I was vomiting. Again. Kneeling on the floor and gripping the porcelain bowl, I emptied the contents of my stomach and then groaned in misery as I fell over onto the floor, resting my cheek on the cool tile. "Fuck me," I moaned hoarsely.
I closed my eyes, but the room started spinning and so I opened them immediately, staring at the baseboard in front of me. You can't keep going like this. You can't keep living this way. Brandon's words came back to me and I groaned again, pulling myself up. "Jesus, I know, okay? I know."
I made my way into the living room and flopped down on the couch, keeping my eyes fixed on the enormous, bronze chandelier hanging from the beamed ceiling above. I was just so tired, always so tired, but I could never sleep for very long. Outside the window, the first light of dawn was shading the sky a thousand hues of gray. If only I could sleep . . .
I didn't see the kid sitting on the ground on the side of the bleachers, his head in a book, until I practically tripped over him. "Darn, sorry," I said, hopping quickly to the side, righting myself and switching my football helmet to my other hand. The kid looked up at me, revealing a large black and blue mark on his right cheekbone, the eye on that side of his face red and partially swollen shut. "Whoa, what happened to you?" I asked. "Are you okay?"
He frowned and then reached his fingers up to touch the bruise lightly as if I'd just reminded him it was there. "Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered, shaking his shaggy, dark blond hair so it fell over his forehead into his eyes, hoping I'd go away.
"You sure? ’Cause that looks like a real shiner. How'd you get it?" I knelt on the grass next to him. His expression was confused as if he didn't know how to react to someone talking to him.
"Uh, I walked into a door by accident," he said.
I tilted my head, considering him. He was lying. He'd probably gotten into a fight. I raised my eyebrows. "Nah, you can come up with a better story than that. That one's been used a million times." He looked surprised for a second, and then he made his expression go blank again.
"Story?" he asked.
"Yeah, like, you know, you gotta be more imaginative." I tilted my head and looked up at the sky, thinking until it came to me. I looked back at the kid. "That creepy janitor who always just happens," I set my helmet down and used my fingers to make air quotes, "to be walking through the locker room when we're changing tried to abduct you, but you fought him off with the Ninja skills you learned from the old Chinese guy who manages your apartment building when he's not growing bonsai trees."
The kid looked at me silently for a couple seconds and then said, "I don't live in an apartment building, I think you mean Japanese, and that story is not imaginative at all—it's a clear Karate Kid rip-off. And also, it could get an innocent janitor in a whole lot of trouble—maybe even fired from the job he might need to feed his three foster kids."
"That guy has three foster kids?" I did a fake shudder.
He shrugged. "He could."
"See, that's what's wrong with social services. They give foster kids to guys like him. I hear, like, the whole system is a joke."
The kid narrowed his eyes—well his one good eye at least—and stared at me for a few moments. Then his lip tipped up slightly and he laughed a short laugh. When he stopped, he looked . . . bewildered. Yeah, bewildered. That was the word. And it'd just been on a vocab test the week before. I took a moment to pat myself on the back for using it.
"I'm Holden," I said. "Holden Scott."
He paused for a second before reaching out and gripping the hand I held out to him. "Ryan Ellis."
Two guys from my team walked by and I heard them snicker under their breath. "Hey, Holden, dude," Vince Milne said, "is it adopt-a-loser day and no one told me?" He ribbed Jeremy Pratt who was walking next to him and Jeremy laughed.
"Yeah it is, Vince," I called. "Are you already taken?"
"Eh, fuck off," he muttered under his breath before walking away. I hated that asshole. And he was a suck-ass football player, too.
I turned back to Ryan who was trying to look like he was busy organizing his backpack and hadn't heard anything Vince and I were saying. I could tell he had though because his face was hot and bright red.
"Anyway, what way do you walk? I'm headed home if you are, too."
"Uh, I walk toward Bridgetown Road," he muttered.
"Me, too. Come on." I stood up, gathering my helmet, and he stood slowly as well. We were about the same height, although Ryan was real skinny. He zipped his backpack and hefted it onto his shoulder.
"Your backpack looks like it weighs two hundred pounds."
Ryan smirked. "It does. It's how I got all these muscles."
"Ha. So what grade are you in?"