Page 40 of What Boys Learn

“Coming out soon?” Benjamin called from the other side of the door.

“In a minute.”

“Your phone is ringing.”

He handed it through the door to me. “It’s probably your ex-boyfriend. Mister patrol-cop-who-can’t-make-detective.”

“That was six months ago.”

“And he still talks about it.”

It was the most consecutive words Benjamin had said to me in three days. I didn’t care that he was being snide. I was just glad to hear his voice again.

But it wasn’t Robert on the phone. It wasn’t Curtis, either. I closed the bathroom door and took the call.

When I came out to the kitchen, Benjamin was pulling out the coffee carafe, about to fill a ceramic mug on the counter. I reached into the cupboard for a travel mug and held it out to him.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“You don’t have to be mean to Robert,” I said.

“Everyone’s mean, Mom. Some people are mean, live in shit apartments, and lose their jobs because they can’t stand up for themselves. Some people are mean and rich and popular and get people to do what they want.”

Use your words, I’d always told him. And he was. He was using them to tell me that he was better prepared than I was for the world he’d soon face as an adult—a world in which presidents got away with rape and cops got away with murder, where older men dated young girls and used them up and threw them away.

“Get dressed. We need to go downtown.”

“I need to shower first.”

“No time. Detective Hernández is waiting for us.”

16

Itold myself I wasn’t feeling anxious on the way to the police station, but once I saw all the cop cars lined up in the lot, something changed. I steered carefully into a guest parking spot, set the brake, and turned to Benjamin.

I said, “This shouldn’t take long.”

He shrugged, hand on the door handle, like he was eager to get it over with.

“Don’t be nervous,” I said.

“I’m not.”

I thought of all the texts between us, Saturday and Sunday, an indicator of our schedules, proof we’d been in close contact on the days the cops might want to know about.

“Got your phone?”

“Of course.” He patted his jeans pocket. “Shit. I left it on the counter. It was when you handed me the travel mug.”

“Okay,” I said, thinking,He never forgets his phone.

Under my breath, I said, “I wish you’d been at that Scarlatti party, Saturday night.”

He let go of the door handle and turned to me, his focus so undivided I thought we were going to have a tender moment. Mother and son, together in adversity.

“Thanks a lot,” he spat.

“No, I just meant—”