The Burning Side(8)

I dip my finger into the paint and pry open his hand, swirling paint slowly onto his palm. I look up at him with his hard work and hair swoop and amused expression. Biting my lip, I lean in. “It’s definitely black.”

He dips his own fingers into the paint, slides his hand up my shirt, and presses it to my chest. “You mean like your black heart?” His grin is crooked and teasing. I go crazy for playful Leo.

I gasp in mock offense, swatting him with a rag. “Well, now you’re just wasting perfectly good black paint—”

But then he’s kissing me, hand still beneath my shirt, the paint cold on my skin.

I pull back and glance around, embarrassed.

He starts to ease my shirt off, his voice hungry. “We have four acres, nobody can see us.”

I swipe at him with my black-tipped finger, and I run inside, laughing.

He chases me all the way into our empty bedroom, where we christen our home with our paint-dotted bodies, the paintbrushes drying out on the porch.



* * *



A few days later, we are scouring kitchen appliances with an assortment of citrus-fragranced cleaners when my phone vibrates. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. I don’t recognize the number, but something compels me to answer.

“Hello?”

“It’s Jonathan.”

“Who?”

“From Argyle High.”

“Oh!” I give students my number after our sessions end. They rarely use it.

“Hi, Jonathan! How are—”

“Miss, he has a knife.”

I freeze. “Who has a knife?”

Leo spins around, dirty rag in hand.

I turn the phone on speaker as Jonathan’s voice pitches higher. “This kid, Dom—it was so stupid—then he flashed a knife at me! I don’t want to fight.”

“Where are you?”

I am grabbing keys; Leo is dialing 911.

“The 7-Eleven by the school. In the bathroom.”

“Stay where you are and leave the phone on.”

I gun it to the gas station, cutting off weekend shoppers and lunchers. Leo is beside me, telling the 911 dispatcher what little we know.

By the time we arrive, two officers have both boys outside the 7-Eleven, and I exhale. There are no ambulances, no open wounds. Only two young boys with their heads hung low and a crowd that has gathered around with their Slurpees.

Leo and I approach. An officer turns, clocks the shades of our skin, and addresses Leo. “One of these boys belong to you?”

“Only as students.”

This is when I realize that Leo has taught them both—Dom too, who looks even younger than Jonathan.

Jonathan has no weapon on him, so he’s free to go. He watches them usher Dom to the patrol car, call his parents, and drive off toward juvenile detention. There is no siren, no emergency, just another teen off to juvie while spectators return to their weekend plans.

Jonathan is over seventeen. He would not have gone to juvenile detention. I ask him, “What are you doing getting into trouble back around here? You graduated.”

He kicks at some dirt and shrugs. “Where else should I go? Nobody will give me a job.”

Leo says, “Let’s get some food.”

Jonathan and I both turn, confused.

“Might as well eat while we talk about this.” So Leo leads the way into the gas station, where the attendant eyes us, glancing at the security camera with its winking red light.

Jonathan scarfs down two hot dogs, and Leo gets him a third. Then Leo calls a friend who owns an extermination company. Jonathan can have a job on a trial basis if he can promise to show up every day and work. Can he do that?

No, he cannot. He doesn’t have transportation. He licks mustard off his finger, and Leo says into his phone, “I’ll call you back.”

I had not considered transportation, probably because I have it. I had not considered any of this, because I thought if we could get kids to graduation, they’d be good.

Leo asks if Jonathan can meet us at the school next week to think through this together. Jonathan nods. “Extermination is like bugs and shit, right?”

“Sí.” Leo nods. “Bugs and shit and those blue booties over your shoes.”

“Hot.”

Casual laughter moves through both of their throats, and I feel like I’m on the outside of something. I don’t know why Leo seems satisfied with getting Jonathan a job in pest control even though we taught him history and literature.

Standing, Leo repeats the day and time to meet since Jonathan’s phone service is never a guarantee. He declines our offer of a ride home, so I call after him unhelpfully, “Be careful.” Even I don’t know what I mean by that.

On the drive home, I say, “You were so generous with the meal and job connection. Sorry he wasn’t more grateful.”

Leo frowns. “I’m just glad he’s going to spend time with us when he doesn’t have to.”

“You think he’ll show up next week?”

“I do,” Leo says. “He’s a lot like me.”

I scrunch my nose. Jonathan like Leo?

He presses the button for the radio, and I wonder how he can just listen to Daft Punk after all that. When I give voice to my thoughts, Leo says, “You’re right. We should find heavy metal or something.” He glances over at me, smiling.