The last bell rang and Nate Grey sighed in relief as he gathered his history book and homework assignment from his desk. A headache had been lurking just behind his eyes for the duration of this last class, and he was simply happy it was over so he could head home. It was Thursday; the one day of the week he had to walk home because his older brother, Jason, worked for a couple of hours after he got out of school, and his other brother Shane was in detention again. Nate liked Thursdays because they always brought some sort of take-out home for dinner, saving them from having to cook. This was always a blessing whether their father was home or on a business trip. This Thursday, Mom and Dad were away on a business trip, and Nate was really hoping Jason's treat of choice was pizza—a pizza with double cheese and pepperoni. Though with his luck, Jason would get the thing loaded with onions, which Nate would have to pick off. At least Jace didn't like anchovies. That would be way worse.
After stopping at his locker to grab his jacket and the rest of the books he needed, the youngest Grey hurried toward the front doors lost in thought. The books in his arms were awkward, but his old backpack had worn out, and Mom hadn't yet bought him a new one. Feeling the throb in his head intensify as he descended the steps at the front of the school, Nate decided to take a certain shortcut home, even though both Mom and Dad had warned him against doing so several times. He just wanted to get home as fast as possible.
Nate walked down to the corner and jaywalked across the deserted intersection. Once across the street, he trudged along the diagonal dirt path worn into the weedy, trash-strewn field not far from the junior high school.
The attack came out of nowhere. Nate, 13 years old and still small and scrawny for his age, wasn't expecting the ferocious fist that slammed into his face. He had no time to set himself, to attempt an initial defense, and he went down—hard—his schoolbooks and papers flying in every direction.
Gasping, trying to regain the breath he'd lost impacting with the ground, Oliver squinted through his rapidly swelling right eye to see the fury-scrunched face of Trevor Sheridan hovering over him. Trevor – one of several well-known bullies at Matthew Diamond Junior High – had never bothered hassling Nate much before; therefore, this attack was completely inexplicable to the youngest Grey.
Nate saw Trevor begin another swing at his face and was able to roll out of the way in time to avoid the punch. Unfortunately, missing the second fist was his only bit of luck as Sheridan's sneaker-shod foot connected with his side. Nate groaned, but managed to scramble first to his hands and knees, then his feet. Hearing a wild cackling laugh to his left, Nate turned his head and caught the briefest glimpse of Trevor's best friend and fellow bully, Steve Wiley, doubled over and laughing his ass off. Nate had had his tangles with Steve several times when the other kid tried to steal his lunch money. Aw, crap, he thought.
Turning his attention back to his attacker, Nate ducked under another hastily thrown punch. "Tr-Trevor, w-what—" "Shut up, bitch," Trevor snapped. "But—" "I said shut up. YOU don't get to speak." As the bully spoke, he moved in close to Nate, fists flying, knuckles making bloody contact wherever they landed. Sheridan's face was full of irrational hatred, underscored by an unhealthy dose of arrogance.
While Nate's boxing training kicked in and he was able to avoid some of the blows and even give back several of his own, but he couldn't avoid them all. His gangly limbs induced uncoordinated, unavoidable clumsiness, allowing Trevor's fists to connect repeatedly with heavy-handed thanks to Nate's face and stomach.
"So you think it's funny to fuck with me, Grey? Think it's funny to key my car? To steal my money? Where is it?" One particularly vicious blow to his stomach sent Nate to his knees. With a nasally, wet wheeze, the younger boy stammered, "I-I-I don't…" "Where the hell's my money, asshole? I know you stole it," Trevor snarled.
Before Nate was able to regain his balance; Trevor tackled him hard and wrapped his hands around his throat. Nate could hear the crackling of dry grass under his body as he thrashed. His vision began to gray out as the bigger, broader teen cut off his air. Suddenly, Steve called out, "Shit! Trevor, I think somebody's coming. We gotta go!" Trevor let go of Nate's neck and crawled off his prone body. "This ain't over, faggot. You'll be even sorrier next time," he threatened.
Standing, the bully let one final kick fly before hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it at Nate. The thick greenish-yellow gob landed on the smaller boy's forehead, in his bangs. Trevor would have laughed if Steve hadn't been pulling him away. The two bullies took off running, not once looking back.
Nate groaned and slowly rolled over, rising painfully to his hands and knees. The roaring in his ears gradually subsided, and he finally heard the noise that had presumably scared his attackers away—a rustling from some scrubby, overgrown bushes off to his left. Nate tensed, his foggy mind conjuring all kinds of possibilities at the sound.
He watched as a huge dog, the color of butterscotch pudding, lumbered from the undergrowth and approached with an oddly happy look on its intelligent-looking face. The dog stopped right in front of Nate and chuffed softly. "Hey, boy—I-I think you saved my life," the grateful teenager said as he reached out an unsteady hand and patted the dog's head. "Thanks." The dog whined and lapped his tongue over Nate's bruised cheek. "Nate! Nate, where are you?"
At first, the teenager thought the unfamiliar voice, a woman's, was calling for him. Then he saw the dog twitch his ears and cock his head. "Nate! Here, boy! Nathan, you better get your butt back here! I'm not chasing you all over creation!" The dog's unseen owner threatened though her tone was lighthearted. "Looks like you better go, boy," Nate mumbled. The dog looked over his shoulder, then back at the teenager, whining. "Go on. I-I'm okay."
Nate watched as the dog turned and trotted away, disappearing in the bushes to search out his sweet-voiced owner. Gathering his strength, the youngest Grey stood, his legs quaking. He wiped at the blood and snot running from his nose and wiped his soiled hand on the leg of his jeans. Nate stood swaying for a few seconds before finally moving forward to slowly and painfully gather his scattered books and papers, unwilling to leave them strewn about the empty field. By the time he was done, he wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees and give in to the pain and dizziness. Nate felt tears sting his eyes when he thought about the walk ahead of him.
Because of his staggering gait, it took Nate twice as long as it normally would have to walk home, but he eventually arrived at their house on McKinley Street. Nate was relieved to see the driveway empty; indicating Shane or Jason had yet to get home. He was reluctant, and oddly scared, for his brothers to see him like this. Irrational or not, he felt responsible for what had happened. He felt scrawny and weak, and stupid for defying orders and taking that shortcut.
Walking as quickly as his battered body would allow, Nate unlocked the front door, and after dropping his bedraggled books and dirty papers on the kitchen table without a second thought, he hurried to his bedroom—closing and locking the door behind him. Once inside this sanctuary, Nate gingerly laid down on his bed, giving in to the throbbing pain assaulting his body, giving in—reluctantly—to the tears he'd kept at bay all the way home.
Jason pulled into the driveway and parked the Impala. It was 6:30 p.m., a bit later than he usually got home, but Pizza Hut had been busy tonight. Grabbing their still-hot pizza and a twelve-pack of Coca-Cola off the passenger seat, he slipped out of the car and rushed for the house, his stomach growling at the enticing smell of food. To be honest, at 17, his stomach seemed to always be growling with hunger whether there was enticing food around to tempt it or not.
After crossing the threshold, Jason called out, "Nate! I've got dinner. Shane's out with friends tonight, so it's just us two. Come and eat while it's still hot!" He went to put the pizza on the table and noticed Nate's books and papers strewn haphazardly across its surface. Frowning at this unusual occurrence, the older teen gathered everything up in a pile and moved it all to the counter, replacing it with their dinner. He opened the pizza box and grabbed a slice, biting into the cheese, pepperoni, and onions with gusto. After a second bite, the slice was almost gone. Realizing he had yet to hear from his little brother, Jason swigged a drink of Coke, belched softly from the carbonation, and yelled, "Nate! C'mon, man. I brought pizza! Get your butt out here and eat."
A chill skittered up his spine when there was still no response from Nate. Dropping what was left of his slice of pizza on the table, Jason hurried to the bedroom he shared with his brother. His alarm grew when he turned the knob and discovered the door was locked. Jason made a fist and knocked. "Nate? Hey, Natey – you sick or something?"
Nate heard his brother knocking and calling out for him. He wanted to respond, but just didn't have the energy so he stayed quiet and remained lying on his side, facing the wall. A minute or so later, he heard the door open. He'd known all along that a locked door would never keep Jason out of the room if he wanted in. "Why didn't you answer me, huh? You sick, bro?" "N-No," Nate rasped.
Brotherly intuition on full alert now, Jason moved forward until he stood right at the side of Nate's twin bed. "What's wrong?" Jason said quietly. "N-Nothin'," Nate mumbled. "Nate…" Jason growled, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on with his little brother. Knowing there was no getting out of this; Nate uncurled his aching body and rolled over, groaning as every cut and bruise screamed in protest. His ribs, too, screeched at the movement.
"Oh my God!" exclaimed Jason when he saw the condition his younger sibling was in. "Nate, what the HELL happened to you?!" Nate flinched at Jason's yell. "I-I-I . . ." To his dismay, Nate felt tears brim in his eyes and spill over.
Sinking down on the edge of the bed, Jason said, "Hey, its okay. Just tell me what happened." "I-I was walking h-home, got j-jumped," Nate said, tears spilling from his eyes. "By who, Nate?" Jason demanded. "I took…I took the shortcut, Jace. It's my fault. I h-had a headache and just—"
"Uh-uh. It's not your fault, kiddo, even if you did take that damned shortcut. Who beat the shit out of you?" "Tr-Trevor Sheridan. But St-Steve W-Wiley was with him." Jason's expression grew even grimmer than it had been. He was familiar with both of those bullies even though they were a couple of years younger than he.
Wiping at his wet cheeks, Nate said, "He—Jace—he accused me of stealing m-money from him and keying his car. I swear—I swear I didn't do anything!" "Ahh, Nate, I believe you. You don't have it in you to do anything like that," Jason said ruefully. Nate started to sit up and gasped, stopping mid-move.
"Hey, take it easy," murmured Jason, gently helping his brother sit up, propping pillows behind his back. "Let's get you cleaned and fixed up." Jason left the room, returning a few minutes later with their extensive first aid kit as well as a pan of warm water and a wash cloth. He helped Nate get his shirt off and growled angrily when he saw the numerous bruises covering Nate's chest and back. It was when he spied the handprints around his brother's neck that his eyes went deadly flat.
"He choked you?" Jason said scathingly. "Uh-huh. But this dog—named Nate—came in and saved me," Nate said. Deciding that was a story left for later, Jason started to wipe away the blood, sweat, and grime covering Nate's torso and face. Spying the glob of something sticky in Nate's bangs, he said, "What the hell is that in your hair?" "He . . . uh…Trevor…spit on me," Nate murmured.
Jason's fist clenched tightly around the washcloth, his knuckles showing white, as he continued to clean him up, Jason evaluated his brother's injuries. "I think your ribs are just bruised, not cracked or broken. But they're gonna hurt for a while. Not much I can do for that massive shiner you're sporting. Most of the cuts are superficial. But I do have to stitch up that split lip or it's never gonna heal." From the looks of it, you're lucky you're not heading to the hospital, little bro. His little brother sighed in defeat.
Jason cleaned the spit out of Nate's hair and tossed the dirty washcloth into the pan of cooling water. He snatched up the small white plastic bottle from the first aid kit. "Sorry. Here, take these." Kevin held out two pain pills and a glass of water. Nate did as he was told, dribbling a good portion of the water down his chin since his fat lip got in the way.
Jason quickly loaded the suturing needle and made short work of putting four stitches in Nate's busted lip. He hated adding to his sibling's pain and was relieved that only four stitches had been required. "Done," he said as he looked at Nate, who blinked blearily at him. Pain and stress were taking their toll, and Nate was ready to crash. "T-Tired." "You should eat something. Though I guess that pizza I brought is out." "Na hungry," mumbled Nate. His growling stomach immediately belied his words.
"C'mon, Nate, how about some soup, eh? I think we have a can or two around here." Nate reluctantly nodded, not even remotely interested in food. It didn't stop Jason though, and he returned ten minutes later with a mug of warm tomato soup. "At least drink some of this. Then you can sleep."
The youngest Grey took the mug and sipped at the soup, more to get Jason off his case than anything else. He managed to get about half of it down before he gave up. Nate handed the mug back to Jason, who'd been watching him like a hawk. He was surprised to hear his brother suddenly laugh.
"What's so funny?" his eyes closed to half-mast. "Aw, I was just thinking—I wish we were gonna be here to see ol' Trevor's face when you finally hit your growth spurt. You're gonna be freakin' huge." "How da you know?"
"Well, I'm tall, Shane's tall, Dad's tall, and you're all gangly arms and legs. Not to mention you have seriously gigantic feet. So chances are you're gonna be as tall as me at least." "Oh, good, wish we were gonna be here too then." Nate's eyes closed completely and he drifted off into a fitful sleep.
Later that night, Jason left the house with two particular destinations in mind. He returned a little more than an hour later. Stepping into the bedroom, Jason slid his knife under his pillow with a smile. Trevor Sheridan and Steve Wiley wouldn't be bothering his brother again—ever. And the beauty of it was, he hadn't had to lay a finger on either one of them. A little "friendly" advice had Steve confessing all—he'd stolen Trevor's money and keyed his car for the sole purpose of blaming it on Nate. Revenge for some imagined slight. Dully recorded on a mini tape recorder, Jason had then paid a "friendly" visit to Trevor. By the time the elder Grey had left Trevor, the two had come to a certain mutual agreement. All in all, Jason called the night a success.
He checked on Nate, rousing him long enough to get two more pain pills onboard before shutting off the light and climbing into bed. Jason had just gotten comfortable, closed his eyes, and was listening to his brother breathing when a disturbing thought wound its way through his head.
He'd told Nate that he'd eventually be at least as tall as Jason was himself, which was 6'1". But what if his brother actually ended up taller than him?
Nah, not gonna happen. No way. The universe just wouldn't be that cruel