“You have to tell my dad,” I say.
She sits, tucks her legs up against her chest, and wraps her arms around her knees. “I’m not sure I see the point.”
“The point is Russell will be arrested.”
“He’s been arrested before.”
It hurts that she’s right. Domestic violence is not a priority in the Zone.
“Bex, why didn’t Tammy do something?” I say as I sit down, nudging up beside her so she can feel me near.
She shakes her head. “I think she’s probably happy it’s not her for once. Don’t worry, I have a plan.”
“Bex!”
“Well, not so much a plan . . .” She trails off until her words are barely a whisper. Her face caves in on itself, and tears form on her lashes, but in some sheer act of stubbornness she fights them back. I hate that her stepfather slaps her mother around and, when he’s particularly drunk and surly, turns his aggression on her, but I hate him more for turning my strong superhero of a best friend into a timid, broken bird. I want to grab her and shake her, make her take the steps necessary to protect herself, but she doesn’t need a lecture. She needs me.
“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.”