Mark groaned, the incessant glare of the overhead lights seeping into his peripheral vision. His head was throbbing, and he felt dried blood caked above his lip. Blinking away curds of sleep, he opened his eyes.
"Hi."
He saw the neck of the guitar first, a row of translucent strings standing at loose attention on a burgundy backdrop. His eyes traveled down to the base of the guitar, scanning a pair of calloused, rough hands. Sighing, momentarily forgetting his physical discomfort, Mark shifted his view, and met a pair of sympathetic blue eyes. He grimaced slightly, trying in vain to paste on a plastic smile.
Mark nodded towards Roger. "Hi."
Setting his guitar down, Roger leaned towards the vinyl-upholstered cot Mark lay on. "How you feeling, man?"
If you weren't around, I'd be ten times better, Mark thought. However, his statement continued to imitate happiness. "Good, I guess."
Roger nodded, "That's good."
Mark shrugged, vacantly searching for a clock. He hoped that the day would be over soon so that he might escape Roger's concerned eyes. It was almost 3:25. School had been out for over an hour, and Roger's detention was over and done with.
"Uh, they called your parents, but your mom hung up the phone before anyone even told her what happened. I guess she had 'errands to run' or something. They tried to get a hold of your dad, but I guess he was busy."
Mark snorted. His mother was probably helping Cindy build up a monochromatic wardrobe and his father just didn't care. He pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to avoid making eye contact with the other boy.
"Yeah, they're probably pretty busy," Mark mumbled. Roger nodded again, and for the first time that day, Mark knew he had nothing to say.
"Hey, um, thanks for what you did today. I mean, I really don't get why you did it, but I appreciate it," Mark said reluctantly.
Roger grinned, "It was no big deal. Those guys are jerks; I knew a lot just like 'em at my other school too. I'm not exactly great at controlling my temper."
Mark nodded, looking around the room for his backpack. He needed to get out of there.
"Look, uh, I don't know if you'd feel like it or whatever, but do you want to come over for a while? It kind of sounded like your folks were going to be tied up for a while, and Nurse Richards is off duty. My mom can help you get cleaned up." Roger shifted his weight uncomfortably.
Mark stared at the other boy uncertainly. Slowly, he slid off of the cot, forgetting his backpack for the moment. His temples began to pound. He took a shaky step towards the mirror Nurse Richards kept in the office, his reflection being slightly unfocused because of his lack of eyewear.
His hair was matted to his head with sweat, his indigo eyes bloodshot and squinty. A dried patch of crimson blood trailed from his swollen nose to his bruised jaw and onto the olive green of his sweater. Hesitantly, he lifted up his sweater and undershirt to reveal a black and blue stomach and contused sides.
Mark sighed, dropping his shirts. He knew he was going to regret what he was about to do, but in his present condition, he didn't really care. Turning around, he nodded at Roger.
"Okay."
Roger grinned, producing Mark's backpack from underneath his chair, "All right, let's go."
*
Roger Davis lived in a community of duplexes called Birchwood Heights. The houses were nice; all painted the same shade of crème with the same cinnamon color trim. Many of the residents had groomed their yards to Beaver Cleaver perfection, with too-green lawns and perfectly kept flower gardens. As the two boys approached Roger's home, the front door opened and a little girl, no older than four, bounded towards Roger.
"Rogie!" she squealed, blonde pigtails streaming behind her. Roger set his guitar case down, and opened his arms to the toddler. She smiled broadly, displaying her missing front teeth as she wrapped her chubby arms around him.
Roger hugged the little girl, kissing the top of her head. "Hey, kiddo."
"Rogie, you're… you're late," the little girl said, crossing her arms over her chest and trying to glare at him. "Mommy has-a work."
"I know, Annie, I know." Roger paused, brushing a strand of flaxen hair from the girl's freckled forehead. He turned her towards Mark. "Annie, this is my friend Mark."
Annie shied towards Roger, blushing furiously. "Hi-i."
Mark grinned, in spite of himself.
"Mark, this is Annie, my baby sister."
"Hi, Annie."
Roger inclined his head towards his guitar case as he scooped Annie into his arms. Mark nodded, and picked up the instrument, following Roger into the house.
"Mom! Mom, I'm home!" Roger called, setting his sister down in the entryway. Mark waved at her, and she squealed, running away. What am I doing? he wondered.
"She likes you," Roger explained, taking his guitar from Mark and shutting it in a closet. "Mom!"
Roger glanced nervously at the top of the stairs. Mark stood quietly against the front door, watching tension creep into Roger's features. Above, a door creaked open, and a woman garbed in a thigh-length avocado dress and half an apron appeared. She smiled absently at Roger as she guided her earrings to their proper place. Taking a quick glance towards the room from which she had come, she closed the door, and, walking down the stairs, coaxed her dark brown hair into an erect ponytail.
"Roger, honey, please keep your voice down. Matthew had a bad night at work, and I just got him to sleep."
Mark examined the woman in front of him. She was, obviously, Roger's mother, yet she looked fragile and young. Ever observant, Mark concentrated on her every aspect. Waif-like and tall, her eyes were like her son's; an intense blend of blue and amber, displaying unwavering fervor. Her hair was dark and fine. Mark altered his gaze, and noticed a small blemish below her eye. She had done her best to conceal it with make-up, but a dull crescent of violet was still visible. Mark looked towards Roger, whose expression was taut and vexed.
"Oh," Roger replied, his voice tight.
She shook her head, squeezing her son's shoulder before turning towards Mark, "Who's your friend?"
Roger's expression softened slightly. "This is Mark. He's, uh, in a lot of my classes at school."
"Hello, Mark," she greeted him cheerily, extending her hand. "I'm Mrs. O'Neil."
Mark shook Mrs. O'Neil's hand, silently wondering why she wasn't Mrs. Davis. Mrs. O'Neil studied his face, taking in his battle scars from earlier in the day.
"My goodness, dear. I hope you don't mind my saying so, but you look like death warmed over. Roger, why don't you help him get cleaned up? There are some fresh towels in the linen closet, and I'm sure he could borrow some of your clothes."
Roger nodded.
"All right. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I've got to run. Hector won't be too happy if I'm late again. There's some mac n' cheese in the pantry, and some hotdogs in the fridge. Make sure that Annie and Adam get some dinner, would you? Oh, and save some for your step-father. He'll probably want some when he wakes up."
Mark watched Roger grimace, and then nod.
Mrs. O'Neil kissed her son's cheek. "Thanks, Roger. I love you."
"Love you too, Mom," Roger replied.
"Nice to have met you, Mark," she acknowledged, grabbing a purse and jacket from a nearby coat rack, before heading for the door. "I'll be back around one. Bye!"
"Bye," Roger mumbled. The door slammed shut, and Roger's expression relaxed.
"She's nice," Mark remarked.
The other boy nodded, "Yeah. Um, let's go upstairs."
Roger started up the steps, hesitating as he passed the room from which his mother had come. Mark followed, trying not to become preoccupied with the information Roger wasn't volunteering. The two ventured down the short hallway, and Roger pushed open the door to his bedroom.
The room was surprisingly clean. A precisely made bunk bed stood against one of the walls, a miniature version of Roger lounging on the bottom bunk. There were shelves crammed with a diverse collection of books, from Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel to A Clockwork Orange. A dresser stood at attention near the window, its top littered with trophies and a boom box. Shoved neatly into a corner was a small desk, stacked with sheet music and notebooks. Posters of John Lennon, REM, Spider Man, and the New York skyline were clinging to the walls.
Roger gestured to a small outcropping beneath the window, and Mark reluctantly sat down.
Catching the attention of his mini-self, Roger pointed towards Mark. "Adam, this is Mark. He's a friend from school. Mark, this is my little brother, Adam."
Mark and Adam nodded at each other, and the younger boy returned to the comic book he was reading, undaunted by Mark's appearance.
"Let me get you some clothes and towels, and you can take a shower and stuff." Roger began shuffling through his dresser, producing a pair of baggy and torn jeans and a faded Yankees jersey. He tossed them at Mark, and left the room, returning with a towel and washcloth. "Bathroom's right across the hall."
Mark shrugged, taking the stuff from Roger's hands and going across the hall.
The shower was relatively
painless, and it gave him an opportunity to get rid of sweat and the dry
blood that was clinging to his face. He emerged almost a half-hour later,
more comfortable and glad to be in clean clothes. By that time, it
was almost five o'clock. It was no great surprise that his parents hadn't
called out the National Guard in hopes of finding him. Constantly detaching
himself from feeling, he normally wouldn't have minded. However, Mark felt
himself growing comfortable around Roger, and he wasn't sure he liked it.
