Chapter 2

Ryan was momentarily stunned by the dazzling sunlight, and he paused just outside the doors of the detention center to squint at his surroundings, which seemed whitewashed and overexposed. He shielded his eyes and blinked away tears. Seth and Mrs. Cohen hadn't been as affected by the light and they were several paces in front of him before they realized he had stopped.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Seth asked, turning around to face Ryan.

"Nothing," Ryan said. He dropped his head and rubbed at his eyes before looking up again. Seth and Mrs. Cohen were still staring at him. He gave them what he knew was a weak smile and started walking again.

At the car Ryan settled into the backseat, behind the front passenger because he knew Seth would want to talk to him, and this spot would make conversation more difficult. He pushed himself into the corner, letting his head fall back against the plush seat cushion.

"Seatbelts," Mrs. Cohen called out and started the engine. Ryan obeyed.

Mrs. Cohen was still backing the car out of the parking space when Seth got started.

"Dude, what you did back there, that was, well, it was awesome. You were like all over that guy. The way you just jumped up and went after him, pinning him against the wall like that, and the punching, I've never seen anything like it. How'd you learn stuff like that, because, dude, it's insane. Like good insane, but insane."

The words were pouring out so fast that Ryan wondered how Seth's own mind could even keep up. Seth twisted around in his seat, trying to look at Ryan as he ranted, and was clearly frustrated by the lack of mobility. Ryan pushed himself further into the corner and didn't respond. A quick glance toward the front of the car and he saw that Mrs. Cohen was watching him in the rearview mirror. When she caught his eye, she immediately looked away, guilty.

"Seriously, dude, you have to teach me some of your moves. Yeah, when we get home-"

"Seth," Mrs. Cohen interrupted, her voice stern and amused all at once.

"What? Mom, did you even see what he did in there? He totally had our backs. It was awesome."

"Seth, I don't think Ryan really wants to talk about that right now."

"What? Hey, you don't mind, right?" Seth was turning in his seat again, craning his neck to look in the backseat.

"Fine, I don't want to talk about it right now," Mrs. Cohen said. Ryan saw her eyes flash at him in the rearview mirror again. She smiled. "Why don't you put on some music."

Ryan tried to return her smile, but he couldn't force his mouth to respond and so he just nodded slightly and looked away. One of Seth's CDs—they all sounded the same to Ryan—pumped music over the stereo, and it was oddly relaxing, soft and warbling, the lyrics too quiet to make out. He shivered a little in the car air conditioning and was glad he'd left his jacket on, despite the smell. He pulled himself deeper into the jacket, until the collar was nearly at his chin, and leaned his head against the window. A patch of sunlight, no longer painfully bright, fell across his face and shoulders. He felt warm and sleepy, and he tried to ignore the headache growing behind his eyes and the nervous knot that still clenched his stomach.

He stared outside as they pulled onto the freeway, where the midday traffic was terrible and the cars were inching along. Ryan studied the other drivers, all of them trapped in their cars and trying hard to move forward to something better—the next exit, home, a late lunch. He was faintly curious about their lives, where they were headed and where they were coming from. A man in a faded black T-shirt let his arm dangle out the open drivers' side window, a cigarette playing in his fingers; he was singing along with the radio and thumping his other hand on the dashboard. A woman with black hair and too much makeup clenched the steering wheel of her two-door coup and kept tossing angry, frustrated glances over her shoulder, looking for openings in the traffic. Everyone seemed so unpleasant, so unsatisfied. Ryan let his eyes droop closed as Seth started talking again, and he folded himself into the heavy warmth of his jacket.

+++++

"Ryan? Hey, buddy, wake up. We're home."

Ryan snapped awake in the backseat. He had slipped so far down in the seat that his head was wedged against the bottom of the window. His arms were crossed snugly over his chest. He felt stiff and sore as he sat up carefully, wiping once at his mouth to make sure he hadn't drooled everywhere. He blinked at his surroundings. He couldn't believe he'd actually slept the entire drive back to Newport.

Seth, free of his seatbelt now, was turned all the way around and grinning at him over the top of the front seat.

"You're up," he said cheerily. "Let's go inside."

Ryan followed Seth toward the back of the house, moving sluggishly behind Seth's wide, nearly skipping stride. As they walked into the kitchen, Ryan rubbed at the back of his neck, frowning at the headache that seemed only to be pounding worse now that he had managed to sleep a little. He stopped at the edge of the kitchen, completely unsure of what came next, what was expected of him.

Mrs. Cohen was standing on the other side of the counter sorting through a small stack of mail. She smiled at Ryan, a real smile this time, and clearly being back in her own territory had returned some of her confidence. She was in charge here. She would tell him what to do.

"Did you have a good nap?" she asked, dropping the last of the mail back onto the counter. Ryan nodded and continued rubbing at his neck. "What's wrong?"

Again with the concern. He tried not to scowl and shrugged.

"Headache?" she asked.

"Yeah, a little," he admitted, letting his hand fall to his side.

Mrs. Cohen reached for her purse where it was sitting next to the mail and after a moment's search came up with a bottle of aspirin.

"Help yourself," she said, pushing the bottle across the counter. "Bottled water is in the refrigerator."

"Thanks," Ryan said. He shook two pills into his hand, then finally a third just in case, and set the bottle back down. He looked uncertainly at the refrigerator. It seemed strange, like prying, to look inside while they were standing there watching. After a moment's hesitation his dilemma was resolved when Seth walked behind him and poked his head into the refrigerator, coming out with a carton of juice and bottled water for Ryan.

"Here you go," he said, handing the water over. Ryan nodded his thanks and downed the pills. "So what do you want to do? Up for some Playstation? We could head down to the pier. Maybe hit the beach."

"Uh-"

"Seth, Ryan probably wants to get settled first, right?" Ryan blinked and glanced briefly at Mrs. Cohen. She smiled kindly at him, and he could read in that smile that she knew her son was overbearing and that all Ryan wanted to do was collapse and put this day behind him. He looked away before she could see how grateful he was. "There are clean clothes in the pool house. Why don't you change, take a shower if you like, and then we can figure out what to do."

Ryan didn't know what she meant by figuring out what to do, but clean clothes and a shower sounded just about right, so he pushed that last comment out of his mind and nodded agreeably.

"Yeah, sounds good."

The pool house was mostly just as he'd left it. In the corner, leaning against a wall where surfboards had once been stacked, he was pleasantly surprised to see his bike. He'd assumed it was gone for good, burned to ruin in the house fire or abandoned in all of the chaos. When he walked up to it and touched the handlebars, he saw that it was dirty from the smoke, but otherwise in good shape. He smiled and let his fingers run lightly over the cool metal frame before turning back to the bed.

In the middle of the bed was a stack of clothes. He recognized them as the only clothes he'd let Mrs. Cohen buy for him during his first stay at the house. Or actually, his second stay, after his mom had ditched him. Ryan hadn't taken the clothes with him when he'd run away, determined to break out without any help or charity. Now he was grateful that he'd left something behind. He slipped off his jacket and sweatshirt and kicked off his boots, picked up the bundle of clothes, and locked himself in the bathroom.

Ryan cranked up the hot water in the shower and had begun peeling off his clothes when he caught sight of himself in the mirror over the sink. He was momentarily stunned by his appearance. His eyes were red and swollen, and it looked as though he'd been beaten but he knew it wasn't from the fight that morning. He looked pale and sick, his cheeks pasty, his hair greasy where it fell over his forehead. His whole face seemed void of color, even his lips and his eyes, which seemed more gray than blue in the light. He wondered if this face was what made Mrs. Cohen look at him with that sad, kind smile.

Ryan turned away from the mirror and stripped off the rest of his clothes. He stepped into the shower, where the water was so hot that it immediately made his skin flush and burn. He turned his face up into the stream and let it wash over his eyes and nose and mouth.

Showering had been the worst part about juvenile hall. He had been allowed one five-minute shower a day, and while they got private stalls, there were two guards for every six boys, and the attention had made him feel sick and defenseless. The three showers he had taken had each lasted maybe one minute, just long enough for him to make one pass over his body and be done with it. The boys also had been allowed three trips to the bathroom each day, and any other visits had been granted only by request. Ryan had hated the humiliation of having to ask to go to the bathroom, of bathing while under guard.

Now, standing under the water in the Cohens' pool house, Ryan let his mind wander, steering it away from this time and place. He'd once loved the water. He could remember when he was very young, when they were still living in Fresno, and someone—a lifeguard at the YMCA? a neighbor who sometimes watched him after school?—had told his mom that Ryan was a good swimmer. "A natural," the woman had said. He'd been barely 6 years old at the time, but he could still remember the way that rush of excitement, of potential achievement, had thrilled through his body. Nothing had ever come of it, of course. At some point he'd even developed a mild fear of water, although he couldn't recall when or why.

Ryan turned off the water with a sharp twist of the faucet, remembered he hadn't even washed his hair, and turned it back on just long enough to finish the shower. When he got out, water dripping off his nose and down the back of his neck, he couldn't see himself in the mirror through the steam.

He dried off and tucked the towel around his waist then brushed his teeth, twice, and shaved. It felt like an incredible luxury. He finished dressing before the steam had cleared.

In the bedroom, he snapped the wrist cuff back on and fished through the pockets of his jacket for the choker. He tied it around his neck, ran a hand through his wet hair, and took a deep breath before heading back into the main house.

+++++

He smelled something rich and meaty in the kitchen as soon as he opened the back door, and his stomach rumbled painfully. It occurred to Ryan that he hadn't eaten since dinner the night before, after the incident in the cafeteria that morning and then missing lunch because of the fight.

"Feel better?" Mrs. Cohen asked. She was sitting at the kitchen table, papers fanned out in front of her.

"Yeah."

"You must be hungry. Rosa's making lunch." Ryan glanced to his right, where the Cohens' housekeeper was chopping what looked like tomatoes. She looked up at him and smiled.

"Uh, no, you don't have to-"

"Seth and I are starving," Mrs. Cohen said before he could finish. "We missed lunch too."

"Oh," Ryan said. He clasped his hands in front of him, rubbing at the wrist cuff and staring off to the side through the awkward silence.

"Did that happen in the fight?" Mrs. Cohen said. Ryan frowned, and she touched a spot on her own neck. "The bruise. Did that boy do that to you?"

Ryan turned his head the other way, so she wouldn't have to see.

"Yeah, no. Uh, not really. It's fine."

"Maybe we should put something on it. I've got some Neosporin in the bathroom. It might get infected."

"No, no, it's nothing," Ryan said. He wished he'd stayed in the pool house. Mrs. Cohen stared at her papers for a moment, and he could see her mouth twitching and her forehead crinkling in thought. She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear, then looked up at him and smiled.

"Okay," she said. "Seth's playing video games. He's supposed to be grounded, but he was so excited about you coming back…" she trailed off, lifting her hands in surrender. "You should join him. Rosa can bring out your lunch when she's done."

Ryan glanced at Rosa in the corner and nodded. In the next room, he saw Seth sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking very much like he had the first time Ryan had seen him. Seth nodded when he came in and scooted over on the floor to make room. Ryan collapsed on the couch instead, pulling a throw pillow into his lap.

"You want to play? I can put on Tony Hawk. Or Mortal Kombat. I got Red Faction just last week, so I'm not even good at it yet. You might have a shot at beating me."

"Nah, finish your game," Ryan said. "We'll play when you're done."

"You sure, man? 'Cause I don't mind. It's more fun two-player anyway."

Ryan just waved his hand in response, and Seth shrugged and turned back to his game. It was Grand Theft Auto again. Ryan found the game strangely relaxing, considering it revolved around beating up other characters, stealing cars, shooting cops and racing around on high-speed chases. Aside from the cop-shooting, Ryan realized he'd basically lived this game. There was something soothing about watching all of that happen from a distance, in a fictional universe where there were no consequences and no one really got hurt.

He sank back into the cushions and watched the game distractedly, focusing just enough to keep his thoughts from wandering anywhere else. The sounds from the game—the music, the squeal of tires, the shooting, the screaming—faded to a dull white noise, and he blinked heavily. Ryan was asleep in minutes.

+++++

Ryan woke up disoriented and afraid, not sure where he was. He blinked his eyes open slowly, staying very still as he tried to remember where he was. He was lying down on his side, a pillow clutched to his chest, a blanket pulled up to his shoulders. On the floor in front of him, his head bobbing excitedly, was Seth. Ryan sighed in relief and closed his eyes again.

He couldn't remember falling asleep, much less stretching out on the couch—with his boots still on, he realized—and grabbing a blanket. As he let the confusion clear from his sleep-fogged head, Ryan noticed that Seth had muted the television. He opened his eyes again and saw that the lights were on in the room now, which meant it must be dark already. He wondered how long he'd been sleeping. He settled his eyes on the back of Seth's curly head again.

Seth must have felt Ryan staring, because he turned away from his game and grinned.

"Hey," he said eagerly. "You're really Mr. Excitement today. Way to keep me entertained."

"Sorry," Ryan said sheepishly.

"Hey, no problem. You've gotta be pretty tired," Seth said. He turned back to the television and paused the game. Ryan sat up slowly, tilting his head from side to side to work out any aches and stretching his arms in front of him. He yawned silently and rubbed his eyes. When he looked up again, he saw that Seth had turned around to face him, but was staring at his hands in his lap.

"So, uh, it must've been pretty rough, in juvie, I mean." Seth glanced at him uncertainly. Ryan didn't know what to say. Seth hadn't asked a question, but he was looking at him expectantly, like he was waiting for an answer. Ryan couldn't tell him about the constant noise, and the energy that had gone into simply keeping as quiet and small as possible. The way he had been watched, all the time, by the other kids and the guards. That horrible feeling of being trapped in every way. Of being unable to think, and unable to stop thinking at the same time.

He managed a mild shrug and looked away.

"You don't have to tell me about it, unless you want to, which you probably don't," Seth went on. "I'm just, well, I'm glad you're home."

Ryan jerked at that word and set his eyes on Seth. Home wasn't something he wanted to think about now. Seth couldn't understand that either.

"Yeah," Ryan said, but it came out as a whisper.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment, Seth rocking back and forth a bit, Ryan studying the blanket that had fallen around his waist.

"So, you're probably pretty hungry," Seth said. "Lunch, or dinner now, I guess, is in the kitchen. Mom said you should just reheat the soup in the microwave."

"All right," Ryan said. He pushed the pillow and blanket to the side and stood up. Outside he could see that it was well past sunset. Someone had even turned on the lights in the pool house. He made his way to the kitchen and, after a slight hesitation, opened the refrigerator to find a plate with a sandwich and a bowl of soup. He left the soup and grabbed just the plate, snatched a napkin from the table, and made his way back to the other room, where he sat on the floor next to Seth.

Seth had cranked up the sound on the television again, and he let Ryan eat in peace while he focused on the video game. He'd switched to some kind of shooting game while Ryan had slept.

Ryan was halfway through his lunch-dinner when he heard someone calling to Seth from the front of the house. Mr. Cohen was home.

"Seth, what did we say? No video games." The words dropped off as Mr. Cohen walked into the den and saw Ryan and Seth sitting on the floor. "Oh."

Ryan found suddenly that the food in his mouth was dry and sticky, and he forced himself to finish chewing and swallow. Mr. Cohen stared thoughtfully at him for a moment. Mrs. Cohen hadn't told him. He hadn't expected to find Ryan here. The realization made Ryan feel slightly nauseous, and he looked down at his feet, away from Mr. Cohen.

"Hello, Ryan," Mr. Cohen said, and Ryan could tell that the cheer in his voice was forced. "Nice to have you back."

Ryan glanced up long enough to offer the best smile he could muster, and then picked up his sandwich, as though he planned to continue eating. Mr. Cohen stood in the doorway a few more seconds and then walked away. Ryan dropped the remaining sandwich onto the plate.

"Hey, did you see that?" Seth said, excitedly pointing at the television with one hand. "I totally nailed that guy in the back. Did you see the way the blood busted out of his forehead? That was awesome."

"Yeah, man," Ryan muttered, staring at the space where Mr. Cohen had been standing. Ryan stood up with his plate. "I'll be right back."

"Yeah, okay," Seth grunted, his attention back on the game.

Ryan walked back toward the kitchen, pausing just outside the room when he heard Mr. and Mrs. Cohen talking nearby, trying to keep their voices low.

"He couldn't stay there. But he can't stay here. We've got to find his mother," Mrs. Cohen said, her voice tense and urgent.

"He doesn't want to find her."

"He's a kid," Mrs. Cohen said, louder now. "He doesn't know what he wants."

Ryan stepped into the kitchen, into their line of sight, eyes on the plate in his hand.

"So I guess I won't unpack," he said. He felt both of them turn and look at him. He risked a glance at them, saw what he thought was guilt or shame on their faces.

He'd never expected them to keep him there, to want him in their home. He hadn't asked them to take him in—not when he'd called Mr. Cohen after his mom had kicked him out, not when his mom had left him with only a note, not when he'd attacked that kid in juvie. But it still hurt.

And they were wrong. He did know what he wanted. But what he wanted and what he was going to get were two very different things, and no one seemed to understand that but him.

"Ryan-" Mr. Cohen started, but Ryan didn't let him finish.

"No, it's okay," he said. He crossed into the kitchen, tossing the rest of his sandwich in the trash and rinsing his plate off in the sink. When he turned around, he saw Mr. and Mrs. Cohen standing together at the counter, watching him, both searching for the right thing to say. They didn't need to bother.

"I'm pretty tired," he said. "Thanks for the dinner. And, you know, for everything."

"Ryan…" Mrs. Cohen said, but she closed her mouth when she couldn't figure out how to finish.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said. "'Night."

He turned and walked away before either of them could respond, Mr. Cohen's "goodnight" coming just as he closed the back door.

Ryan entered the pool house in a daze, trying hard not to think about the conversation he had overheard. He stood in the middle of the room, taking in all of these surroundings that he was sure he could never get used to—the sculpture in the corner, the flower arrangement on the table at the end of the bed, the heavy sheets and feather pillows. His eyes stopped at the bed. His dirty clothes, which he'd folded neatly and laid on top of the comforter, were gone. In their place were only his lighter, a half-empty pack of cigarettes and his wallet. Everything that had been in his jacket pockets. He wondered if Mrs. Cohen would have thrown out his dirty, smoke-stained clothes while he'd slept. It didn't much matter; she'd probably assumed they were ruined. Ryan picked up the pack and shook a cigarette into his hand, twirling it in his fingers as he tried to decide where he could go and smoke in private.

There was a knock on the windowed door of the pool house, and looked over his shoulder to find Mrs. Cohen stepping in, her arms full of folded clothes.

"We'll have to dry-clean your jacket," she said, setting the clothes on a chair near the door. "At least now you'll have something clean to wear, for the next few days."

"You didn't-"

"I know," she said. Mrs. Cohen stood up straight and studied him for a moment. Her hair was pulled back, fine strands of it sticking out at odd angles around her face and making her look softer than usual. Ryan looked away.

"Ryan," she started, and trailed off. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her pulling at her hands again, toying with the ring on her finger. "We only want what's best for you. We want you to be with your family."

'Where you belong,' he finished in his head. This home, these people, they weren't his life. They never could be. He knew that. He nodded slowly for her, staring at his wallet, at his clean clothes, at the cigarette in his fingers, anywhere but her face.

"You really should quit," she said. He frowned and looked up at her at that. She nodded her chin toward the cigarette. "They're so bad for you. You're too young to ruin your health like that."

He was too young for a lot of things, but he didn't say that. He stuffed the cigarette back into the pack and tossed it on the bed.

"Dinner's in about 30 minutes. You should join us, if you want."

Ryan shrugged and slid his hands into his pants pockets. "I'm not real hungry."

"Okay," she said. "Well, let us know if you need anything."

"You've done more than enough," he said gently, and he meant it. "Thank you."

Mrs. Cohen nodded, opened her mouth as though she wanted to say more, and walked out with one last smile. When she was gone, Ryan sat heavily on the end of the bed. He reached for the cigarettes, paused over the pack, and then folded his hands in his lap instead.

In front of him, the soft orange light from the pool house bounced on the surface of the swimming pool, making the water look warm and inviting. He glanced toward the main house, which also looked warm and inviting. Mr. Cohen was setting something on the table, and Ryan thought he could see his mouth moving, talking to someone in the kitchen.

He sighed and rubbed his hands together. He felt caught now, stuck somewhere between the horrors of juvie and the warm promises of the Cohen home. Ryan lay down and rolled onto his side, his back to the main house. He switched off the bedside lamp, and in the darkness he thought he'd never been so uncertain of where he was going, of where he'd end up. He wasn't locked up anymore, but he was hardly free.

-End