Page 48 of The Story of You

Things got a little sticky on rule ten.

The rules were written on laminated sheets and hung in various areas of The Home plus our bedrooms in case you needed to remind yourself so there were no misunderstandings and no claiming “you forgot”.

Fuck. The chill when you broke a rule and either Terry or Lars asking you to point out,whichone you broke in front of everyone, knowing you were about to really get it. I’ll never forget. Sandy never punished us. She would occasionally let you get away with stuff depending, but she was loyal to her brother and would rat you out. She was so sweet; it wasn’t worth breaking one with her around—at least I thought so.

Some kids meant to break the rules and were little shits on purpose, but when it was someone like me, it was rarely on purpose. Young kids forget shit all the time. When it was Darius, he often had his own justifiable reasons for doing anything. A proper parent might have deliberated and perhaps let a rule go when they learned his reasoning.

But not with Terry and Lars. It was clear-cut, which meant it wasn’t always a fair system. The exchange was you got a roof over your head, two guaranteed meals a day—sometimes a third when donations and money allowed—and a warm place to live. They kept it well-heated. They made a big deal for holiday dinners and while they couldn’t afford to buy everyone presents, they’d get stuff for the house like dirt bikes, a new tire swing for the lake, or video games for the Nintendo. You were also promised a sort of “goodbye package” if you stayed until you were eighteen. They helped you find a place and paid the deposit plus the first month’s rent. They set you up with someone who would help you find a job. They stocked your fridge with groceries for a month.

We worked long hard hours, but we each got two days off a week, plus the evenings. We could do anything we wanted so long as it didn’t break The House’s ten commandments.

So, yeah. Not everything, but not too shabby considering.

Like, but not love.

ChapterSixteen

Darius ~ 1985

Throwing the book at Simon’s head was blessed, short-term relief from my frustration with him. It was a book calledThe French Lieutenant’s Womanby John Fowles. A book I didn’t get at the time but still had the foresight to champion the author who placed himself in the book just so he could turn back “book time” with his winding pocket watch to show us another ending. That’s the sort of author I can admire even if the book makes me want to claw out my own eyes. When I write my book, I’m going to do that. I’ll call it “The Trials and Tribulations of the Highly Under Appreciated Darius Randall” and I’ll create several endings of my liking because we know my real ending is going to be shit.

“What the fuck was that for?” he said, rubbing his head.

“Oh c’mon. It was a paperback, Simon. Didn’t hurt that much. You’re annoying the fuck outta me.”

People say I’m a good friend. I don’t know why.

“Suck your own dick, Darry,” he said.

Can you believe that? Sweet Simon (future) Sparrow said that? The thanks I get for saving his life. It’s unbearable. “It’s time to make our move on the teenagers.”

“I’m not ready, Darry. Let’s wait till we’re teenagers.”

“Age is just a number. Nothing magical is going to happen in a few months to make you more ready.”

“I’ll be older and wiser.”

“I’ll have dick wrinkles by then.”

“Stop acting like you know everything.”

“I do. You’ll see.”

“You still think your brother’s coming to get you.”

“When he does then will you listen to me?”

No matter what I said, he wasn’t budging. I didn’t want to force him, but my mission was time sensitive. I had my eye on my own prize. Asher Kerr. I couldn’t get him out of my head. I saw him in the field my first day on the farm and thought it might not be such a bad place to take a pause.

I suppose trying to stab Dad in the neck with a butter knife was a bad idea all around. I wasn’t thinking clearly and that’s putting it mildly. Mama had just died. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I was an angry child. Getting me the help I needed would have been more appropriate.

I knew when I saw the utter indifference etched into his stony expression that Dad was done with me. I didn’t fight him. When he woke me and told me to meet him at the car, I grabbed my jacket, all the money I had, which amounted to two thousand dollars—I saved most of what I got from birthdays, Christmas, and my allowance—and stashed it in my pockets.

If Silas woke up, there would be a fight. It would still end in me leaving, but then he would be in shit with Dad and who knows what would happen to Oliver.

No. I would go quietly unless he was going to kill me. At the time, I didn’t know. We didn’t get along in the first place, but after the whole thing with Mama, it was worse. After she died, he was someone else.

We didn’t talk as he drove. There was nothing to say. Our feelings for each other were mutual. Instead of worrying too much about myself and what would be done with me, I worried for my brothers who would have to live with him without me. I hadn’t been a lot of help since Mama died, but before that, I was a buffer.