Page 4 of Crossed

“Hey,” I yell.

The little asshole’s leg freezes, and he turns around, along with the other four kids: two boys and two girls who are flanking his sides. My stomach drops when I see who the main one is.

Bradley Gammond.That little fucker.

His mother is a defense attorney for the state, and she absolutely hates me, the same way she hated my mom. And the same way that, apparently, Bradley hates Quinten.

When did kids get so mean?

Their eyes widen when they see me, and Bradley’s cheeks tinge pink beneath his fair skin. His hand jerks out, grabbing the arm of the boy next to him. They all rush away, their quick footsteps smacking against the pavement.

My brows crease as I move forward, seeing a hunched-over form with short, fluffy black hair rocking back and forth in the middle of the sidewalk.

Quinten.

A lump of guilt swells in the middle of my throat. I can’t believe I didn’t realize he was out here.

“Fucking bullies!” I scream after the kids, picking up a medium- sized pebble and throwing it at them before crouching down next to my little brother. The chill of the concrete creeps up the insides of my long, flowy purple skirt and latches onto my skin, but I don’t mind. I’m no stranger to cold weather in Vermont, and I became a pro years ago at pretending that my thin clothing provides enough warmth.

Quinten is shaking, his hands curled into fists so tightly, his smooth, tawny brown skin is blanching white, and I know without seeing that his nails are cutting into his palms. I send up a quick prayer that he isn’t bleeding enough from the self- infliction to need antiseptic.

He hates having things touch his hands. Honestly, he hates being touched in general.

“Quin,” I murmur, making sure I don’t grip his arm until he acknowledges me.

His head turns toward me, his green eyes identical to mine big and round, but he doesn’t make a single sound.

Shit.

He doesn’t speak often, and when he does, it’s normally phrasing he’s picked up from others. It’s only in the past year that he’s started to manipulate the words into his own sentences, and when emotions run high, he tends to shut down, so his silence right now doesn’t surprise me.

It wasn’t until his third birthday that he started to form words at all, echoing people around him and scripting things he’d already heard.

Echolalia and gestalt language processing, his therapists call it.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not smart, despite what those kids were saying. Quinten is the smartest six-year- old kid I’ve ever known. And the best. Period.

“They’re jerks, okay?” I say, not sure who I’m trying to soothe:

myself or him.

He drops my gaze.

A sense of failure drips from the knot lodged in my throat and cascades down my insides, making my heart pinch. I tighten my jaw, not wanting to show my struggle in front of Quinten.

It’s my job to be strong for him.

And I try,Goddo I try. But sometimes it’s so damn hard.

It’s a cruel place here on earth, filled with people who don’t get it. Whochoosenot to understand that just because someone is different, it doesn’t mean they’re less than. Quinten deserves the whole world, and I’d do anything to shield him from the harsh reality of one that refuses to offer him even a small piece.

The people in Festivalé make it even worse. Quinten being my little brother makes him guilty by association. I’m the town outcast, and he’sdifferent. Although they blame that on me of course, along with everything else that goes wrong in this town.

I can’t even count how many times I’ve dreamed of packing us up and disappearing to somewhere else. Somewhere we can start again.

Just like my mom always used to do.

But that’s unrealistic. I have bills and Quinten’s therapy and a thousand different types of responsibilities here. Besides, I can’t just rip him away from the only home he’s ever known.