"I'm worried about Scott." Jack's voice traveled up the stairs and clattered through the hallway. Scott sat on the landing, leaning against the wall. One leg was extended in front of him, the other jackknifed. He rested his chin on his bent knee, sighing.
It had been nearly two weeks since he first started meeting Mr. Sundry. Two miserable weeks. Scott curled his arm around his stomach and listened closer.
The bruise around his wrist was gone. It had been a weak one, and Mr. Sundry seemed determined to make them more and more noticeable. He even hit Scott once. The most recent bruise came from being pushed into a book shelf yesterday. The wood almost split his skin. For the first several hours, walking was difficult. He seriously considered he had broken a rib, even knowing that was a stupid thing to think. There was a big, dark stain across his skin from it.
"If you're so worried, how about you shut the fuck up and bring him some soup, alright sweetheart?" Bobby snapped. He was trying to concentrate on the hockey game, Scott knew, because of how angry he sounded. Hockey made Bobby angry. "I mean, he's fourteen for Christ's sake. How the fuck do you expect him to act?"
"Don't be an asshole." Angel scolded. "You know Jack is right. The only reason you're pretending not to notice is 'cause you don't know what's wrong."
"I'm not pretending anything, okay? Obviously he's got some issues. Nothing he can't work out by himself." Bobby said insistently.
"Maybe you forgot that- oh yeah- he tried to drown himself?" Jerry suggested. Scott raised his eyebrows. So now Jerry was rallying to his defense? Christ, he must be a mess.
"Hello, Jerry. He was swimming." Bobby drawled.
"Right. Swimming in November." Angel laughed. "Sometimes you're too stupid for your own good. You know that?" Something hollow hit the ground, and he heard muffled swearing.
"You wanna say that again?" Bobby yelled.
"Bobby shut the fuck up." Jack hissed. "Scott is asleep. For once." Scott thought hard. Maybe he had been staying up a little too late a bit too often. Jack would notice. They did, after all, share a room. "God. He's like, wasting away. You guys notice that?"
"Well, maybe he could eat some more dinner." Bobby admitted. "And get some sun once in a while. But don't you think if something was really wrong, he would come to us?"
Silence ensued. When had Scott ever gone to any of them with a problem? A real problem, not something superficial, like a flat tire or help with homework. He was just too resistant to any type of family.
A knock on the door interrupted the tension. There was the sound of feet, and Jack appeared. He opened the door to his red haired friend. Scott had seen a bit more of him now and again. He knew his name was Brandon, and he was a senior, a grade above Jack.
"Hey Brandon." Jack stepped back to let Brandon in. Brandon waved hello to somebody, and shook his damp hair out of his eyes. Jack reached for his coat when Brandon looked up the stairs and focused on Scott. His gaze caught Jack's attention, and he turned around. "Scott?" Even from this far away, Scott could see Jack grow pale. "How- how long have you been sitting there?"
Scott leaned his head back and shrugged. "I think maybe- right after I heard you go downstairs I got up again."
"So you weren't asleep?" Jack asked glumly. Scott shook his head. Jerry appeared at the banister, looking up at him.
"Shit." He muttered, disappearing again.
"So, um, how much did you hear?" Jack asked.
"Shut up, Jack, maybe he wasn't listening!" Bobby yelled. Scott shrugged and crossed his arms.
"Enough to tell you that nothing is wrong so please please stop freaking out. It's really pissing me off."
"Well, maybe you could eat something while I'm gone. I'll- see you when I get home."
"Bye mom." Scott made a face. He heard Bobby laughing. Jack stared helplessly up at him, and Brandon lifted a hand in farewell as they left the house.
"So, are you coming down?" Angel stood at the base of the stairs. Scott shrugged, figuring hockey was better to watch than wall paper, and tramped down the stairs. He fell onto the couch, lacing his fingers over his stomach.
It was dark in the living room. Scott found he was worrying about the next day. Mr. Sundry was growing increasingly, and uncomfortably, bold. He hadn't touched Scott yet. So far, all they ever did was kiss, and Scott inevitably found himself on his knees or with his hand down the front of the guidance counselor's pants.
"Hey, Scott, how about we go get some popcorn for the game?" Bobby asked during the commercial break. Scott allowed Bobby to haul him up; pointedly ignoring the looks Jerry and Angel were giving their older brother.
Scott smothered a yawn and reached up toward the popcorn, not noticing Bobby's eyes on him or the fact his shirt rode up.
"What the hell is that?" He hastily grabbed the hemline of his shirt and jammed it down, but it was too late. Bobby took hold of a fistful of cloth and yanked it up. "How did you get that thing?"
"What thing?" He repeated, trying to play dumb.
"Don't be smart." Bobby grumbled. "Did you get in a fight, or something? Is someone hitting you at school?"
I'll be damned, Scott thought angrily. You noticed.
"No." He said aloud. "I was climbing a tree yesterday and I fell out. That's all." Bobby poked the tender skin. "Ow, Bobby, stop it!" He yelped.
"You fell out of a tree?" Bobby asked skeptically. "When? In between the time you spent sitting in the kitchen table and the time you spent playing Jack's guitar? You think I'm stupid?" He grabbed Scott's wrists and Scott pulled away hastily. The actions reminded him brutally of Mr. Sundry. "What, are you cutting now?" He yanked up Scott's sleeves, staring hard at the pale skin. Thankfully, all the bruises there had healed. Bobby focused in on Scott's raw, blistering hands. "You touched a burner? What's wrong with you?"
"I didn't touch a burner." Scott snapped. He ripped his arms away. "I told you. I was climbing a tree and I fell out. My hands got scraped. It was at school. I have a life away from the Mercers, you know." He shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped back. "Hockey's back on."
Bobby muttered something that sounded an awful lot like brat and turned away. Scott made the popcorn, dumping the bag into a plastic bowl. He went back into the living room and pretended not to notice the funny looks Jerry and Angel were giving him as he set the bowl on the table and resumed his post on the couch.
Bobby's angry roars sounded a lot like his father. He could really use his dad right now. His dad would've shoved his boot up Mr. Sundry's ass. He smiled sadly to himself, touching the scar over his eyebrow. He hated the stupid ER for taking his father away, hated Cheryl, the whore of the week, for testifying against a guy she'd known for a few days. He hated his dad for throwing him against the wall in the first place. Most of all he hated himself for being such a baby about it. If he hadn't said anything, maybe Cheryl wouldn't have felt bad and driven him to the hospital in the first place. Or maybe his dad wouldn't even have kicked him.
Still, he wore his scars with pride. Maybe his dad would like it when he got out of prison, which should be soon. There was a couple different convictions, he remembered.
Scott rubbed the scar again, his head aching. He curled his legs beneath him and leaned against the arm of the sofa, mindful of the bruise. Which Bobby noticed. He scowled darkly and folded him arms.
Scott tried to think of the last time he had actually slept for more than a few fitful hours. Insomnia was taking its toll. He rested his chin on his arms and closed his eyes, blocking out the shouts and cheers from Bobby and the television. The same way he blocked out Mr. Sundry.
No one will believe a liar like you. No one wants to be associated with a selfish little boy like you. You failed. Not even the people you trust and love want you. You stupid little brat. You made them laugh when you thought they would care about you.
I own your future.
It was Mr. Sundry's voice, mixing up everything he had ever said into one long hateful rant. Scott bit his lip until it bled, squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel the shame pouring into him, the pain and anger and fear. He could see Bobby's face twisted in disgust. Evelyn shaking her head in regret and sorrow. Jerry was laughing at him. Angel and Jack turned their back. And then-
And then Brandon, sitting on a desk at school and swinging his legs. Weird.
You okay? He asked.
"Scott? Scott, are you okay?" Angel was saying loudly. Scott's eyes shot open. Angel moved back in surprise. "Are you okay?" He sat up fast, heart hammering so hard he was sure they would hear it. He wiped his forehead, pressing his fingers against the scar.
"It's hot." He breathed. "I wanna go outside." He stood and walked to the door.
"No, Scott." Jerry protested. "It's December. Stay inside." Scott ignored him and walked to the door, pulling it open. Evelyn stood on the front steps, juggling several bags.
"Oh. Hi, honey. Can you give me a hand?" Scott nodded and commandeered two of the bags, and then a third. He brought them to the kitchen and started to put the groceries away.
Jerry appeared with two more bags, giving him a funny look. He methodically stacked the cans of soup in the closet, and carefully placed the squash in the drawer of the refrigerator.
"We need to keep you on a leash?" Bobby growled in his ear. Scott shook his head mutely, walking on his toes out of the kitchen and up to the room he and Jack shared.
He laid down on the bed and faced the wall, pretending to be asleep when Angel opened the door and looked in. It was a long moment before the door closed once more. He didn't close his eyes, for fear he would fall asleep again. It seemed like an eternity when the door finally slid open and Jack and Brandon stumbled in. They sounded drunk. Scott reflexively curled up into a ball.
"Dude." Jack slurred. "Don't wake up my little bro, 'aight?" The hinges of his mattress squeaked in protest as he thumped down on it. Brandon cast his shadow on the wall in the red glow of the digital clock. He was standing. Jack started to snore and Scott sat up.
"Aw shit." Brandon mumbled, staring at him.
"You can sleep here." He offered, standing up. "I'm going down to the living room anyway." He skirted around Brandon, who watched him, looking either confused or irritated. Scott wasn't sure which.
"So you're like, the sick brother, right? Jackie says you're sick." Scott felt his hackles raise. He glared at Jack.
"I'm not sick." He grumbled. "And they're not my brothers." Brandon raised a dark eyebrow skeptically.
"Sorry. Foster brothers."
Scott shrugged and tiptoed through the hallway, down the stairs and onto the couch. The clock said two seventeen. It was Saturday. Two days of freedom. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, light was spilling in through the window.