Disclaimer: They're Jonathan's. I'm just playing with them.

This chapter is dedicated to Mel.

COLLINS

When Roger saw Mark, he stepped away. "Maybe I should go--"

"No!" I didn't think. For once, instinct won over thought. I stepped forward and grabbed his arm. He wasn't leaving. I knew that. Whatever had happened, whoever had done his to Roger, he needed help. He needed warm, dry clothes, a safe place to sleep, more than anything he needed someone. In the months since moving to Scarsdale, I had felt untouched. I left good friends behind in Los Angeles, I left my boyfriend. With Mark and Roger, I hugged them as much as I could without letting on that I was gay, and it wasn't nearly enough.

A few months untouched had grown into a knot in my gut. What had a lifetime of it done to Roger? I couldn't send him back to that. He wouldn't survive, and I would never forgive myself.

He howled, then fell silent, his face turned away from me. He was sobbing and trembling, and trying not to do either. "What happened, Roger?" I shook his arm gently as I asked. He whimpered. "Roger... stay. Okay? Stay here." In my room, Mark was sitting on the bed, staring. "Mark, come on."

I led Roger into the bathroom. Mark followed us. "Here. Roger, sit down." He sat on the edge of the bathtub. I took my hand away from his arm and wiped it on my jeans, and that was when I noticed that it was not water dampening my palm.

For a moment all I could do was stare. Dark red streaks crossed my palm, smears of blood. The sleeve of Roger's shirt was soaked, too. "Christ, Roger." He covered his face with his hand. It was an act of shame. "I'm sorry," I told him. Mark was standing by the door, still staring. "I'm sorry, Roger. I didn't realize." I peeled away his sleeve. Something was jammed into his arm. Blood seeped out around it. "Jesus." I needed to talk. I needed to fill the room with some sound other than Roger's muffled sobs. "I'll take this out for you, okay, Roger? Hold still." I ran my fingers along his arm, first the unbroken skin, as for a bee sting, until my fingers found his blood and the thing releasing it. I tugged.

"Mmf!"

"It's out," I told Roger. "It's okay, it's clear." I tossed the thing into the sink and pressed a towel to his arm. "I'll find a Band-Aid... you'll be okay." I would need a towel for his head, too, I reminded myself; Roger was bleeding from somewhere on his forehead. I pressed a second towel to the general area.

"His back."

I turned. Mark had finally spoken. "What?" I asked.

"Roger's back," Mark said. Roger pressed his face against the counter, his entire body shaken with sobs. "Look at his back, Thomas."

"Don't." Roger stood. "I'm sorry. I'm gonna go--"

I caught him again, this time by the wrist. "No, you're not," I said. "You're not going anywhere. Let me see your back."

"There's nothing wrong, I'm sorry I bothered you--"

"Roger." It was Mark. "Please." His eyes were shimmering. A part of me wanted to tell him, Don't. I can't take care of you both right now. You can't break down, Mark, you just can't. But that's a terrible thing to say, so I let him finish. He seemed to realize what he was doing then, to remember that the last time he spoke to Roger had hit him and claimed to hate him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please stay here, Roger."

Roger nodded.

"Good." I pressed the towel against Roger's arm once more. "Stay here with Mark, okay? I'll find some dry clothes that'll fit you."

Dad found me in my room. I paused, my hands in a drawer, and realized that he had no idea what was happening. A stranger had come into his house in the middle of the night, begging for help. I waited. What could I say? What could possibly explain this?

"I called your mom," he said. "She's on her way."

I nodded. "Thank you," I said.

Dad began to say something, then shook his head. "Go on," he said.

"Don't you want to know what's going on?"

He gave me a strange look. "Of course," he said. Then he left me alone.

In the bathroom, Mark and Roger were sitting together on the floor. It was the strangest thing: they looked like children. Their heads were bowed, and Roger seemed tossed like a doll. There was nothing to them but innocence and confusion. And they did not touch. That was the strangest thing, to me.

"Roger." He looked up. I knelt. "These should fit you. Um... do you want to shower or... Roger, are you okay?" He had not stopped crying. I felt awkward. What could I do? What had happened to him? He nodded. "Listen... my mom is coming over. She's a nurse. She'll take care of you, okay? You'll be fine, Roger." I didn't believe that, and neither did he.

"Your parents don't live together?" Mark asked.

I wrinkled my nose at the thought. My parents living together… They had a great relationship, my parents. They loved each other. They just didn't love each other in that way, and sometimes living together all the time was too much. There were fights, never violent but too tense, and it was obvious to all of us that they needed a break. That turned into a divorce and that was the end of it. They remained great friends. "No way. They split up when I was in like the third grade. I never told you that?" Mark and Roger shook their heads. I shrugged. "Never really seemed important."

We waited until my mother arrived. We talked, but we didn't really say anything, just noise to fill the gaps. Roger kept his soaking clothes on, which was good. One of the first things my mother said when she saw him was, "Oh my G-d in heaven, what happened to you, baby?" Mark and I didn't think to leave as she cut off his shirt with scissors. Earlier, I had pulled a piece of plexiglass out of his arm. There were at least two dozen more pieces jammed into his back.

"Thomas, come here," Mom instructed. "Do exactly what I tell you." I nodded.

The front of Roger's shirt fell away, and the sleeves. The back was pinned. He gripped the edge of the sink as my mother set out a brown bottle of peroxide and tweezers. "This will hurt," she warned Roger, whose tears were dripping slowly down his face. "But something tells me you can handle the pain."

He groaned when she pulled out the first piece of glass. She began with the lowest incision she could find and yanked the shard out with the tweezers. Roger grunted through clenched teeth and jolted. "Can't believe all this rain," Mom said as she took out the next piece of plexiglass. Roger made a tiny noise. Mark stood beside him, one hand over Roger's. "It's great weather." Roger trembled. He was more than enduring pain as Mom's collection of plexiglass shards increased. He was fighting back sobs as hot tears streaked down his face. Mom continued to chat about nothing important as she cleared Roger's back of plexiglass pieces.

The last scrap of his T-shirt fluttered to the floor. I hissed at the sight of Roger's back. It was smeared with blood, many of the cuts still oozing. Mom rinsed it with water. Roger shook as she did, grunting against the pain. I might have heard a muttered exclamation, but it was very quiet. "I'm going to swab your back." Mom took a pack of gauze and wet it down with peroxide. "This will hurt, but it will keep away infections. Thomas, I need you to always have one of these ready for me. Let's do this as quick as possible, hm?"

"Yes, Mom."

It was the first time I had seen Roger topless, first time I had seen him in short sleeves, and I struggled not to stare at the maze of dark scars slashed into his left arm. I winced. There were wounds healed dark or light, burns in perfect circles, one cut still scabbed over, but only one. How long? I wondered. And why? Why, Roger?

She brought the first swatch across the top of Roger's back. He moaned. His chest heaved and he squeezed his eyes shut. Mark tightened his grip on Roger's wrist. I readied another swab for my mom. It was as she wiped a third alcohol-soaked patch across Roger's back that he screamed. His muscles were so tightly wound, just opening his mouth required a tremendous effort.

The shout lasted only half a second, and it sounded as though Roger was trying to vomit a lung. Mark looked at me, eyes wet, begging. I froze. Mom stroked Roger's hair. "Nearly finished," she promised. "Thomas." It was probably the sharpest tone she had ever taken with me. I returned to my task. In under a minute, Roger's back had been thoroughly dampened with alcohol. "All I can think," she said, "is to either air-dry this of use the hair dryer."

"We don't have a hair dryer," I said.

"Okay. You're nearly dry, Roger, so I'll start bandaging these. Thomas--" I already had the Band-Aids ready. Mom started covering Roger's cuts with them. Once she had finished, she told Roger, "I'd like to have a look at you, just to be certain you're not hurt. You can have privacy for that."

Roger nodded. "Yes," he said. "Please."

Mom turned to me. "That means you, Tommy. Take Mark downstairs, talk to your dad."

"Come on, Mark." Mark shook his head. "It's okay."

"Go," Roger croaked. His voice was ragged and cold, and it cut Mark deep into his bones, but Mark came out of the bathroom and headed downstairs with me.

Dad was in the kitchen, and it was the strangest thing: he was standing there with the oven on, of all things baking in the midst of this drama. Roger's sobs hung like ghosts in the air, and Dad cooked. It brought me back to the real world. Rain was pouring outside. "So. That's Roger, is it?" Dad asked.

I nodded. "That's him."

"I hope he's okay."

"We do, too."

And that was the end of that. Dad turned to Mark. "It's seven o'clock, Mark. Your parents are coming to pick you up in half an hour. You're welcome to stay here, if you want. I'll call your parents and tell them it's fine."

Mark nodded his head. "I really would like to stay," he said.

"Okay." Dad picked up the telephone, then turned back to us and said, "By the way, there's pizza whenever you're hungry." As he dialed the Cohens' home, Mark and I agreed not to eat until Roger was with us. Suddenly, the fact that I had skipped lunch came back to kick me hard in the gut. I sat at the table. Mark sat opposite me. "Hello, Mr. Cohen? This is John Collins, Thomas's father. No, Mark's fine-- no, he hasn't done anything wrong. Please let me finish, Mr. Cohen." Mark's chin sank. I knew it wasn't the time, but I smiled, not because my friend felt humiliated but because the man humiliating him was being given a talk in my father's teacher voice. "Mr. Cohen, there's been an accident involving the boys' friend, Roger Davis-- I only know of one Roger Davis so I assume that's him. All the boys are upset, they'd like to stay together tonight. It's fine if they stay here."

"They won't like it," Mark muttered, shaking his head.

He was right. A moment later, Dad said, "I know it isn't for me to question that, Mr. Cohen, but Mark's very upset--"

Mark shook his head. He pushed himself away from the table and walked over to my dad. "May I speak with him, please?" he asked

Dad looked puzzled, but he handed over the phone. Mark scowled at the thought of his father as he said, "Dad, I'm staying here. No, I am not imposing. Because Mr. Collins offered, that's why!" Frustrated, he answered a question I could not hear, "Because I care about him, Dad! Because whether you like him or not, Roger's my friend and he's always taken care of me and I'm not leaving him alone. Yes, he's gonna be with the Collinses but..." He faced the wall and covered his face with a hand. "'The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you, and thou shalt love him as thyself; for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt'," he muttered through clenched teeth. "The Torah teaches us, repeatedly, that we should care for strangers, for our neighbors. Haftorah, stop to help the man whose donkey has fallen. And these are strangers. Roger's taken care of me, no questions asked, since I was eleven years old. Why do you think my glasses aren't broken and I'm passing math and I haven't killed myself?" he shrieked. "It's because of him, okay? If the Torah isn't proof enough, how about your son? Trust me, for once, Dad. Well I'm not Cindy! Stop punishing me for that. I want..." And suddenly the fire went out of him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry, Daddy." He turned to my dad. "He wants to talk to you," he muttered.

Dad took the telephone into the next room, which is how we noticed Roger standing in the doorway. "Hey," I told him.

"Hey," he said. To Mark, "Don't let that asshole push you around."

Mark nodded and sniffled.

"Let's eat."

So that's what we did. We sat down and ate pizza. After a few minutes, it was so strange, despite everything, despite the gauze patch on Roger's forehead and the bruises on his face and wrists (everything else was covered), we were laughing. We were talking about school and homework and we were laughing.

Dad smiled at us when he returned to the kitchen. "Mark, your parents don't mind if you stay here tonight. But if it's all right with you, I'd like a word later." Mark nodded. "And, Roger, I am going to have to ask you also to tell me or Thomas's mother what happened--"

"I told her," Roger interrupted. "Sorry," he added, realizing. "I didn't… I already said," he murmured.

Dad nodded. "All right, then. And I'd like you to call your parents." At that, Roger sat upright. I grabbed his hand, knowing what he was thinking and determined not to let him run away again. "They're probably worried." Roger shook his head. Dad gave him a disappointed look; I already knew it would do no good. Roger has never gotten along with fathers. "All right. Well then I am going to call, just to let them know that you're safe."

Roger said nothing.

The three of us were heading up to my room, but Dad held me back. "Thomas." And I stopped. So did Mark and Roger. They watched the two of us for a split second, then I realized what was going on. They were afraid. They were afraid my father was going to do what Roger's dad would. I told them it was fine, and they had the strangest looks of reluctance as I glared them out of the room.

Dad shook his head. "I should have known, Thomas."

"What?"

"Only you could find the two nicest boys in Scarsdale in the most need of help," he said. Then he asked a question I never expected him to ask me: "Are you happy?" I answered him with a look more of shock than anything else. "You don't tell me anything, Tom. I know you're growing up, and G-d knows you're doing a fine job of it, but--"

"John." My mother strode into the room. She was a small woman, petite even, but she commanded attention. "We need to make a decision," she said, "right now. If he stays here--" there was no question as to who 'he' was "--you need to call the police."

Dad glanced at me. The "growing up" part of his speech was obviously very much over. "Thomas, go upstairs with your friends, please."

I wanted to stay. I wanted more than anything to know, but there was nothing they knew that Roger didn't, at least about the events of that night, and he probably needed me much more than they did. I headed upstairs.

Roger was sitting on the edge of my bed, pressed against the wall. He had his knees drawn up to his chest and was staring at nothing. Mark sat nearby, silent.

"Hey, Rog." I sat beside him. He was shaking. Whatever did that to his back had traumatized him fairly severely. "You're okay now," I promised him. I pulled him against me. Hugging someone with those massive injuries may not be the brightest idea, but Roger seemed not to mind. He clutched my arm.

"Mark?" he asked.

"Hey, Roger." Mark sat on his other side, and Roger hugged him. Sometime during the night we managed to huddle under the quilt, and we must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember is waking up. It was dark, still nighttime.

Loud voices woke me. Roger was cradled against my chest, sleeping surprisingly peacefully. Mark stood by the door, his glasses occasionally giving off an eerie flash of reflected light. He was listening to the parents, but he was watching me.

I pulled away from Roger. He muttered displeasure; I covered him with the quilt and tiptoed over to Mark. "Come on," I whispered.

We stood at the top of the stairs, able to hear the parents clearly although we could not see them. "I want my son," Roger's father said, furious.

"I understand that, Mr. Davis; Roger is upstairs. But for his sake, calm down. He's had a rough night--"

"Do you know what that little shit did my car?" Something strange happened to his voice as he said the word "that". The "th" sound blurred to more of a z.

"Mr. Davis--"

"My son--"

"Is your concern," my mother interrupted. It was the first time I had heard her voice in the discussion, and I was more than a little surprised that she was still present. I was not bothered by her presence, merely surprised that she should no have gone back to her apartment. "We understand that, Mr. Davis, and our son is our concern, and since his parents have trusted him to our care tonight, so is the Cohen boy. And I will not have you exposing them to language like that in my house."

I grinned. Trust Mom to put a man in his place. It took a few moments for Mr. Davis to find his tongue, and when he did, it was to say, "I'll speak as I please--"

"Not in this house." I could not stop grinning. Aw, Mom...

Dad tried reason: "Mr. Davis, Roger is safe. He's asleep. We will bring him home the moment he wakes tomorrow morning, but for now he's very frightened. I see no benefit to removing him from a safe environment--"

"Are you saying my home isn't safe? There's no place better for a boy than with his father-- you have a son. You should understand. All I want is to bring my boy home, where he'll be safe."

I clutched the banister and shook my head. No. Roger can't go back there, he can't go back to that. Mr. Davis's argument sounded reasonable. I hoped my parents would not be fooled. Surely they wouldn't. They were smart people, both of them very intelligent and clever-- how else would they produce me? Surely they saw through his loving demeanor.

A floorboard creaked. Mark and I turned; Roger had emerged from my bedroom, clutching the cuffs of the shirt I had lent him. His eyes were wide and saw neither of us. He approached the stairs and stopped dead, listening to my parents explain that he was safe, but asleep, and moving him now could be very emotionally damaging. They were b.s.ing and it was not working, but I loved very deeply the fact that they tried.

"He is my son!"

Roger whimpered. I stood behind him and wrapped my arms across his chest. No one was taking Roger away. I knew that. He felt so small, frail. He was not the Roger I knew.

"I refuse to leave him here with--with complete strangers--"

"Roger chose to come here--"

"--and with that Cohen faggot--"

Mark sighed. Roger hung his head. "Don't," I told him. "Don't apologize for him. You're a good person, Roger." And he was. Even without knowing that there was a homosexual standing beside him, he winced at the slur. To me, that mattered hugely because he knew the term was offensive and he openly owned that conviction.

Downstairs, there was the sound of a slap. "Get your bigotry out of my house!" Mom's tone left no question.

I heard angry footsteps headed towards the door, then a pause and a shout of, "Roger, you'll get your ass down here if you know what's good for you. Roger!" I tightened my grip. Roger raised his hands to cover mine. I clutched his fingers. "Roger--!"

"Out!"

The door opened and slammed shut. My parents spoke to one another quietly, then Dad called, "Go back to bed, boys."

"Come on, Roger."

Mark approached slowly. He stood on tiptoe and kissed Roger's cheek. "We'll take care of you," he promised.

My bed was not nearly big enough for the three of us lying down, but curled together we had enough room. Mark and I kept Roger between us. He thanked us repeatedly and he began to cry softly. He had hidden his face against my shoulder when Dad opened the door. "Thomas?" he asked. "Would you come downstairs for a moment, please?"

I did something then I never expected to do, ever, in my life: I looked to Roger for instruction. "I'm okay," he promised, pushing away tears. So I went downstairs to speak with my parents.

Dad was sitting at the table with a mug of tea. Mom was standing at the counter, shaking her head, arms crossed over her chest. "You did very well tonight, Thomas." Somehow it did not sound like praise. "What Mr. Davis said--"

"We can't let Roger go back to him," I said.

As though I had not spoken, Dad said, "Your mother and I... have always tried to keep that word and words like it out of our homes and away from you."

I shook my head. "I don't care. I appreciate that." I truly did, but at the moment I could think only of what would happen tomorrow if Roger went back to his father's house. "I really do, I've always felt safe at home, but Roger hasn't. He can't go back."

Dad sighed. "Right now... there's nothing we can do," he said. "Roger can stay here tonight. You know that your friends are always welcome. But tomorrow, he needs to go home to his father."

"He beats him!" That was Roger's secret. Even Roger himself had not made peace with it; he would never ask for help because he believed he was being treated as he deserved. I had no right to tell that to anyone, even to protect him, even my own parents who would never misuse the knowledge. But it was done, and since the card was laid I played it to my advantage. "He beats Roger all the time. He's always... always coming to school with these bruises and everyone thinks it's from fighting, but it isn't. His father hurts him and hits him and he says horrible things to him."

My parents looked at one another. They were sad, so sad, resigned. "We know that, Thomas," Mom said.

"There's nothing we can do," Dad told me.

"Nothing? That's the last thing we can do! How can you say that? How can you have raised me to do what's right and stand by and do nothing?"

"Because there is nothing we can do," Mom retorted shortly. "You've seen that Roger does worse to himself. All those scars come from his own hand. And he fights, like you said. Now all this may be because his father abuses him but it condemns him quite thoroughly. No one will believe him. We do," she added, before I lost my mind again, "but Thomas... unless there is some corroboration, from the mother or the older siblings... and she won't. Audrey won't. She's endured this for year, she battles with it, and her answer is flight. She's taking a drug cocktail that'll probably fry her before twenty years are up. Thomas, within the law--"

Mom moved to hug me, but I pulled away. "Fuck the law!" I shouted, and that was when I learned that I was crying. Gobs of spit clung to my teeth, muffling my words. "Fuck the law if it protects people like him! I don't care! There has to be something!"

They traded worried glances. They had seen me like this before. They had seen me punch holes in walls, but I had never lost control in front of anyone but them, ever. Anyone else would be terrified. I knew that, that was why I controlled it in public, but this… this was too much.

I sat down at the table, rested my head on my arms and cried. It was the best I could give myself. Mom sat next to me and rubbed my back. Dad held my hand. And when I was finally sober again, when my eyes were red and my throat hurt, I asked, "What happened to Roger tonight?"

Mom sighed. "He tried to run away. His dad started beating him with a belt and Roger decided that that was it, that he had had enough, and he was going to leave. He took the car and drove it a few blocks, then he… he had an accident. He retrieved his guitar and he came here."

"What happened?" I asked again.

"He turned the car over. Tomorrow he'll need to make a statement to the police and he should be taken to the hospital for a check-up. He doesn't have a concussion and his wounds are bandaged, but it's best if a professional on office hours attests to that."

"Turn a car over," I repeated, confused.

Mom nodded. "Flipped it right over, Thomas. He hit another car, his car spun… Roger is lucky to be alive."

I returned to my bedroom and settled under the covers with my friends. For a few moments it was nothing but heat and breath and a faint smell of blood, Mark wheezing and Roger occasionally whimpering, turning to find the safest place. Then I fell asleep.

One more thing happened before the next day. It was night, but the sky was giving enough light to read by. Roger had shaken me awake. "Can I borrow some money?" he asked.

"Huh? For what?" A circuit was missing from my brain.

He showed me a letter. "For my sister. Telling her what to do if he ever starts on her. I'll pay you back as soon as I can. I just need bus fare from here to Jersey. Grandma Morris, my mom's mom, she lives there. If she needs somewhere safe, Sarah can go there."

I gave him ten dollars.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Whoo. Longest chapter yet! I hope everyone enjoyed the angst and drama. Reviews would be AWESOME!

Concerning tests: Believe me, I've taken my share (SAT, ACT plus writing, SAT IIs-- 5 so far-- the CAHSEE, plus APs and the annual tests) so I know that pain. My SAT score was... let's just say higher than Mark's but lower than Roger's, comparative to the 2400 scale.