The Holders

The Holders - By Julianna Scott



1



The moment I saw Ryland’s silhouette in the window of our old tree house, I knew something was wrong.

Ry was – as he liked to put it – the world’s best hider. This was due mostly to the fact that he was a skinny kid and could fold himself down to practically nothing. A talent he exploited when it came time to do chores, or when anything green appeared on Mom’s dinner menu. The tree house had at one time been his favorite place to hide, but he never went up there anymore, or at least not since a family of raccoons had gotten in two summers ago. Mom had chased them out, but he still refused to go in, citing the possibility that they might come back and could jump out and get him at any moment. He had a dozen or so hiding places that were safely located inside the house, so I knew that whatever it was that had chased him up into the tree, it had to be bad. Bad enough – in the mind of a ten year-old anyway – to risk a possible raccoon attack.

I made my way across the yard, glad that I’d decided to cut through the cemetery on my walk home that day. If I had stuck to the sidewalk, I would have ended up at the front of the house, and never would have seen him. “Ry?”

I heard shuffling on the wood floor of the tree house followed by a sniffle and a squeaky, “Becca?”

“What’s wrong, Ry?” I asked, starting the precarious climb up the thin wooden planks. Reaching the top, I poked my head through the square opening in the floor and found Ry sitting in the corner hugging his knees to his chest, his eyes as red as his hair.

“Where is your coat? It’s cold out here,” I said, as I hoisted myself up into the cramped space. The long Pittsburgh winters hadn’t exactly been kind to the little shack, and I found myself hoping for both our sakes that the rotted structure and rusty nails could support my extra one hundred and twenty pounds.

“I’m not cold,” he said, sniffling. “I thought you were at work.”

“Just got home. I saw you hiding up here when I walked by.” I slid my jacket off and wrapped it around his shoulders, ignoring the nip of the early October air. “What’s the matter, buddy?” I asked, as I reached over to rub his back and he shrank into my side, hiding his face.

“They’re going to take me away,” he mumbled into my shirt.

I grabbed his shoulders, holding him away from me so I could see his face. “Who is?”

“The men in the house. They’re talking to Mom. They’re going to take me away.”

“We’re not going to let that happen, you know that,” I assured him, though I could already feel my neck getting hot as I prepared for battle.

Who was it this time? Representatives from another institution? Another doctor with his magical prescription pad? Or was it that nosey bitch Ms Paust, the elementary school’s guidance counselor, back for another round of “In my professional opinion…”

“Mom says I’m gonna go this time,” he choked. “She says it’s OK.”

His bottom lip shook as a new batch of tears spilled over onto his already shiny cheeks.

“OK, listen to me.” I held his chin, forcing him to look me in the eye. “You stay in here until I get back, do you hear me? You don’t come out for anyone but me, understand?” He nodded. “I’m not going to let anyone take you, OK? Just stay up here and try not to worry.”

I climbed down the tree as quickly as I could without breaking my neck and ran toward the house. Who could it possibly be? Ever since I’d convinced Ryland to stop telling people about the voices things had been OK. No trips to the counselor, no calls from teachers or concerned parents. Sure, they all still watched him out of the corner of their eyes like he might spontaneously burst into flame, and his classmates still avoided him, but no one had actually approached Mom or come to the house in weeks. I thought we had finally gotten past all this.

“Mom!” I was yelling before I had made it all the way inside the door, “Mom, where are you?”

I found her in the kitchen taking a full pot of coffee out of the machine. As soon as she turned toward me and I saw her face, I could see that something was different. Something that made my throat close and my nails dig deeper into my palms.

Ryland was right: they had gotten to her.

Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have taken that stupid waitressing job! If I’d been home, these people – whoever the hell they were – wouldn’t have made it past the front door! How long had they been here? What could they possibly have said to get her on their side?

In these situations, Mom and I had always been a team. In the beginning, we had tried to reason with the people who came to “discuss Ryland’s condition”, but they were never the sort of people you could talk to. They made it clear that they would do the talking and our job was to listen and agree. Finally, during the third “house call” with a therapist from some children’s hospital, I got so mad at the woman’s snotty tone and total disregard for anything Mom or I had to say that I lost it. I started screaming and shouting, and threw her out. Since then, that was the system Mom and I adopted.

OK, the system I adopted, and Mom tolerated. She didn’t want to see Ryland locked up any more than I did, but she was far too soft-spoken and even-tempered to do what needed to be done. But that was fine, as I was more than happy to do the dirty work. This time would be no different. I took a deep breath and braced myself, ready to do whatever I had to. And if I was going to be on my own this time, so be it.

“Who are they?” I asked. “What are they doing here?”

“Becca, please.” Mom forgot the coffee and was in front of me almost instantly, her hands firmly on my shoulders. “It’s not what you think – no, honey, listen to me – it’s not the same this time. They just want to help.”

“Help? You can’t be serious, Mom!”

“There is a school that–”

“A school, of course, that’s what they all say. ‘Nut house’ isn’t PC anymore, remember?”

“Becca, please, I think these people may be able to…”

I was out of the room before she could finish her thought. Help him? Help him? Why on earth was she buying this crap all of a sudden? Oh well, it didn’t matter; I would take care of it myself. They’d obviously gotten to her somehow, but they weren’t going to get to me.

Following the sound of male voices, I headed to the front room, ready to evict our uninvited guests. “Get out,” I clipped, finger pointed at the front door.

The two men slowly stood – though from courtesy or shock, I couldn’t tell. The man on the right took a cautious step forward. “You must be Miss Ingle–”

“I said out. Now. Both of you.”

“Becca!” Mom snapped, rushing past me with the tray of coffee and mugs. “Gentlemen, this is my daughter Becca, please excuse her. Becca,” she turned to me, “calm down.”

“They’re not taking him.” My comment was directed less at my mother, and more at the two men I was glaring at over her shoulder.

I took a second to actually look at them, and was a bit taken aback by what I saw. The first guy looked to be in his late forties with a long crooked nose, and dark flashing eyes that were surrounded by deep-set wrinkles – more than likely the result of a life spent scowling. The way this guy looked alone would have been enough to make Ryland run and hide.

The other man, sitting next to him – the one who had tried to speak earlier – was almost a shock to my system after studying his partner. He was young, twenty maybe, with fair hair and light eyes. His jeans and button down shirt were neat, and his hair was cut short and styled. Sitting next to each other, they looked like some sort of “before and after” anti-drug poster you’d see in a high school nurse’s office. I might have been amused, if they weren’t currently here to lock up my brother.

“Listen honey, please,” my Mom pleaded quietly. “They are from a private school in Ireland. It’s the school that…” she hesitated, and in that split second I could see the words in her eyes before she could bring herself to say them “your father runs.”

Of course. Jocelyn. Also known as my father. The man my mother had been madly in love with. The man who swept her off her feet, only to walk out on all of us less than a month after Ryland was born. The man we hadn’t seen or heard from in ten years. If anything could have convinced my mother to side with them, it was throwing Jocelyn into the mix.

If I was angry before, now I was livid.

She must have seen the rage fly across my face, because she was quick to continue, “They say that they know what’s wrong with him and that they can help.”

“There is nothing wrong with him,” I growled between clenched teeth, never taking my eyes off the intruders.

The older scary-looking guy leisurely folded his hands in front of him and raised his chin. “Ryland is in need of care that only we can provide,” he said, with a cocky air that made me want to kick him in the shins. “He should be honored to be admitted to such a fine institution.”

“Institution. Exactly.” I snapped.

“St Brigid’s Academy,” he corrected with a glare, “will give him th–”

“It’s just a school,” the younger man interrupted, in what I can only imagine was his best peacekeeper voice. “I promise.”

“You promise? What are we, twelve? Next I suppose you’re going to pinky swear me that this will all be for his own good, and expect me to let you take him?”

Ignoring my snide commentary, the younger man continued, “St Brigid’s attracts some of the finest students from across the UK and Europe.”

“Then maybe you should stay over there.”

“Becca!” Mom snapped. “Please, just listen,” she begged, but now with real irritation in her tone.

I closed my mouth and crossed my arms, as the younger man continued to plug his hopeless cause. “We host some of the finest instructors from all over the world. Our graduation rate is nearly 100%, after which, the majority of our graduates continue on to some of the most prestigious universities in the world. The diversity of our curriculum rivals most–”

“Yeah,” I interrupted, no longer interested, “it’s a hell of a school. Got it. Let’s just say for one second that I am buying this private school crap. Why on earth would one of the top academies in Europe come to personally recruit a kid who hasn’t gotten above 80% on a spelling test since the first grade?”

The younger man opened his mouth to reply, but unfortunately the older man beat him to it. “Jocelyn feels it is time for the boy to join him.”

The younger man shot a look at his companion that made it clear that even he – who had known me less than ten minutes – knew that was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

“The boy?” I growled. “You know what, that is probably exactly what Jocelyn said, because odds are he doesn’t remember the boy’s name!”

The older man brought himself up to his full height and had the audacity to shake his finger at me like he was scolding a dog, “Young lady, this situation does not concern you. Ryland needs to be among people who understand his condition and can help him control it.”

“You bas–” but before I could even get the “tard” out, the younger man stood up, stretching one hand toward me, palm out, while placing the other hand on his partner’s shoulder in a gesture that would hopefully keep him from talking.

“We don’t want to hurt him,” the younger man said, but I was done caring.

“You listen to me,” I snarled at both of them. “I don’t care who you are, where you’re from, or who sent you, but believe me when I tell you that I will lay down in front of any car that tries to take Ryland from this house!” With that, I stormed out of the door, and up the stairs to my room, cursing under my breath.