No one but him called me that, and I hadn’t heard that nickname in so long, I never really thought I’d hear it again.
And I never in a million years dared to hope that I’d see him again. But here he was, and I couldn’t stop staring. None of the thirteen-year-old boy he’d been remained in the guy in front of me, but it was him. It was those warm brown eyes with golden flecks and the same sunbaked skin, a trait from his father who’d possibly been half white, half Hispanic. He didn’t know where his mother or any of her family had come from. One of our...our caseworkers had thought that his mother might have been a mix of white and South American, maybe Brazilian, but he would most likely never know.
Suddenly I saw him—the him from before, from when we were little and he’d been the only stable thing in a world of chaos. At age nine—bigger than me, but still so small—he’d stood between Mr. Henry and me in the kitchen, like he’d done too many times before, as I’d clutched the redheaded doll—Velvet—he’d just retrieved for me. I’d held her close, trembling, and he’d puffed out his chest, legs spreading wide. “Leave her alone,” he’d growled, hands curling into fists. “You’d better stay away from her.”
I pulled myself out of the memory, but there were so many of him coming to my rescue for some reason or another until he couldn’t, until the promise of forever had been shattered, and everything...everything had fallen apart.
His chest rose deeply, and when he spoke, his voice was low and rough. “Is that really you, Mouse?”
Vaguely aware of the girl on his other side watching us, I saw her eyes go as wide as mine felt. My tongue was useless, which for once was strange, because he...he had been the one person I’d never had any problem talking to, but that had been a different world, a different lifetime.
That had been forever ago.
“Mallory?” he whispered. Turned completely toward me, I thought for a second he might climb out of his chair. And that would so be him, because he wasn’t scared of doing anything. Never had been. As close as we were, I saw the faint scar above his right eyebrow, a shade or two lighter than his skin. I remembered how he’d gotten it and my chest ached anew, because that scar symbolized a stale cookie and a shattered ashtray.
A guy in front of us had twisted around on his stool. “Yo.” He snapped his fingers when he didn’t get a response. “Hey, man? Hello?”
He ignored the guy, still staring at me like a ghost had appeared right in front of him.
“Whatever,” the kid muttered, twisting toward the girl, but she, too, ignored him. She was focused on us. The tardy bell rang, and I knew the teacher had entered, because the conversation in the room was quieting.
“Do you recognize me?” His voice was still barely above a whisper.
His eyes continued to hold mine, and I spoke what turned out to be the easiest word I’d ever said in my life. “Yes.”
He rocked back in his chair, straightening as his shoulders tensed. His eyes closed. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his palm against his sternum.
I jumped in my seat as the teacher smacked his hand on the stack of texts piled on the corner desk, forcing my gaze forward. My heart was still acting as if an out-of-control jackhammer had gone off in my chest.
“All right, all of you should know who I am since you’re in my class, but just in case some of you are lost, I’m Mr. Santos.” He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. “And this is speech class. If you’re not supposed to be here, you probably should be somewhere else.”
Mr. Santos continued to speak, but the blood rushing through me drowned out his words, and my thoughts were too caught up in the fact that he was sitting next to me. He was here; after all these years, he was right beside me like he’d been since we were three years old, but he hadn’t seemed happy about seeing me. I didn’t even know what to think. A mixture of hope and desperation swirled inside me, mixing with bitter and sweet memories I’d both clung to and longed to forget.
He was... I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed against the lump lodged in my throat.
Textbooks were handed out, followed by a syllabus. Both sat on my desk untouched. Mr. Santos went over the type of speeches we’d be writing and delivering throughout the year, everything from an informative speech to one that would be based on interviewing a fellow classmate. While I’d been seconds away from full freak-out mode when I’d walked into the class, the prospect of having to give multiple speeches in front of thirty people was now the furthest thing from my thoughts.