All he does is blink.
Nick lifts his arm and presses it flat against Benji’s chest, just enough pressure to push him back. Benji shuffles away, eyes wide, and Nick manages to sit. Benji’s fingers leave red marks on the concrete. He’s so small. He’s so light. Black liquid trickles from his nose, and Nick can’t imagine Benji has any insides left to lose.
“It’s me,” Nick says. “I’m here now. It’s okay.” It’s not a lie. He makes a mental list of everything they’ll have to do to get Benji into the bank without raising suspicion. Clean the blood off his face. Get him into new clothes and a mask. Soothe the curled-up cramping thing his hands are doing. Cover his arms.
Just make sure he gets home.
One last push, and Benji falls back to the ground. Nick takes the last of the bobby pins from his pocket, selects exactly two, and clips a stubborn clump of Benji’s hair away from his forehead. It’s like trying to fix the Hoover Dam with duct tape, but Benji’s shoulders sag, and another sad little noise crawls up his throat, and his eyes finally focus.
“Nick?” he whispers.
They’ve lost the Vanguard, but Nick hasn’t lost Benji. There is no way in hell Nick could have brought himself to give Benji over. How had he even thought he could? God, what is wrong with him? How could he?
“There you go,” Nick says. “Thought we lost you for a second.” Even though he wants to cry, Thank God, thank God, thank God, and Nick hasn’t thanked God for anything in years.
Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and other queer and questioning youth often face unique challenges in finding community. Whether you are helping build an accepting family at home or searching for one who will support you when others don’t, the Acheson LGBTQ+ Center is here for you.
—The Acheson LGBTQ+ Center official website
Nick takes me back to the bank. I remember that much.
He gives me a bottle of water and makes me drink as much as I can. He wipes my face, puts a new mask over my mouth, and gets me a change of clothes. I’m too tired to register the embarrassment of just being in my sports bra and boxers, open wounds creeping across my stomach and thighs. Nick doesn’t linger on my body. I am reminded of Jesus and the leper, and Nick helps by not turning away in disgust.
When I’m finally presentable, my crumbling body hidden under bandages and clean clothes, Nick boosts me through the bank window and sits me on the floor of the copy room. I’m so lightheaded, I’m going to pass out. I need to say something, but how do I even start? I made a bunch of really, really bad decisions and this is all my fault, please don’t be mad? I am divine retribution, but I’m also just a scared little kid, and God, why would you call me your friend? I grind my jaw and try to breathe past my massive tongue. I’m not getting enough air. Or maybe I’m hyperventilating.
Nick crouches beside me and says, “What happened,” and it’s not a question because it doesn’t need to be.
I open my mouth to speak but can’t.
Nick watches for a moment, then scratches that little spot under his eye. “It’s okay,” he says. “I have trouble talking sometimes too.” He takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. “I’ll be right back.”
I don’t want him to go. I reach for him, but he pushes my hand away.
“It won’t take long,” he says, and leaves.
His coat smells like him. It smells like all of us, like sweat, musty closets, and smoke, but it smells like him. Like he’s spent too much time with mothballs and old paper. I bury my face in the sleeve.
Nick comes back with a plastic grocery bag that rattles when he moves.
“I know it’s immature of me,” he says, sitting across from me and unpacking the bag. It’s full of beads. Bright plastic pony beads, all the colors of the rainbow and then some. He sets one large container between us and clicks it open. “But when I have a meltdown, I make these. It helps.” Out comes a handful of string. “I’m glad it survived the fire.”