On Saturday, after a night spent sleeplessly wondering what life at the halfway house will look like without Felipe, Peter corners him in the bathroom.
"Don't do it," he says. "You were the one who told me what an idiot Ryan is, you know he's definitely gonna get caught. Don't go down with him, Felipe, you're better than that."
Felipe spits his toothpaste out, rinses his mouth, and rounds on Peter with more coldness in his expression than Peter could have imagined from his bright-eyed, foul-mouthed friend.
"What the fuck would you know about how good I am, ese?" What was once an endearment now sounds like a taunt. "I knew you weren't a badass, Parker, but I never pegged you for a pussy."
And he shoulders past him.
For the next two days, Peter rediscovers what it's like to be alone. He thought familiarity would have taken the sharp edge off, but it turns out the brief foray into camaraderie makes returning to solitude a dozen times more painful. Felipe's glares over the breakfast table and during social time make his stomach twist almost as badly as the persistent emptiness which Ryan is hoping to rectify with his plan.
As for Ryan—he delivers the punch Peter was expecting the night before in the hallway Saturday afternoon, while the providers are distracted making dinner. Drives his fist into Peter's diaphragm, then grabs Peter by the collar before he can double over, forcing him to look up with streaming eyes.
"You tell anyone," he says, "and you're fucking dead."
He drops him. Peter falls to his hands and knees, gagging as he tries to suck in a breath while his lungs spasm.
Ryan walks away.
"Who am I gonna tell?" Peter groans when he gets his breath back.
Just as he expected, no one replies.
Monday arrives like its predecessors: swelteringly hot, and, for Peter, with a nervousness that is almost as cloying as his sweat-soaked t-shirts. He spends the morning watching Felipe out of the corner of his eye, but Felipe is carefully expressionless, nearly silent while he eats the breakfast Karen prepares for them—half a cup of oatmeal, made with just boiled water—and reads in the ratty armchair while Peter and Arnold play cards during social time.
Around eleven, Ms. Charlise emerges from her office. Crosses the living room without acknowledging any of them, keys clanging. Heads out the front door.
A car door slams in the driveway, followed by a screech as the car pulls away.
Peter sees Felipe glance at Ryan. He sees Ryan nod.
Peter swallows and looks down at his cards.
Peter was half-hoping Arnold might say something to Karen, to whom he has latched like a barnacle. But he also knows Ryan and Felipe promised to let Arnold in on the goods if he kept his mouth shut.
It seems like food is more important to Arnold than the pockets of affection he receives from Karen, because it is with a cheerful smile that the latter walks into the living room alongside Mr. Leonard around noon and announces,
"Yard time, kiddos. It's way too hot in here."
All five boys follow her into the back yard. Peter catches Felipe's eye as they crowd through the narrow hallway, trailing after the two providers.
Please, he mouths.
Felipe looks away.
They crowd into the tiny yard. Karen starts the hose, lets it run to get rid of the water that has been boiling in the coils all morning.
When Mr. Leonard disappears around the corner in a trail of cigarette smoke, Ryan disappears too.
Felipe waits until Arnold approaches Karen for his turn with the hose to make his exit, slipping through the back door into the house before Peter can think of anything to say to try and stop him. He thinks Justin notices, too, but Justin just retreats to a corner of the yard and buries his face in the worn-out copy of Great Expectations he's been reading ever since Peter arrived.
Peter feels sick. Please don't let them get caught, he thinks, watching the screen door. Please don't take Felipe away too.
It occurs to him that Felipe might already be gone. At least as far as Peter is concerned.
He looks at Karen, thinking maybe he should break his own rule, that he should snitch. Because even if they don't get caught, Ms. Charlise is sure to notice if her food goes missing, isn't she?
He can't catch Karen's eye. From the way Arnold keeps jabbering, keeping Karen's eyes on him, Peter thinks he is probably more in on this plan than he'd guessed.
There is a crunch of gravel on the driveway.
Peter's head whips around so fast the muscles in his neck twang. He knows, even without being able to see, that the car that just pulled up belongs to Ms. Charlise.
She's back. She must have forgotten something, or—or—
He looks to the back door, a string of unintelligible prayers tumbling through his head, but the back door doesn't open. Ryan and Felipe didn't hear the car.
Peter hears the car door open, then shut. Around the front of the house, an atonal interlude of car keys knocking against one another.
"Shit," Peter whispers. "Shit, shit."
He runs inside.
Unlike Felipe and Ryan, Peter doesn't have time to be stealthy. He hears the screen door slam behind him, hears Karen call his name, but there's no time to stop and explain, because at the end of the main hallway he can see the front door, see the knob turning—
As the door opens, Peter turns into the living area. At the opposite end of the room, the door to Ms. Charlise's office is open, but there is no sign of Felipe or Ryan. Peter runs, whacking his shin against the coffee table hard enough his eyes water but ignoring the pain, stopping only when he's in the doorway.
In a burst, he takes the office in: an unmade bed; a cluttered desk; framed pictures; lace on everything. And, in the corner, Felipe and Ryan, crouched in front of a full-size fridge, yanking on the chain locked around its handle.
"You didn't even think she might have another lock on here, did you, pendejo?" Felipe is hissing, but he looks up when he hears Peter at the door, his mouth dropping open.
"Pedro," he says, "what're you—"
"She's coming," Peter pants, "she's—"
A hand lands on his shoulder. Peter gasps, whirls around—
Ms. Charlise is standing right behind him.
The thin layer of sweat that constantly covers Peter's body goes cold. Ms. Charlise's expression is almost unreadable: the only change from her usual jowly stare is that her red-rimmed eyes are slightly narrowed.
She digs her fingers into Peter's shoulder, reminding him so forcefully of Mrs. Arlington he has to remind himself to take a breath. He expects her to slap him. But Ms. Charlise just pushes him behind her, into the living room, and takes a step into her office.
Felipe remains slumped on the floor, mouth hanging slightly open, all the color gone from his face, but Ryan gets slowly to his feet, his expression hard.
"Mr. Overton," says Ms. Charlise, her voice as flat as it always is, "why am I not surprised?"
Ryan spits at her feet.
Finally, Felipe looks at Peter. His face is a reflection of the nausea Peter feels, the horror. Ms. Charlise's expressionless is somehow worse than outright anger; it fills Peter with the same dread he felt waiting in the Arlington's basement the night he got arrested, knowing something terrible was coming but knowing what it was.
Slowly, like a cat prowling after an injured bird, Ms. Charlise steps over to her desk. Felipe, Ryan, and Peter follow her with their eyes, none of them moving.
Ms. Charlise picks up the phone, presses a number on the speed dial.
There is a terrible, deadly silence while she holds the receiver to her ear.
"Yes," she says, "This is Charlise Benning at number nine-oh-seven. Three of our boys have just attempted a theft, in direct violation of their parole."
Felipe leaps to his feet.
"Ms. Charlise, no, please—"
Ms. Charlise holds up a hand, and Felipe falls silent.
"I'll need at least three officers, and probably a van. No. I'll contact their parole officers directly. Yes. Thank you."
She drops the phone into the cradle. To Peter, it sounds like a gavel.
"Ms. Charlise," Felipe says, "please, I'm sorry. Please, I only got another month, please don't do this, I can't go back."
Peter has never seen his bunkmate cry. The sound of Felipe's voice cracking makes his own throat constrict painfully, but he doesn't know what to do. He's rooted to his spot on the sticky shag rug, his own mouth hanging open uselessly.
In the distance, he hears sirens.
Ms. Charlise tilts her head and looks away from Felipe without acknowledging his tears, toward Ryan.
"And how long did you have before your parole officer declared you fit to go home?" she says. "Three weeks, wasn't it? And yet here we are."
She steps closer to him, and Peter has a wild urge to warn her off: Ryan is looking at her with an expression that reminds Peter of nothing so much as a coiled snake. He says nothing, though, and Ms. Charlise goes on.
"Tell me, Mr. Overton: was it worth it?"
This is when Peter realizes: Felipe and Ryan are at the halfway house because they are transitioning from juvenile detention centers. A theft like this will be a mark against them, could mean more jail time. But Peter isn't on parole. He's only here because he isn't wanted anywhere else.
He steps forward.
"Ms. Charlise—"
"It was my fault."
Everybody looks around.
Karen in standing in the entrance to the living room, shining with sweat but straight-backed, her expression set, determined. She is looking not at Peter but at Ms. Charlise, who turns slowly away from Ryan to face her.
Karen steps forward, puts a hand on Peter's shoulder. Unlike the other hands that have touched him there in the months since Ben died, hers is firm but gentle, and she only squeezes once, reassuringly, as she pushes him behind her.
The sirens are getting closer.
"What was that, Miss Anders?" says Ms. Charlise.
"I told them to do it," says Karen. "I told them about the fridge. I let them out of the yard. Don't punish them, Miss Charlise, it was my fault."
"Miss K, you can't—!"
"Be quiet, Felipe," says Karen sharply. "It's very noble of you to try and protect me, but this is on me, do you understand me?"
Ryan is looking at Karen like he's never seen her before. Felipe is crying freely now but trying to rein himself in. Peter thinks he's probably the only one close enough to see that Karen is shaking.
Ms. Charlise narrows her eyes.
"That's a very serious offense, Ms. Anders."
"Yes, ma'am," says Karen. "But to be fair, I did try to talk to you about the food."
For the first time, a flash of anger crosses Ms. Charlise's face.
"You realize you'll be fired for this."
"No!" say Felipe and Peter at the same time.
Karen holds up a hand.
"Of course. I'm taking full responsibility."
There is a beat. Then—
"You fucking bitch."
Before any of them recognize what's happening, Ryan lunges at Ms. Charlise.
Karen screams. Peter and Felipe both cry out, but by the time Peter rushes forward, Ryan has Ms. Charlise on the ground, his legs straddling her hips. Her arms fly up, trying to protect her face as Ryan rains down one punch, then two.
Peter shoves past Karen, who is screaming for Ryan to stop and grabs Ryan by the arm as he raises it for another blow, but he only manages to slow him down; Ryan flings Peter away as though he's made of straw and Peter falls back, his head jarring against the metal bed frame hard enough that his vision whites out for a second, his glasses falling off his nose. By the time his sight comes winking back Felipe has wrapped himself around Ryan's neck, but he has as much success as Peter did: Ryan just shoves him aside, sending him sprawling beside the locked fridge.
Ryan cocks his fist back again and Ms. Charlise, wild-eyed, throws her hands over her face in a last pitiful attempt at self-defense.
But instead of the sound of a clenched fist on flesh, there is a crackle of electricity, followed by a choked-off scream as Ryan goes rigid and falls sideways off of his target.
Everyone looks up.
Mr. Leonard is standing over all of them, a taser clutched in one hand, a nearly-spent cigarette still clenched between his teeth.
Outside, the wailing sirens reach a crescendo. There is a sound of tires on gravel once more.
The police are here.
The police question everyone. But in the end they only take Ryan, though one officer stays behind to escort Karen off the premises.
It's okay, she mouths at Peter and Felipe as they watch her go. And then she smiles.
Peter tries to return it, but isn't sure he pulls it off. Beside him, Felipe is stone-faced, even though tears pour continuously down his cheeks as the door slams over her.
In the dark, Peter watches Arnold's back until it stops quaking with silent tears and his breathing evens into the rhythm of sleep. It's well past midnight when this happens, so Peter assumes Felipe is asleep as well until his bunkmate drops quietly onto the ground beside him.
Felipe sits at the end of Peter's bunk.
Peter sits up. Felipe's face is swollen from crying, but there are no longer tears coming from his eyes, which regard Peter in the pale moonlight with a hardness Peter can't interpret. It's not the dislike Felipe has been radiating for the past two days, but it's nowhere near the companionability they used to share.
When the silence has dragged beyond what Peter can stand, he says, "Felipe, I—"
"I ever tell you why I'm here, Pedro?"
Felipe's voice is soft—too low to wake Arnold—but Peter still closes his mouth immediately. It's rhetorical, this question: Felipe knows he's never told. But Peter still shakes his head.
The moonlight turns Felipe's eyes into shining pools of tepid white as he regards Peter.
"My mom," he says, "is a really good mom. When we were little, you know, she used to work three jobs. She could've worked two and we woulda been okay, you know, paying the rent and all that—but she took that third job because she wanted us to have more than just a roof. She worked all the time, yeah, but whenever she wasn't working she was hanging out with us—me and my little sister—cooking for us, taking us to the movies, helping with homework. Just doing mom shit."
"Felipe—"
"I'm telling you," says Felipe, "because I want you to know that—that my mom is a good mom. She is. Just… not when Uncle José is around.
"José isn't my real uncle. That's just what he made us call him after he started dating my mom. Even when I was just some twelve-year-old little kid I knew this guy was an asshole. He was always making my mom feel bad about herself and shit, like yelling at her for the dumbest stuff. Like, she would load the dishwasher a way he didn't like and he'd chew her out for it. Just fuckin' scream at her. Who gives a that much of a shit about a dishwasher, you know?"
Felipe pauses. His eyes flicker away just a bit, so he's looking into the distance rather than at Peter's face, and the moonlight drains out of them.
"But my mom, she was lonely. She was raising two kids by herself, and when José wasn't screaming at her he'd bring her presents, make her feel special. So she kept him around. And José, he was a smart guy—he knew my mom would eventually catch wise, realize she could do better. So besides the gifts and stuff, he also got her into some bad shit. You know, drugs. Stuff you try once and then can't say no to, 'cuz you need it even while it's killing you. So then my mom had two drugs: she had José and she had smack."
"Felipe, I'm so—"
"Simmer down, white boy. You got shit of your own, and I'm not looking for pity."
Peter sits back. Felipe twists the sheets between his hands.
"I told you I got a sister, right?"
Peter nods.
"Mariña. She's eight now, but back when José was first coming around she was only six. But like a really smart fuckin' six year old. Smart as you are, Pedro, doing math and reading and all that even though she was only in kindergarten. But when my mom started—when she stopped being such a good mom, Mariña took it really hard. She stopped sleeping good, started sucking her thumb again even though she hadn't done that since she was two… and she started wetting the bed."
He glares at Peter, as though he expects him to say something cruel. But Peter just stares at him until he continues.
"At first it wasn't a big deal. I'd just change her sheets, right? But after a few times of that happening we ran out of clean ones. At that point my mom had stopped doing laundry, and José sure as shit wasn't going to help. So we had to keep these piss-stained sheets, 'cuz it was too cold to just sleep without them, and I couldn't wash them by hand because our water kept getting turned off.
"This goes on for a little while. And one day Mariña, she comes home crying. She tells me the other kids are making fun of her at school, calling her 'piss-head' and shit like that—because of the smell. She says she doesn't want to go back.
"Now, I put up with a lot of shit, Pedro, but I wasn't gonna let a bunch of little punks make my smart-ass sister hate school. I wasn't gonna let them ruin that for her. So first I try to talk to my mom and José, but they're both passed out—whatever. So I go into José's wallet. He doesn't got much, but he's got a few bucks, so I take them and I put them in my pocket and I grab my sister's fuckin' pee-stained princess sheets and I say, 'Mariña, stay here. I'll be right back.' And I go to the laundromat.
"At first it's all fine. They got a change machine, so I get a bunch of quarters. But as I'm dropping 'em into the slot I realize: I don't got any detergent. So I go to the front desk. They don't got any, they say, but I can try the convenience store across the street. I go over there, but the fuckin' detergent is ten bucks, and I only got about three in quarters."
Peter is starting to feel sick, and not just because Ms. Charlise sent them to bed without dinner. He holds his breath, forcing himself to keep looking at Felipe as Felipe twists the sheets in his hands harder, almost tearing.
"I stuffed it under my jacket, Pedro. It was so obvious, man, I can't believe they let me get as far as I did. But what do I know about stealing shit? I just wanted to wash some fuckin' princess sheets."
Now Felipe is crying again. It doesn't enter his voice, but fat tears drip down his nose, staining Peter's bedspread.
"State gave me a lawyer. She thought I'd get off easy, because it was my first offense and I was pretty young, but the judge—this old white dude—he took one look at me and said, 'You mark my word, son, you'll be back here in two weeks if I don't set you straight right now.' And he gave me three months." He looks up. "You ever been to juvie, Pedro?"
Peter shakes his head again.
"Avoid it, if you can."
Felipe falls silent, stops crying. He stays silent for so long Peter thinks he's done, but just as he's about to ask, Felipe starts up again.
"When I got home," he says, "Mariña was gone. I guess my abuela figured out what was going on, came to get her while I was locked up. But she didn't have room for both of us, so I was stuck. It was bad enough when I had my sister, but when she was gone it was" —he swallows— "it was real bad. My mom and José had both gotten worse, and all they did was fight and take smack and pass out and then fight some more. I tried to stay away during the day, but I needed somewhere to sleep at night. And that's when they would really go at it."
Felipe takes a deep, steadying breath, as though he has to steel himself for this next part more than what preceded, though Peter can't imagine that what comes next can possibly be more horrible than what's already been said.
"One night I came home and they were sleeping on the couch—unconscious. But this time, they'd left their stash on the coffee table. And I—I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I thought if my mom could get off the drugs she'd go back to being the mom she used to be, or maybe that I could get José to leave if I pissed him off enough... so I took it, and I left.
"I didn't have a plan, Pedro. I thought maybe I'd go to the river and throw it in, I don't know—I guess I really wasn't thinking at all, because what it came down to was me, this real hispanic-lookin' kid with my hood pulled up, walking alone at night with a bag full of heroin. The cop who arrested me laughed right in my face when I told him it wasn't mine. And when I went to court the second time… it was the same judge. The same judge, and he just looks at me and he says, 'How come you people never prove me wrong, huh?'"
Peter is crying now. He knows he shouldn't be. It's not his place, and he wipes his face furiously with the back of his sleeve when Felipe frowns at him.
"On Friday," he says, "you said 'things always get worse when you stand up for yourself.'"
"Felipe, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean you deserved any of this, I only thought—"
"Nah, Pedro. You got me wrong. I'm not trying to say you jinxed us or whatever. And I'm not saying you're wrong that things get shittier the harder you try. I'm saying things are shit no matter what you do. You don't get good things for acting good, and bad shit doesn't happen because you made the world angry. Bad shit just happens, and you can't help it, and I can't help it. That's just the way things are. But Pedro?"
"...yeah?"
"I saw you about to take the fall for us before Miss K did down there. And I'm telling you, that was a dumb fucking thing to do. You might get a shit sandwich no matter what you put in the kitchen, but it's your choice whether or not you eat it. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that the only way to not eat it is to look out for your fuckin' self. You jump in front of a bullet, man, and the only thing that happens is you get shot."
Felipe stands abruptly. Before Peter can think of anything to say to stop him, he clambers up the ladder and disappears into the upper bunk.
The broken support beam groans.
Felipe doesn't look at Peter as they head down to breakfast the next morning. Peter doesn't try to catch his eye this time, just shuffles to his seat with his head down, his stomach twisting.
To everyone's surprise, Ms. Charlise is standing by the stove. Mr. Leonard is there too, even though he's not supposed to be on shift. He's got an unlit cigarette between his lips, and he grins as Arnold, Peter, and Felipe sit with Justin, who is already there.
Peter feels a twinge of sympathy when Ms. Charlise turns to look at them. She has a black eye, and her bottom lip is so swollen she looks like she's been stung by a massive insect.
His sympathy doesn't last long.
"It's come to my attention," says Ms. Charlise, "that it may be time for me to take more of an interest in your rehabilitation. There's been a stunning lack of discipline in this house. A lack of structure. It ends today."
She grabs two plates of scrambled eggs from the counter. She places the first one in front of Arnold, the second in front of Justin.
And she walks out of the room.
Now Peter and Felipe look at each other. They look at Arnold, who is staring between them with an expression like fear. They look at Justin, who is already eating his eggs, his head down.
They look at Mr. Leonard, who continues to grin.
And so Peter and Felipe learn what their punishment is going to be.
There is no more yard time. No more card games. There is heat and sweat and taking long gulps of water from the tap in the bathroom, because Ms. Charlise will only let them fill their water bottles three times a day. They have their phone privileges suspended too, which matters more to Felipe, because Peter doesn't have anyone to call anyway.
There are no more meals.
This, Peter does care about.
She gives them each a glass of milk and half an apple at bedtime, which is the only indication she doesn't intend to kill them with this punishment. It does nothing to stave off the twist in Peter's gut as he lays awake that night, listening to Felipe toss and turn above him and trying to remember what it was like when hunger was just something he complained about if his parents took too long with dinner, or if he went too long between meals because he was caught up in a project, or reading. It feels as faraway and fake as the sci-fi stories he tells himself to get to sleep.
Tonight, the stories don't work.
By the second day, Peter learns what hunger pains really means. The twist takes on a knife-edge, making him feel like his stomach is full of blades. It's so bad he spends the day curled on the couch, only getting up when his need for water outweighs the pain, determinedly avoiding looking at Ms. Charlise.
She wants them to beg.
Peter isn't going to. Because stronger than the hunger, now, is the anger.
He's angry at Ms. Charlise for treating them like this. He's angry at Ben for leaving him here, for making him think life was ever supposed to be fair. He's angry for what's been done to Felipe, and angry because he desperately wants to find a way to prove him wrong—to prove that good things come to good people, and that you can fight back when things go bad… but he can't think of anything to make his argument.
He won't beg, though. That much he can still control.
Lying awake on the second night. No more monster movies. Peter is only half conscious, and stories are too difficult for his hazy brain to formulate.
Instead, he imagines the Avengers.
It's just one scene, played over and over, but with different players each time: Captain America arrives in a hailstorm of splintered wood, gathers the kids, and leaves without a backward glance. Then it is Black Widow. Iron Man. Even the Hulk makes an appearance.
Peter gets so lost in it he doesn't notice that there are sounds coming from above him until the muffled whimpers turn into sobs.
Peter gets up. Sways. Climbs the ladder to the upper bunk with more effort than he's ever spent on anything in his entire life.
Felipe is curled up, arms wrapped around his stomach but still thrashing, rolling on the bed while he tries and fails to find a comfortable position. The sounds he's making remind Peter of the time he saw a dog get hit by a car. That time, Ben had yanked him away while other samaritans rushed to help, covering Peter's ears and walking briskly until they were out of earshot.
There's no one to yank him away this time.
Peter grabs Felipe's hand.
"Felipe. It's okay. It's gonna be okay."
"It's not," Felipe moans. "She can't do this. She can't do this, she gotta feed us, man. She—she can't just—she can't—"
The rest of the sentence is lost to another moan.
Peter wants to prove Felipe wrong. But he doesn't know how. So instead he sits there, sweaty hands grasping Felipe's, knife twisting, and waits for exhaustion to outweigh hunger.
Peter is sure she will give them breakfast the next day. If she really doesn't want to kill them, she has to—and she doesn't want to kill them. She can't. She'd never get away with it.
Right?
But once again Ms. Charlise has just two plates when they arrive in the kitchen. She gives them to Justin and Arnold and, just like the last two mornings, looks at Peter and Felipe as if daring them to challenge her before she walks out.
Felipe gets to his feet. Staggers over to the counter, where the cookware is soaking in the sink.
"Get back to your seat," says Mr. Leonard, starting forward.
"Fuck off, I'm getting a drink."
Felipe turns the sink on and ducks his head under it, manages just one gulp before Mr. Leonard grabs him by the shoulder and shoves him back.
Felipe wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist, glares up at Mr. Leonard, and then stalks back to the table.
Peter thinks he is probably the only one who sees Felipe slip something into his back pocket as he sits. But when he tries to get a closer look, Felipe turns away from him.
Peter doesn't ask. He doesn't have the energy.
Late afternoon. Peter is on the couch again, Felipe on the floor under the coffee table. In the corner, Arnold is curled in an armchair, while Justin, for all his staring at it, does not appear to have made any progress on his book.
It's Wednesday. They haven't found a replacement for Karen yet, so there's just Mr. Leonard in the house, and around four he ducks out for a smoke break. The boys are so accustomed to his absence by now they don't so much as glance up as he leaves.
After a minute, they hear the sound of the front door opening, the jangle of keys as Ms. Charlise returns from her afternoon errands.
Quietly, without expression, Felipe rolls out from under the table and gets to his feet.
Peter raises his head just in time to see Felipe pull a knife out of his back pocket.
In a great rush, hunger and exhaustion and hyperthermia are washed away by pure horror.
Peter leaps to his feet.
He immediately swoons, vision graying, but he shakes it away, forces himself to stay upright. He lunges, grabbing Felipe's arm before he can make it to the hallway and yanking him back.
"Felipe, no!" he hisses.
Felipe tries to fling Peter off, but Peter clings, grip made tight by desperation.
"Get the fuck off of me, Peter."
Behind them, Peter hears Arnold scurry into the corner near Ms. Charlise's office. He shakes his head, frantic.
"Please, Felipe. Don't do it, please, you can't. They'll send you away forever, you can't."
The jangle is getting closer.
"You think it fucking matters?" Felipe snarls. His eyes are sunken, red-rimmed, wild. "You think it matters where I go? I'm done for, Pedro. I was done for the second I stole that fuckin' soap. But she can't get away with this. She can't get away with it, you hear me? Now let me go."
But Peter doesn't. He grips harder and throws his weight back, trying to bring Felipe down. But he's too small, and Felipe is too determined: instead of falling over, Felipe yanks his arm out of Peter's grip.
The knife slices through Peter's palm as he goes down. He lands on his back—sees the blood but doesn't feel the pain, not yet. Adrenaline pushes him back to his feet.
Right as Felipe steps into the hallway, Peter tackles him.
Both boys go sprawling into the hallway.
The knife flies out of Felipe's hand. Skitters across the hardwood. Stops right at a pair of feet in ratty, ancient tennis shoes.
Peter and Felipe's brief struggle ends as abruptly as it began when Ms. Charlise picks up the knife. She clenches it, her knuckles white around the handle, as she looks down at them.
"So," she says.
The boys scramble to their feet. Only when Peter sees that his hand is dripping blood all over the floor does the pain arrive. Felipe sees it, too. But he can't say anything, because he's breathing too hard.
Peter shakes his head at Felipe, clenches his fist against the blood and his jaw against the pain and forces himself to meet Ms. Charlise's blackened, swollen eye.
"What is it," says Ms. Charlise, "that makes boys like you incapable of learning? What is the point of rehabilitation when you violent little imbeciles just continue to be violent little imbeciles no matter what we do?"
"How come you people never prove me wrong?"
Peter's vision goes red. How dare she speak to Felipe like that? How dare she, if she has even an inkling of what he's been through? Of what she has put him through?
The plan forms in an instant.
Uncle Ben was wrong about Peter defending himself. But Felipe was wrong too.
"It's my knife," he says.
"Pedro—!"
Peter holds his bloody fist out, showing it to Ms. Charlise, silencing Felipe.
Peter can't defend himself. He can't help himself. That much is clear. But maybe—just maybe—he can help someone else.
"It's my knife," he says again. "Felipe was trying to take it off me. If you want to punish someone, punish me."
Jumping in front of the bullet might get Peter shot—but if it saves Felipe, then that's exactly what he's going to do.