Ryan, Trey and all the Atwoods belong to Schwarz and Company. Tony and his mother are mine.

The First Time

Chapter 1: A Best Friend

The first time Ryan had a best friend, he was in the third grade.

Tony Riccio was the only other boy in the class as short as Ryan, but he was as dark as Ryan was fair, as talkative as Ryan was quiet. On the first day of school, Tony plopped down next to Ryan at recess, pulled out half a dozen hot wheels, and launched into a torrent of words that sucked Ryan into their current and swept him away. It was as if Tony didn't even realize that they were strangers, as if they were already in the middle of a conversation.

Ryan liked that. He didn't have a lot to say himself, but he loved to listen.

For seven months after that the two boys were nearly inseparable. They spent most of their time outside, riding their bikes to the playground, popping wheelies over the curbs, joining makeshift soccer games that had no rules except play to win. If Ryan and Tony were inside, they were almost always at the Riccio house, in the bedroom that Tony didn't have to share because he was the only boy in the family. Tony didn't have a dad—or at least, he only had one on alternate weekends—but Ryan liked his house. It was quiet and neat and there were never any surprises, except nice ones sometimes, like cupcakes when it wasn't even anybody's birthday.

Mrs. Riccio always topped her cupcakes with thick, buttery frosting. Ryan would lick it off, very slowly, dreading the moment when the icing disappeared and his tongue would touch the flat surface of the cake. The cake itself tasted good too, but reaching it meant that the best part was over, and soon there would be nothing left but crumbs.

Ryan's mom only made cupcakes once that he could remember. She discovered too late that she didn't have enough sugar so the frosting was almost transparent, and didn't even reach the fluted ends of the paper holders. The cake itself had a sad, powdery taste, and it fell apart before Ryan could even bite into it.

Ryan and Tony almost never went to the cluttered Atwood house. It was rarely neat and usually throbbing with noise—the radio or television blasting, voices screaming. The yelling always made Ryan cringe, even when it wasn't directed at him. He would scuff his feet with embarrassment, darting a sideways glance at Tony, who would grin and say something like "Man, Ryan, wild! Your house sounds just like a cartoon."

Ryan liked Tony for at least pretending that the chaos was funny, and only threatening in an ineffectual Elmer Fudd kind of way.

As bad as the noise could be, the occasional quiet at the Atwood house was worse. It usually meant something unpleasant had happened, something with consequences that would sting or burn afterwards—maybe somebody missing, like when Ryan's dad disappeared for two weeks, or Trey ran away, or maybe whoever was home had passed out.

That was the reason for the quiet the morning after Ryan's dad was taken away in handcuffs. Ryan's mom lay slumped on the sofa in her slip, her hair matted, dry spittle flaking in the corners of her mouth. Trey shook her shoulder roughly while Ryan watched, wincing in sympathy, but his mom simply groaned and sank deeper into the scratchy cushions.

"Fuck," Trey muttered, rubbing a grimy hand through his unwashed hair. He'd already checked. There was practically no food in the house, and the coffee can where their Dad sometimes kept spare change was empty too. "Lot of good she is. Okay, Ryan. Grab your stuff. I'll take you over to Tony's place."

Ryan could tell that Trey was pissed, so he said nothing, even though his mind churned with a hundred questions. He just hitched up the strap of his too-heavy backpack and followed Trey outside, trying to keep up and to stay out of the way of his feet, which seemed to kick fiercely at anything in sight.

Trey gave Ryan a push to speed him up the walk to the Riccio front door. "Listen, if they let you, you spend the night here, okay, Ryan? Give Mom a chance to sober up and get used to our fuckass dad being gone."

Ryan nodded solemnly, and filed away "fuckass" for use in the future. "Ass" was currently Trey's favorite word. Ryan was impressed with the number of variations he created, just by attaching different prefixes.

At the Riccio door, Ryan froze. He suddenly realized that it was a school day. Tony wouldn't even be home. Without Tony there, Ryan had no idea what to say to Mrs. Riccio. His mouth went dry at the thought of explaining that his father had been arrested, his mom had passed out, and that he needed . . . what? Someplace to hide? Someplace safe where he could just be?

He really needed his best friend. Ryan needed Tony to hear the news, grow wide-eyed and crow "Wow! Wild! Real cop cars and everything, Ryan? Just like on TV!"

Then they could eat cereal and lie on their stomachs on the living room floor, and Ryan could pretend that at the end of an hour—maybe two, if it was a movie—his family's problems would be solved, the way they always were on television shows.

"Ryan!" Trey's voice slapped him from behind, sharp as an open palm. "Ring the damn bell, lameass."

"But Tony won't be home, Trey. He's in school. Maybe I should just go there."

"Two hours late? Lookin' like that?" Trey scoffed. "Somebody would say something for sure. You want social services to take you away, Ryan?"

Ryan glanced down at his stained and torn t-shirt. It was the same one he'd worn yesterday, and he had wanted to change, but he couldn't find anything clean in his drawer. His nails were bitten to the quick, and both arms were circled with vivid bruises where his mom had grabbed and held him last night to keep him from chasing after the police car. Her own fury—at the police, her husband, the whole situation—had surged through her hands and imprinted itself on Ryan's skin. When she had finally released him, she did it so abruptly that Ryan fell forward, slicing his temple on a bike pedal. He had put a Band-Aid on the wound himself, but it didn't quite cover the jagged edges.

"Ryan!" Trey yelled again. His voice was changing, and the word emerged in a deep, familiar growl that startled Ryan and made him spin around suddenly, looking, in fear or in hope, for his father. All he saw was Trey, squinting in the midmorning light, twitching with impatience to be gone.

Ryan chewed his lip in shame. "Maybe I could just sit out here and wait till Tony gets home from school," he suggested. "Then we could go inside together."

"You're gonna wait another four hours with nothin' to eat 'cause you're afraid to ring a damn doorbell? Jeez, you're such a baby, Ryan. What? I gotta do everything for you?" Trey marched up the walk, pressed the doorbell three times in quick succession, and then added an insistent knock for good measure.

From inside the house Ryan heard a nervous, "What on earth?" The door opened a crack and Tony's mom peered out. "What on earth?" she said again, before stepping through the door, almost shutting it behind her. "Ryan Atwood. What are you doing here?"

Ryan ground the toe of one shoe into the welcome mat. "I . . .um . . ." he whispered. "Mrs. Riccio, I . . ." He wasn't used to her flat, forbidding tone. Usually Tony's mom sounded indulgent, even affectionate, and she called him "hon," or "baby," not "Ryan Atwood."

"Why aren't you in school?" she demanded. Then she took in his bruises and unkempt appearance, and her eyes seemed to change. "Where is your mother, Ryan?"

"Um . . . home?" he answered uncertainly.

Mrs. Riccio folded her lips and sighed deeply.

Trey had waited long enough. "Look, Mrs. Ric. Can Ryan stay here today? I can come get him later—or tomorrow, maybe."

"It's a school day."

"Jeez!" Trey exploded. "Does it look like he can go to school? Look, Ryan is Tony's best friend. Can't he just hang out here? It's kinda . . . weird at home today. But it'll be okay tomorrow, so if Ryan can just stay here until then . . ."

Ryan peered at Trey from under his shaggy bangs, looking hopefully for signs that Trey believed what he was saying. He wasn't. Ryan recognized the bravado in Trey's scowl, and he realized that tomorrow was just a code word for "never."

Ryan swallowed hard, knowing that he was too old to cry. "I'll stay out of your way, Mrs. Riccio," he promised. "Or if you maybe need me to do something . . ."

Mrs. Riccio sighed again. When she spoke, she sounded as though her warm chocolate voice had chilled, and a film had formed on top of it. "I'm sorry, Ryan. You're a very nice boy, but I heard what your father did and . . . well, it would be best if you and Tony didn't play together anymore. You go on home now." Behind her back, her hand turned the knob of her door, and she started to retreat inside.

Ryan's eyes opened wide and he blinked rapidly. "But . . ." he whispered. Then he stopped, because he wouldn't beg, and anyway, any more words would come out caught in a sob.

Nodding, his gaze locked on the worn welcome mat, Ryan turned to go, but Trey blocked his way.

"Fuck you anyway, lady," he snarled.

Ryan stiffened, and behind him he could hear Mrs. Riccio's irate gasp. "Young man . . ."

Trey pulled Ryan close, almost yanking him off of his feet. "Think your fatass self is better than other people? Huh? Just 'cause our dad got arrested, you decide Ryan's not good enough to play with your kid?"

"You cannot speak to me that way."

Ryan no longer recognized Mrs. Riccio's face or voice. She had become a stranger, someone who clearly did not want to know him. He plucked at Trey's jacket, trying to tug him off the porch, but Trey swatted his fingers away and stood his ground.

"You know what? Screw you, lady. For your information, my little brother is smart and . . . and good, and a hell of a lot better than anybody else your sorryass son could hang around with."

Trey looped his arm around Ryan's shoulders, half-hugging him as they walked away, every other step of Ryan's a skip to keep up with his brother's long strides. He felt all muddy inside, fear and admiration and gratitude and shame all roiled around together into a dark sticky mass that his stomach ache and his breath catch in his throat.

Then they turned the corner, out of sight of the Riccio house. Trey immediately dropped Ryan's arm, and cuffed him on the back of the head.

"You stay away from that place, Ryan. Dumb shitass family."

"But Tony's my best friend."

Trey glowered and pulled out one of his contraband cigarettes, lighting it and flicking the match over his shoulder . "Not any more, stupid. Anyway, we're gonna be moving out of this punkass city. Mom said. Start over somewhere else."

Ryan nodded, but he hardly heard what Trey said about moving.

Tony wasn't his best friend anymore.

"Trey?" he asked softly, and then realized that Trey was already disappearing down the street, leaving him alone. "Trey! Wait up!"

"Gimme a break, Ryan. I got things to do," Trey said gruffly. He walked backwards, never slowing his pace. "Grown-up things. Can't babysit you all the time. Look, I'll catch up with you later."

"But Trey, where am I supposed to go?"

Trey shrugged. "Don't know." Unspoken was "Don't care." "You'll find someplace. Just, I don't know, meet me at the park. I'll be there sometime after dark." He stopped, blew out an exasperated breath and then trotted back to Ryan. "Here," he said, thrusting two tattered dollar bills in his hand. "Get yourself something to eat. And wipe your nose, Ryan. Jeez. You're such a little bitch."

Shaking his head, Trey turned and took off at a run.

Ryan stood watching as his brother moved further away, growing smaller, more indistinct, until he vanished completely in the distance.

It was definite then. Ryan didn't have a best friend.