
“Small of mind? Do you want to try that again?”
“I am fine. Do not worry yourself about my trophies.”
“That’s what you call your bruises? Trophies?”
“Wounds won in battle.”
I sigh. “All right, well, reading, then.” I look into the sack and recognize the books immediately: The Snowy Day, The Cat in the Hat, Hop on Pop, Harold and the Purple Crayon, a few others. My dad read them all to me when I was little, and then after I learned how, I read them to myself. I think Mrs. Sullivan is right. Keeping it simple for him seems like a good place to start.
I hand a few to him. He stares down at them and flips through their pages, turning them end over end, inspecting every page, and running his fingertip along the edges of the paper. I watch his fascination with them and realize he has probably never held a book before. From what I understand, the Alpha share all information through spoken words. I’m actually honored to be the first person to give him one.
“What are these drawings?”
“They’re called illustrations. Most children’s books have them—”
His snarl cuts me off. “You intend to teach me to read using children’s stories?”
“Dude, calm down. English is very complicated. It makes no sense to give you the hardest books if you’re trying to learn. This is where everyone starts.”
He shakes one of the books in my face. “What are these creatures?”
“They’re called wild things,” I say.
“And what is a wild thing?”
“It’s a monster that lives on an island.”
He looks alarmed. “Where is this island?”
“It’s not real, Fathom. All of it is made up. It’s just a story,” I say.
“Nonsense! I will not be your fool.” He rips the book in two and tosses it across the room.
“Don’t be a maniac,” I shout.
And at once he’s on his feet and hovering over me. “Is that another word for unhinged?” he bellows.
I have never had someone direct so much hostility at me. I’m trembling and near tears. What is it about me that makes him so angry?
“I can’t take this,” I say, and push past him toward the door.
“Come back here!” he shouts. There’s a blast of air, and suddenly he is in front of me, his hand clamped on mine. It doesn’t hurt, but I can’t break his grip no matter how I pull.
“Let me go or I will scream,” I threaten.
“I am having trouble saying what I mean, Lyric Walker.”
“Let me go!” I shout, then without thinking, I turn and punch him in the face. It’s hard as stone and my wrist shrieks in agony.
Suddenly, the door swings open and the soldiers pile into the room. “You heard what she said, son,” one of them barks.
Fathom releases me and takes a step back. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but I’m not waiting around to hear it.
Terrance’s face is grave when I step into the hall. “I will speak with him.”
Bonnie helps me down the two flights of steps. When we get to the bottom, the bell rings and she falls back as students empty out of the classrooms. She must know that it wouldn’t be good for us to be seen in the halls together, me a kid and her a member of the National Guard. She doesn’t vanish—she’s back there—but she successfully makes it look like we’re just walking through the same hall. No one gives me a second glance.
I make a beeline for my locker and spot Bex and Shadow hovering there. They’re busy trying to wipe something off the door with paper towels, and when they see me, Shadow curses. Bex runs toward me, trying to shield my view.
“It’s no big deal,” she says.
“What is it?”
“Just someone being stupid,” Shadow tells me.
I push past Bex and pull Shadow’s hand off the graffiti.
fish lover.
“Did you see who did this?” Bonnie asks when she catches up.
“We just got here,” Shadow says.
The custodian approaches with a bucket and a brush, but Bonnie won’t let him wash it off.