The mistakes are mine, but the characters belong to Schwartz and company.
The First Time: Ryan's First Fight

The first time Ryan got in a fight, on a stale August evening just before he started sixth grade, he lost.

He lost in so many ways.

Ryan and Trey were collapsed on the couch in rumpled heaps, lethargically watching TV when Dawn emerged from her bedroom.

"Okay, out, you two," she ordered, struggling to fasten the back of her dress as she teetered unsteadily on four-inch heels. "Nicky's gonna be here soon, and . . . oh fuck, I jammed it. Trey, zip this up for me, will ya?" She knocked Trey's feet off the coffee table and stood in front of him, shaking her hair over her shoulder and out of his way.

Ryan clicked off the television and stared at the empty screen. He hated it whenever Dawn wandered out half-dressed, pale expanses of skin exposed in a way that slurred "Woman," but mocked the word "Mother." It didn't seem right, it couldn't be right, for her sons to see her that way, but Dawn never seemed to mind, shambling through the house in her slip, or slumping at the table in a nearly sheer negligee.

The best Ryan could do was to avoid looking at her.

Trey snorted at the flapping fabric of his mother's dress, but he leaned forward and yanked up the zipper. "What?" he scoffed. "The maid quit today, so I gotta fill in? And who the hell is Nicky anyway? How come you're fixing him dinner while Ry and I have to eat whatever junk we can find?"

"Trey!" Dawn exclaimed, flinching. "Watch it will ya? You caught my hair, and it's . . . ow. Shit, why do I ever trust you to do something for me? Ry? Ryan, baby? Would you fix it for me? Don't pull now . . ."

Dawn sidled over to Ryan and slouched a bit so that he could reach the strands of hair tangled in the zipper's teeth. Obediently he twisted them free, trying to touch his mother as little as possible. Ryan's nose wrinkled and he held his breath as he worked. He hated the way his mother smelled anymore. There was nothing fresh or clean about her scent. It reminded Ryan of mold, sweetly rancid, or something that had begun to decay, dead flesh under a froth of wilted flowers.

"His name is Nick Acevedo," Dawn purred, fluffing her hair as Ryan released it. She turned around and flicked his nose playfully with her index finger. "And I'm makin' him dinner because, for your information, guys, Nick is the man who just might turn our lives around. Get us out of this hell hole, you know? Make us a real family again."

"Oh, got it," Trey mocked, propping his feet back up and scooping an overflowing handful of chips out of the bag at his elbow. "He's this week's candyass Prince Charming. Yeah, good luck with that fucking fairy tale, Mom. Let us know when you get to sappily ever after."

"You swear too much, Trey! I've told you, either talk to me with respect or keep your goddamn mouth shut." Dawn kicked his legs down again, and glared at the mess on the coffee table. "Now I said I wanted you two out of here before Nicky comes. But first, clean up this shit! What's he gonna think about us if he sees this pigsty? Trey--" Defiantly, Trey crammed more chips in his mouth, letting crumbs dribble from his hands and his lips. Dawn clenched her teeth, scowling in helpless fury. "Ryan?" she pleaded.

"I'll take care of it, Mom," Ryan promised. He hauled the garbage can in from the kitchen, scraped the trash into it, dusted the table's filmy surface with the flat of his hand, and then stacked the magazines into a neat pile.

Trey watched from the sofa, squinting in mingled amusement and scorn. "Better be careful, LB," he taunted. "You forgot to ask Mom how high before you jumped this time. Could be she wanted you to sweep the fucking floor for her too."

Ryan flushed, but he refused to take the bait. Trey always became edgy, eager to strike at any available target whenever Dawn introduced a new man into their lives. Ryan understood the impulse. He even shared it, but he didn't have the energy for his brother's exhausting war games tonight. It was just too hot, and there was no way he could win. This summer proved that. Ryan had spent all of his time trying simultaneously to stay out of Trey's and Dawn's way and still keep himself wedged firmly between them. Without some buffer, they hurt each other too badly, but deflecting their blows bruised Ryan too, left him tired, defensive and scarred.

At least, he reminded himself, school would start soon.

For six hours each day, five days a week, Ryan would have a refuge from both his mother and brother. He imagined himself sitting at his own desk, pristine paper in front of him, pencils sharpened to a fine point. At school, the rules weren't amorphous, and they didn't change every day. Posters spelled them out: be prompt, be prepared, be polite, be productive. Ryan loved how precise those words were, the fact that they held him responsible only for his own behavior. In class, every equation had a right answer, and if his didn't match, Ryan could find his mistake, or he could escape into books where conflicts might be resolved or not, but since the problems weren't his, Ryan could care from a distance, dispassionately.

Or not at all.

Less than two weeks to go. Just eleven more days. Ryan smiled to himself with anticipation.

"What the fuck?" Trey growled, noticing his brother's unexpected expression. "What's so funny? Are you laughing at me, Ry?"

Ryan blinked, Trey's voice wrenching him unwillingly back into their squalid living room. "What?" he stammered. "No, Trey. I was just . . . thinking about something else, that's all. School."

"Huh." Trey narrowed his eyes balefully, unconvinced, but before he could say anything else, Dawn yanked him to his feet.

"Out!" she ordered. "You wanna argue with your brother, do it somewhere else, Trey. Nicky and I need some privacy here."

"Yeah?" Trey retorted, shaking off her arm. "You need the whole goddamn house? 'Cause don't you got, I don't know, a bedroom for anything fucking private? . . . Get it, Mom? 'Fucking' private?"

Dawn snapped five silver bracelets onto her wrist, her hand shaking slightly. "Trey," she warned. "Do not start with me. Nicky and I are just . . . we're getting to know each other, okay? That's all. He's really . . . he's really a good guy. And I want him to like me . . ." Her voice trailed off and her lips crimped into a line like a seeping wound. "God, it's not like I'm asking for so damn much here . . ."

Ryan saw Dawn's eyes fill, felt his own prickle dangerously in response. He gave his mother's hand a quick, secret squeeze. "Don't cry, Mom," he whispered. "He'll like you. And we're leaving now, right Trey?"

Trey sighed, relinquishing anger in the face of his mother's tears. "Yeah," he agreed wearily. "We're outta here. It's not like I want to meet this assho—this guy, anyway. Come on, Ry. Let's jet."

Dawn beamed, her moods light-switch quick and changeable whenever she was getting involved with a new man. She looped an arm roughly around Trey's neck, smearing a tangerine colored kiss onto his cheek, then twirled Ryan over and buried her face in his hair. "That's my guys!" she exclaimed happily. "Now you two have fun this evening. And look, don't come home before, say, maybe midnight, okay?" Her voice followed them to the porch. "And remember to knock when you get back! Don't just come walking in!"

"Yeah, not like it's our own goddamn house or anything," Trey grumbled as the screen door slammed behind them. "Midnight." He glared at Ryan accusingly. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with you until midnight?"

Ryan shrugged one shoulder, crouching to pull out some weeds that had pushed through a crack in the sidewalk. He didn't really know why he bothered. They always grew back before he could even enjoy the fact that they were gone. "I don't know," he answered. His voice wavered between guilt and resentment, because really, he knew, Trey didn't have to do anything with him. "Go to the movies, maybe?"

"Yeah, well, that'll kill about two hours, I guess. But a movie costs money. How much you got, Ry?"

"Um . . ." Ryan fumbled through his jeans pockets, despite the fact that he knew what wasn't there. "Nothing, I guess."

Trey rolled his eyes. "Well, then, going to the movies was a fucking great idea, genius. Why the hell does everybody think you're so goddamn smart? Or maybe you just figured I'd pay for you. Looking for a free ride, is that it, little brother? Well, I got, let's see, a buck seventeen. That won't even get one of us through the door. Fuck all anyway. . ." Abruptly, Trey hurdled off the porch, landing at the tree where he had his bike chained. He starting buffing its fire-red fender with the hem of his t-shirt, his brow furrowed, gaze unfocused and far away.

Just days before Trey had, as he announced proudly to Ryan, "traded-up." He had pedaled away in the morning on the ratty rebuilt two-wheeler that he'd acquired just after they moved to Chino, and coasted home, no-hands, on a sleek street bike that looked practically new.

"Shit, Trey," Ryan had breathed, awestruck. "What a sweet ride. Where . . . I mean, how did you get it?"

"You just gotta know the right people," Trey explained, voice nonchalant, but his eyes glinting proudly. "Gotta know how to do things."

"But how did you pay for it? This--" Ryan stroked the handlebars reverently. "This had to cost." He darted an appraising glance at his brother, checking to make sure no one could overhear. His voice dropped to a whisper. "You didn't steal it, did you?"

For just a moment, Trey's face darkened ominously. Then he fixed Ryan with an ingenuous expression clouded by hurt and betrayal. "I didn't steal the bike, Ry."

"Okay," Ryan murmured, biting his lip. Then, because he couldn't help himself, he added softly, "You swear?"

"Jeez! Fine, Ry, I swear. Happy now?" Trey shook his head in disgust, grabbing the handlebars and wrenching them out of Ryan's grasp. "You're just like Mom, you know that? Always thinking the worst about me. Trey's no good. Trey's a thief. Trey's a liar. You can never trust Trey . . ."

"No--" Ryan scrambled in front of the bike as his brother vaulted onto the seat. "I'm not like Mom. Come on, Trey, stop. I didn't mean. . ."

"The fuck you didn't." Trey pedaled once and Ryan stumbled backwards, retreating from the menacing wheel. "Move away, little brother. Unless you want me to run you down. Move away."

"Come on, Trey," Ryan repeated. He tried to keep his voice from pleading because Trey hated that, but an entreaty seeped through anyway. "I'm sorry, okay? I should have believed you."

Trey glared at him. "Damn straight, you should," he growled. "I'm your brother, Ry. You know what that means?"

"Yeah," Ryan nodded. "It means we're blood. So I should trust you, 'cause you wouldn't lie to me." He moved cautiously to the side of the bike, nudging Trey with his elbow. "And," he continued, taking a deep breath, "you wouldn't run me down either. Right?"

Trey scowled, but then, seeing Ryan's lips quirk into a hopeful grin, he smiled grudgingly and squeezed his brother's shoulder. "You don't think I would, huh? Well, not today, anyway, LB," he conceded. "Okay, climb on. I'll give you a ride. But be careful, understand? Do not scratch the finish or I will beat your sorry ass."

Now, as Trey polished the bike's mirror, Ryan could see his brother mulling ideas for escape. He knew with sad certainty that none of those plans would involve him unless it was as an unwanted afterthought. As much as he hated the thought of tagging along, Ryan didn't want to be left behind either. There had to be something he and Trey could do together. Something that didn't cost any money.

His eyes darted around, looking for inspiration, just as the sound of laughter floated out of a window next door. "How about . . . we see if Arturo and Theresa are home?" Ryan suggested. If the four of them did something together, he wouldn't just be included as Trey's baby brother; he would be there as Theresa's friend. "Maybe we could all hang out or something?"

Ryan could feel his cheeks flaming and he ducked his head, hoping Trey wouldn't notice. Recently, his brother had started making crude comments about Ryan's and Theresa's relationship, blowing wet kisses between pursed lips and thrusting a finger up and down through a loose fist whenever he saw them together. It embarrassed and angered Ryan, but worse, it made him feel . . . itchy somehow, slightly unclean, and dizzy.

Ever since they moved to Fresno, Ryan had watched Trey shuffle girls like well-thumbed cards, in and out of his hands, in and out of his life. If that's what happened with girlfriends—a few days or weeks of roiling passion that for some reason rotted into venomous jokes or complete apathy—Ryan was determined never to connect with Theresa that way, no matter what.

She was his best friend.

Ryan wanted her to be his friend forever. Even though, as his unruly body had begun to remind him, she definitely was a girl.

"Trey?" he prompted. "What do you think? You, me, Turo, Theresa . . . We haven't hung out since they went to visit their grandmother."

Ryan waited while his brother considered the idea. Finally, Trey tapped out a cigarette, striking the match against a step. "Why the fuck not?" he replied listlessly. "I got no other ideas. And you and Theresa can baby-sit each other, I guess. C'mon, Ry."

Before they were halfway across the yard, Trey was already yelling, "Yo! Turo? You home, dude?"

Theresa's mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. "I have asked you before, Trey, do not shout for my son," she said sternly. "It takes only two seconds to ring the bell." Ryan scuffed his feet, self-conscious at the reproach, and her expression softened. "How are you, Nino? Eh, I can tell you . . . You are hungry and you need a haircut."

Ryan shook his bangs back from his eyes, smiling shyly. "You always say that."

"And it is always true." Theresa's mother opened the door and stood to one side. "Come in. Theresa is just putting away what is left from our dinner. She would love it if you would eat and make less work for her."

Trey shuffled in place, looking uncomfortable. "Yeah, well, that's really nice of you," he mumbled, "but actually, Ry and I were wondering if Turo and Theresa might want to just hang out for a while."

Theresa's mother frowned. "Hang out?" she repeated dubiously.

"You know, Mama—spend time together," Arturo clarified as he came in from the living room. He rapped Trey's fist lightly. "Hey, man. 'Sup? I thought you and Denise had something going tonight."

Ryan glanced furtively at his brother. He had overheard Trey's latest girlfriend screaming that afternoon—something about money missing from her mother's purse, and how could Trey fucking do that to her—but his brother had explained nothing about what had happened between them.

"Yeah, well, we don't," Trey snapped. "Denise is a--" He bit off the word, finishing awkwardly, "We broke up, that's all. I got tired of her pissy demands all the time . . . So, whaddya say, Turo? You and Theresa want to hang with us for a while?"

"Yes, we do," Theresa announced, joining the group at the door. She waved at Ryan, a welcome wreathing her face. "Don't we Turo?"

Arturo shrugged. "Sure. Why not? That okay, Mama?"

His mother glanced from Theresa to Ryan, shaking her head at their hopeful expressions. "Well, as long as you keep an eye on your sister, I suppose it is all right, Turo," she conceded. "Ryan? Theresa could wrap up some empanadas for you to eat when you get to the park. Would you like that? And some for you, Trey?"

Ryan's eyes darted to Trey's face, trying to predict his likely response. Lately his brother's pride had begun to take perverse forms Ryan couldn't understand. It was a simple offer--just some leftover empanadas--but Ryan suspected Trey would refuse, and he was suddenly too hungry to give him the chance.

"Yes please. Empanadas would be great," Ryan answered promptly. "Thank you."

Ten minutes later, he was clutching a brown lunch bag, one fold stained with a line of fragrant grease, waiting for Trey to unlock his bike. Theresa was already perched on Turo's handlebars, balancing easily while her brother pedaled in place.

Trey straddled his own bike. His eyes slowly traversed the smooth length of Theresa's thighs, lingering on the curve of her buttocks. "Bet you'd like to be sittin' in Turo's seat right now, huh, Ry?" he observed. "Because that--" Trey rolled the word around his tongue, coating it with thick innuendo, "is one sweet little view."

Ryan froze in the act of climbing behind his brother, and the blue of his eyes iced over. "Shut up, Trey," he hissed, his hands clenching to fists.

"What?" Trey glanced back with faux-innocence. "I'm just sayin' L.B."

Ryan gritted his teeth. He pitched his voice low, wishing it had more authority. "And I'm saying don't talk about Theresa like that."

Trey raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, sorry, Ry," he drawled. "Don't worry, she's all yours. I got no designs on your girl."

"She's not--" Ryan protested, but then he caught the flash of Trey's smug smile and clamped his mouth shut.

Almost.

He had almost gotten sucked into one of his brother's mind games again.

Silence was Ryan's only real weapon when Trey got into one of these antagonistic moods. He stood rigidly on the bike pegs as they careened down the street, clutching the edge of the seat for support, but refusing to hold on to his brother's shoulders the way he used to do.

He didn't trust Trey not to shrug him off.

Every time the bike jumped a curb, veered wildly around a parked car, raced through an intersection, Ryan braced himself for a fall. When Trey finally swung to a stop at the park entrance, he exhaled with relief.

Inside, a scabbed stretch of grass surrounded some pieces of sun-bleached playground equipment. At one end, there was an untended baseball diamond that long ago eroded to dust and weeds, and on the other side a wire fence bordered a pock-marked basketball court with rims, but no baskets. That was the park. Even though it was intended for families, teenagers really owned the place, especially at dusk. They played hoops sometimes, or craps, or poker, but never baseball, and they often conducted their drug deals in a slice of shade under the sliding board or in the deserted dugout.

Right now, though, the place looked abandoned.

"Shit. Man, there better be some action around here tonight," Trey complained, kicking a stray tennis ball. "I didn't come all the way over here just to climb the fucking monkey bars."

Turo shrugged. "It's early, man." He glanced at Theresa and Ryan, who had climbed off the bikes, and lowered his voice. "You got any money on you? You know, in case?"

"Nah," Trey admitted. "But as long as the right guys show up, I got plenty of credit." He lifted his front wheel off the ground and bounced it experimentally. "Wanna race, man? See what this baby's got? Say, twice around the park?"

Turo compared the sleek expanse of Trey's bike to his own squat five-speed. "Yeah, 'cause that'd be fair."

"Come on," Trey urged. "Shit, it's not like we got anything else to do. Besides, Ryan and Theresa probably want some time alone. Don't you, Ry? Need some privacy with your girl?"

"Trey . . ." Ryan flushed, and his eyes flashed a warning. At the same time, Turo reached over and cuffed Trey hard on the neck.

"That's my little sister," he growled. "You watch your fucking mouth." Then he glared fiercely at Ryan. "And you, hombrecito, you watch your hands . . . Okay, Trey, you're on. Theresa?"

Theresa raised one arm. She waited until Trey and Turo crouched over their handlebars and then sliced her hand down, jumping aside as the bikes flew past her.

Ryan shaded his eyes to watch the progress of the race, coughing a little in the flurry of dust. "Theresa . . ." he began awkwardly. "About what your brother said. I really don't . . ."

Theresa threw back her head, blue-black curls throbbing with indignation. "Oh fuck them, Ryan. Estúpido, both of them. They think they're so much, and they're nothing. I hope they fall flat on their sorry asses, first my brother, then yours."

Ryan's eyes sparkled, both at the prospect and in relief at Theresa's reaction. "Yeah, that would be awesome," he agreed. "So . . . what do you want to do? 'Cause, you know, we have so many choices here." He surveyed the park with an ironic smile that slowly dissolved into something like sadness.

This place was supposed to be nice—a refuge, a little pocket of play and ease and serenity. But everything Ryan saw looked rusty, worn beyond any hope of redemption.

Theresa, he thought, deserved someplace better than this.

Hell, all of them did.

Theresa followed Ryan's gaze, her own eyes melancholy as they took in the blistered benches, the uneven sidewalk and lopsided swing set. "Pretty shitty place, huh?"

"Yeah," Ryan agreed. He leaned against a tree, idly swatting his leg with the lunch bag he was holding. "You ever think of living somewhere else, Theresa?"

She cocked her head, considering his question. "Sure, I think about it," she answered. "But I don't know if I ever will. You know . . . my family's here."

"Family," Ryan repeated tonelessly. "Right. Mine too, I guess."

Theresa watched him for a moment, frowning. Then she grabbed the lunch bag, pulled out an empanada and waved it tantalizingly under Ryan's nose. "You want to eat this?" she teased. "Or should I feed it to the dogs?"

"Hey!" Ryan protested, snatching it back. "Your mom gave that to me. And anyway, there are no dogs around."

"Yeah, I know," Theresa said slyly. "They're off riding their bikes."

His mouth already full, Ryan choked on a laugh, and Theresa giggled. She sank down in one fluid motion, stretching her arms out and leaning back, waiting for him to finish eating. "So . . . anything happen around here while I was away?"

Ryan shrugged. He picked up a stick and swirled designs in the dirt.

"Not really," he muttered. "Well, my mom—she got a new job at the Shell convenience store. It's part-time, but, you know, it's something." After a pause he added, his voice barely audible, "And she's maybe got a new boyfriend too."

Theresa looked at him sharply. "So that's why you and Trey are both out tonight?"

"Kinda."

"Have you met this guy?"

"No," Ryan admitted. "But Mom says he's really nice." The last word stuck in his throat, and he stabbed the stick he was holding into the dirt.

"Well, I hope she's right. This time," Theresa murmured. Her fingers skimmed the back of his hand like a whisper and Ryan swallowed, not sure how to accept the touch, whether it meant understanding or pity, or maybe something more.

He was still trying to figure out what he wanted to say when a spray of gravel bounced off his chest. Trey skidded sideways to a stop inches from Ryan's feet, snickering over his shoulder at Turo who lagged several yards behind.

"Jeez, Trey!" Ryan exclaimed. He glanced at Theresa, who was finger-combing pebbles out of her hair, her fine brows drawn together in fury. "Watch it, will you?"

Trey shrugged and dismounted, leaning his bike against a tree. "Winner gets the right of way, Ry."

"Some winner," Turo argued as he pulled up. He hunched over his handlebars for a moment, panting, before he continued. "You fucking cut me off twice, Trey. And you just about knocked me into the street. Shit, my great-grandmother could have won, racing that bike, but you got to cheat?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Where'd you get a ride like that anyway? The something for nothing mart, right?"

Ryan waited for his brother's denial, but Trey just bit viciously into an empanada and flipped Turo off. "He didn't steal it, Turo," Ryan explained. "Trey traded his old bike and well, some other stuff, for that one."

"Shit, Ry," Turo snorted. "There is no fucking way. Trey couldn't have gotten that bike if he traded your house. Bet you still believe in the tooth fairy too . . . Come on, Theresa. We're going home."

Theresa hesitated, looking at Ryan helplessly. Then she sighed and climbed onto her brother's bike. "Sorry," she murmured. "Trey and Turo . . ." She shook her head in wordless disgust.

"I know," Ryan agreed. He raised a hand in farewell, then turned back to Trey, accusation clear on his face.

"What the fuck's that look for, Ry?" Trey demanded. "Turo's just a sore loser, that's all." He dug through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and slumped against the trunk of the tree.

"So now what do we do?"

Trey closed his eyes. "Me? I'm gonna sit here and smoke," he said wearily. "I don't give a fuck what you do, Ry."

"Yeah," Ryan muttered. "I kinda got that . . ." He ran a tentative finger around the spokes of the front tire. "Trey--"

"No," Trey snapped. "You can't ride it. Hands off the bike, Ry."

That wasn't the question Ryan had wanted to ask, but he yanked his hand back as if it had been burned, wondering if he had his answer anyway. "I'm just . . . I'm gonna walk around awhile, okay?"

"Whatever," Trey shrugged and took another drag of his cigarette.

A few other people were in the park now, boys mostly, Trey's age or older. Ryan ignored them. He wandered aimlessly, watching color bleed from the sky, wishing it weren't turning so dull gray and empty.

When he had been very little, Ryan remembered, Dawn used to hold him on the porch, cheek pressed warm against his, pointing out shooting stars.

It seemed like he never saw stars anymore.

Maybe they'd all burned themselves out when he was a baby.

Ryan picked up another stick as he turned toward the spot where he'd left Trey. He broke off tiny pieces, dropping one with each dragging step, in no hurry to rejoin his brother. Eyes fixed on the path he was creating, he didn't see what was happening until he heard shouting and grunts, and his head jerked up in alarm.

Ryan registered everything at once. One boy holding Trey's bike, Trey rolling on the ground, someone on top of him, a hand—he didn't know whose—reaching for a rock.

An incoherent yell tore out of his throat and Ryan catapulted forward. He scrabbled onto the back of the kid pinning Trey, kicking and punching, one fist still holding the jagged end of his stick. The boy underneath jerked in surprise, rearing back, creating enough space for Trey to slam a knee into his groin.

Ryan heard a muffled groan and felt himself falling. He landed flat on the baked earth, crushed between the ground and the body on top of him. For a few panicked moments, he lay stunned, a knife twist of pain inside his chest telling him he couldn't breathe.

He couldn't. Breathe.

Then Trey yanked the boy on top of him off and Ryan pushed himself to his feet. Trey was laughing now—laughing—throwing the kid roughly against the tree. Ryan shook his head, gulped in air, and launched himself sideways, at the boy holding Trey's bike.

"Let—go," he panted, kicking and trying to pry the kid's hands away. "My brother's bike—let go!"

"The fuck! This is my bike! Your asshole brother stole it. Now I'm takin' it back."

"What?" Ryan gasped dizzily. "No . . ."

It was one second of hesitation, but long enough for the boy to hook a foot around Ryan's leg, throwing him off balance and back to the ground.

"No?" he demanded. He grabbed Ryan's hair, dragging his face to the wheel, almost smashing it into the fender. "See those initials? R.K.? Know who that is, little shit? That's me, Rueben Kamenos. This is my fucking bike, got it?" He backhanded Ryan's face, opening a cut with his ring and drawing blood.

Then there were other blows. Confused and in pain, Ryan lost track, until he felt arms pulling him away, heard Trey shout, "Just take the goddamn bike, okay?" More yells, sneering laughter, and then just Trey's voice, tired and gruff in his ear, "Shit, Ry. You couldn't just stay out of it?"

Ryan licked his lips, gagging on the taste of metal and salt. He tried to twist around and look at his brother, but Trey's arms were wrapped tight, holding him still.

"You hurt, Ry?" Trey asked. He snorted, then clarified, "Yeah, I mean, I get that you're hurt, but are you, really?"

"I don't know," Ryan murmured. "I guess . . . no, I'm not. Not really hurt. You?"

Trey let him go then, although he kept one hand on Ryan's back. "Nah," he said casually, even though Ryan could see fresh bruises on his face and arms. "Bike's gone though."

"Yeah, bike's gone," Ryan echoed dully. He pulled away from Trey's grip and stumbled to his feet, bracing himself against the tree trunk. "Rueben Kamenos' bike, right Trey? Not yours."

Trey's mouth twisted in an ironic smile. "Yeah. Shit, what are the odds, huh? Kid doesn't even live anywhere around here. Just one more case of the fucking Atwood luck." He pulled off his shirt, and reached over to wipe Ryan's face with it, but Ryan flinched, backing away and gritting his teeth.

"You lied to me, Trey. You swore you didn't steal it."

"Come on, LB," Trey protested impatiently. "Don't be a goddamn baby. You know I lie sometimes. Fuck, everybody does. It's not a big deal."

"I know you lie to Mom," Ryan conceded. His eyes were locked on the ground, and he pitched his voice there too. "But I thought that was 'cause . . . I mean, you don't trust Mom. But you lied to me too." Ryan's gaze lifted, disillusioned and bleak. "Don't you trust me either Trey?"

"Jeez, Ryan!" Trey exploded. "Don't pull this guilt shit on me. I just saved your sorry ass here. If you hadn't gotten involved—"

Ryan's breathing became shallow and quick, as if he were fighting again. "I was trying to help you, Trey."

"Who asked you?" Trey snapped. He stood up, towering over Ryan. "You think you're some fucking hero, LB? 'Cause you're not. You think you're better than me?"

"No, Trey."

"Damn straight, no," Trey erupted, rage boiling over, steaming the air around them. "I don't care what people tell you—your teachers with all their pussyass 'Ryan's so smart," 'Ryan's got so much potential', or Mom always cooing about how you're so good and sweet and responsible, and how she can count on her Ryan." Trey swiped at some blood congealing on the side of his mouth, then grabbed Ryan's arm, smearing it over an oozing cut there. "This," he snarled. "This is who you are. You and me, we're blood Ryan. Where it counts, you and me are exactly the same."

Ryan didn't want to believe it. But he when he raised his eyes to Trey's face, it was a mirror image, reflecting his own longing and inchoate despair.

This time, Ryan was afraid Trey might be telling the truth.

Maybe they were exactly the same.

Except . . . Trey had also accused Ryan of being like Dawn. He couldn't be like both of them, could he?

Ryan had no idea who he was anymore.