Page 8 of Every Thought Taken
That is a hefty oath to keep considering I don’t know the secret. What if what he tells me is bad and an adult needs to know? Can I keep something terrible a secret? I hold his stare and ask myself this over and over. Either way, whatever it is, it’s happening. Better he has someone to confide in than no one at all. For Anderson, I will keep his secret.
“I promise.”
He nods and takes a step toward the school, and I fall in step beside him. Our pace is slow and over the next several minutes, Anderson tells me about the bullies harassing him at school. Ugly words said about his clothes and how soft he speaks. Pranks played on him before, during, and after school. Boys knocking over his tray in the cafeteria. Girls teasing him over his haircut and skinny arms and legs. The whispered conversations that stop when he gets too close. The shoving and name-calling when no teachers are around.
“I hate them,” he states as we walk through the playground gate. “I… I…”
Grabbing his arm, I stop him before we get close to Lessa and Mags. “Wish I had a way to help.” But if he wants to keep this secret, there isn’t much else to do.
Without hesitation, I hug him. And for a moment, he hugs me too. I let go and step back, my eyes doing a quick sweep of the playground. Last thing either of us needs is Lessa asking why we hugged.
“Sometimes, I think about hurting them.”
At this, I inch back and furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”
“They make me so mad. They say and do mean things and then laugh. They make other people laugh too. And… and… I just want to hurt them. Hit them. Cut them. Show them what it feels like. Watch them cry and then laugh at them.”
“Anderson…”
Teary eyes hold my stare. “No,” he croaks out. “You don’t get to talk to me like I did something wrong.” He looks away. “I didn’t do anything.” He hangs his head. “I never do anything.” His chin wobbles as he lifts his head and stares at me with empty eyes. “No one likes me. No one cares. Maybe if I was mean like everyone else, I’d fit in.”
“I like you,” I whisper, taking a step in his direction. “I care.”
Anderson is the little brother I never had. A friend. Someone to have fun with when Lessa is a brat. He isn’t a backup choice, he is just not the first person I think of when I want to hang with friends.
A tear falls down his cheek and he wipes it away. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t.” He sniffles. “Maybe there’s a good reason why no one likes me.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I don’t believe that.”
He takes a step toward the playground. Then another. He stops, peers over his shoulder, and shrugs. “Doesn’t matter what you believe. I don’t like me, so why should anyone else?” And then he walks off.
CHAPTER5
ANDERSON
Late September—Fourteen Years Ago
Birthdays are this asinine commemoration of the day you leave the womb. With each passing year, they get more over the top. Parents attempting to make their kids’ party better than little Johnny’s or little Jane’s.
In my opinion, celebrating my birth is a waste of time. As of now, the only person that appreciates my existence is Ales. And I think Helena and Magdalena. Dad cares more than Mom, but it bothers him that I am not like other boys my age. I don’t beg him to throw a football or ask for a basketball hoop or want to fish on the lake.
I am the family disappointment.
When Mom asked what I wanted to do for my birthday and I responded with“sleep in and stay in my room,” a big frown took over her face. She said, “It’s your special day. We have to party.” So this entire display—colorful balloons and cheery banners, a large cake and tub of ice cream, games and noise makers and loud music—is for everyone except me. Becauseshewanted this party.
I am not opposed to parties. But being the center of attention makes my skin crawl. Especially when I said no.
Dozens of kids from ages eight to thirteen roam the backyard. Mom got thiswild ideato celebrate my and Helena’s birthdays at the same time. I foresee this becoming an annual thing—not that I mind sharing the stage with Helena. At least she wished me happy birthday when she and her family arrived. Other than Ales, she is the only one.
Three years and eleven days separate us. It wouldn’t surprise me if sharing her party with a young boy embarrasses her. Her middle school friends are probably weirded out by the younger kids here—some of which have kicked me or given me wedgies in the bathroom, and others have called me names like stupid or creepy or smelly or ugly.
I have no real friends in school. My only friends are my sister and her friends, which is pathetic.
“Anderson, come over here,” Mom calls from across the yard.
With a heavy sigh, I push up from the chair on the far side of the yard and walk over to the patio. She and Helena’s parents hover over the shared birthday cake decorated with different-colored flowers. In the center, it readsHappy Birthday Lena & Anderson. Helena’s mom, Hannah, stabs twelve pink candles in while Mom adds nine blue candles.
My brows tighten as I watch them. “This is weird,” I mutter.