Chapter One

I hop the MAX commuter train, clutching my precious cargo. A pink box adorned with bright silver and magenta ribbons. I don’t want to risk anyone snatching it. I ignore the smirks and quizzical looks. It’s not every day you see a fifteen-year-old boy toting hot pink.

During commute time, the MAX train is especially crowded, so much so that it’s no surprise to see sneaky drug deals, like the one happening right in front of me. They’re usually by the train door, so the parties involved can make a quick getaway and disappear into the city. But not this one. It’s in the bend, where one half of the car connects to the other. When we turn on the track, the walls accordion in on themselves. A kid casually holds his hand out, closed and upside down, resting his arm on a handrail like he’s standing there doing nothing but waiting for his stop. Another kid swipes his hand underneath the first kid’s fist, which relaxes. A quick pause to catch the baggie that drops. Then a casual exchange of money and some small talk. Maybe a comment on the weather, or dropping the street name of a mutual friend, then a few code words for the next hook up.

Of course, it all happens so quickly the average commuter doesn’t notice. Like the twitchy-looking, middle-aged bald guy in a neck-strangling suit, who appears angry because he has to resort to public transportation. Or the young businesswoman, her hard gaze on the people around her, warning they’d better not try to grope her. Or the high school kids so involved in loud, rowdy banter, slinging f-bombs left and right, that no one else exists in their world. It smells like commuter time. The mingling of body odor, bad breath, and anonymous farting, which actually turns out to smell not nearly as bad as one would think, but has the effect of draining the air out of what little space there is.

Today none of that bothers me, not even the stink of the guy next to me. Nothing can bring me down. Including my mother. Because it’s Geneva’s eighth birthday, and I’m bringing her the best present ever. Sometimes, my little sister is the only thing keeping me going. Other than her and my music, the rest of my life sucks.

I get lost in trying to imagine what her reaction will be when she unwraps what I got her. A big grin, followed by a scream of delight. Or giggling and gripping the box so tight her little knuckles turn white. Maybe her innocent blue eyes will get wide, full of wonder and happiness, because that’s as far as her muted mind will let her see.

The train lurches and pulls me back into reality. It’s my stop, and my pulse quickens as I squeeze and squish my way to the slider door. I should have waited closer to the exit. I don’t want to have to get off at the next stop and backtrack, so I get rude with people and resort to pushing. It results in dirty looks but not much else. People on the MAX this time of day are used to it. I stick my arm out as the door tries to slide shut, which causes it to bounce back open like an elevator, and I pop out into the brisk, fall air. One breath makes me realize just how oppressive it was on the train. I blow out a few puffs to see my own breath. The official test to see how cold it is. Nevy, my nickname for Geneva, loves when I do that. She thinks it’s funny for some reason. It’s hard to know how her mind works. I’m grateful she doesn’t notice she’s different.

I walk up the concrete stairs leading to Eighty Second Street. The trees have started changing and I’m greeted by varying shades of bright red, orange, and yellow. I try not to enjoy them too much. They won’t last. Nothing good ever does. The rain has let up for a few hours but the sidewalk is still wet. Battered dead leaves are pasted to the cement here and there. Usually I take my time, never in a rush to get home, but today is different. I can’t wait to give Nevy her birthday present. I’m almost vibrating with the excitement of seeing her reaction. People are bustling by me and for once, I’m in sync, hurrying along with them, feeling important because I’ve got somewhere to be. The smell of a freshly lit cigarette wafts by my nose. The smoke is quickly washed away by a gust of wind that feels like winter.

I make my way to Schuyler Street and turn left. I’m not quite home when I see something that makes my heart rear up and jam in my throat. Instead of Nevy’s caretaker’s powder blue Prius, I see Mother’s car in the driveway. She’s home from work early. I’ve stopped walking and the spring I had in my step moments ago now feels like lead. I take a deep breath to calm the pounding in my chest. Of course she’s home early. After all, today is her only daughter’s birthday, why wouldn’t she be? I wish I’d realized it before. Wish I’d thought of it sooner. To gear myself up. Most of the time I have the luxury of being home before her, so I can stay out of her way. Especially if she’s on the warpath. But then I think, Maybe today will be different. We’re celebrating a special occasion and Mother might be in a good mood. So, it should be different, right?

I remember the precious cargo, my arm still wrapped around it, holding it close to me. It gives me a glimmer of strength. The tiniest bit of hope. If there’s one thing I know, Mother does love Geneva, almost as much as I do. Even if that love no longer extends to me. She would want Nevy to have a present that would make her happy. Especially this one. I take another breath and blow it out steadily. I put my foot out and take the first step that will get me to the front door in all of two minutes. If I can get to Geneva before Mother gets to me I will be home free.

I approach the house and see the door wide-open, screen shut. I steal up to the steps as quietly as I can, hoping to hear something, or see something that tells me it’s safe to go in. I’m rewarded. Nevy is in the front room, laughing. I grab the handle, twist it open while mustering all my courage, and push myself through. Geneva squeals when she sees me. This girl is what makes me come back every day. And not wanting to be homeless, of course. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have a sister like her, considering she was never supposed to be born. Her eyes grow big when she sees the pink paper-wrapped box and she practically leaps across the room to me.

“Me, me, me!” she yells. Her speech mostly consists of one word repeated and occasionally two or three words that actually form a complete sentence, usually without the verb. She doesn’t need words if you ask me. Her smile says it all. I tease her for a moment and hide the gift behind my back. She giggles and runs around me. I let her wrench it from my hands and she tears into the tissue paper. What a perfect moment for Mother to walk in and see Nevy in all her glory over something from the likes of me.

“What’s all the commotion, Nev?” She stops when she sees me. I see her eyes narrow, her mouth form a hard line, and her body tense at the sight of me. Only a thin sheath of self-control holds back her true expressions of disgust. Not that I haven’t seen it before. Civility toward me isn’t her strong point, and I’m impressed she musters up enough of it to spare Geneva the ugliness while she opens her gift.

“Evan,” she says simply.

“Hi, Mother,” I say, hoping I have a “keep the peace” tone to my voice. She says nothing but looks on while Geneva is tearing at bits of cherry paper. Her hand-eye coordination isn’t the best. But I don’t help her. Not yet. I know her frustration tolerance, and she hasn’t reached it. She’s still marveling over the bows and prettiness of it all. Virtue at its finest.

“You’re home early,” quips Mother. She lets revulsion seep like raw sewage into her voice. I quit wondering a long time ago what I did to bring this on. But I still can’t help trying to pinpoint when it started. Was it when dad left? Or maybe when Geneva was born?

“So are you,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Don’t take that tone with me.” Her voice is quiet but full of venom.

“Sorry.” I mumble an apology, knowing sorrys are useless. I should know better than to come back at her like that. She glances over at Nevy, who has now burrowed her way to the naked box, turning it around, trying to figure out how to get it open. She tugs at the seams but they’re taped. She tries ripping it with her teeth. Any moment now frustration will start kicking in. I kneel, ready to assist, but Mother is between us before I can blink. “I’ll help her,” she says tartly. “You can go to your room.”

“I bought this present for her. I’d like to at least see her open it.” I keep my voice level, although I want to yell. I want to push her out of my way. It doesn’t work to get irate with Mother. Or whiney, or pleading, or sassy. I’m never really sure what I’m getting into when I deal with her. I’ve gotten used to changing my attitude, my tone, or the look on my face at the drop of a hat, depending on what I can quickly glean from her mood. Today I’m not on my game. I’ve back talked once. Contradicting her is pushing it. But I really want to see Nevy open her present.

Before I know it’s coming, she lands a slap on my face so hard my teeth rattle. I’m stunned. My cheek stings and I taste blood. Mother hisses at me, “Get out of my sight.”

I stand there, too undone to think, until my autopilot kicks in. Down the hall. To my room. Shut the door. I should have expected it. I tell myself it’s okay. Deep down, I know it’s not. But I can’t let it out. Because if I do, I will fly into a million pieces and never be whole again. So I breathe and swallow and smother the unnamed thing until I can’t feel it trying to escape me.

I don’t know if Geneva saw her slap me. I pray she didn’t. I pray she was too wrapped up in opening her present. My room is dark, and I hear the lock on the outside click minutes after coming in. I press my ear to the door, hearing Mother’s footsteps fading. I listen desperately for Nevy’s voice. Some kind of sign to tell me she loved what I got her. Something to tell me she is okay and that her world is unshattered. But I don’t hear anything. I retreat to my bed, not bothering to turn the lights on. Why would I? They would only illuminate my prison.