"What is that?" Seth said. They were in art class and Craig had rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands. He looked to where Seth was pointing. The bruise was dark purple on his pale skin. He shoved his sleeve down, getting it wet at the edges.
"Nothing," he mumbled, not looking at him, feeling his face turning red from blushing, his cheeks burning.
"It's not nothing," Seth said, and Craig forced himself to look at him. Seth was looking at him with this critical concern, his unreal red hair falling into his eyes.
"It is. It's nothing,"
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Craig felt the circle tightening. His teacher catching him sleeping in class. Seth seeing that bruise. His father's unpredictability. Things felt like they were crashing down around him. He wasn't coping so well anymore. Not at all. And Seth wasn't letting it go. Lunchtime, chewing his tasteless baloney sandwich, feeling the ache of all the bruises hidden under his clothes.
"How'd you get that black and blue?" Seth said, and Craig sighed, geared up for another lie.
"I don't know. I probably just banged into something. It's no big deal,"
"Yeah? It looks like someone grabbed you there and left that mark, that's what it looks like," Craig could feel sorry for Seth. He didn't want to be saying this stuff, even though it was true, even though he was denying it up and down. He wanted to help him. He thought he was in trouble, and he was right. Craig swallowed the bite of his sandwich and felt it catch in his throat. What would he do if it was Seth? What if Seth was always falling asleep in school and showing up with unexplained bruises and acting all jumpy and nervous like he did? Wouldn't he want to help, somehow? But there was nothing he could do.
"Well, I don't know. I just banged into something, that's all,"
"Into what?" Seth said, looking straight into his eyes.
"I don't know," Craig shrugged and looked away. In a second he'd just get up and run. Skip the rest of the day, go hide somewhere, at some park or maybe he'd go to a museum. Somewhere else. Somewhere alone. Somewhere where he wouldn't have to deal with anyone.
"Craig, if someone's hurting you, like your dad or something, you should-"
"Uh, Seth, I gotta go. See ya," He stood up and backed away from the table, watching Seth watching him. It was getting too close. Too close for comfort. When he was close to the cafeteria door he turned around and ran. He kept running until he was outside in the cool, fresh air.
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He liked this museum. Liked the paintings that looked like real people, somehow breathing under the paint. He liked the landscapes that looked faded and almost sad. He read the names of the dead people who had painted them on the little plaques under the paintings. You really couldn't read the signatures, just a jumble of black letters in the corner of the canvas.
He liked being alone here, not being questioned. How was your day? Why did you fall asleep in school? Why did you fail the science test? Who is beating the shit out of you? He couldn't handle the questions.
Seth said if someone was hurting him he should…something. He'd cut him off at that point and ran. But what was Seth going to say? What should he do? Run away? Go to the police? Talk to his father? Got to counseling? See a psychiatrist? A doctor? Children's Aid? Find his step-father and move in with him? What? Just what was Seth's wise and sage advice going to be?
