Page 41 of What Boys Learn

“I know what you meant.”

“Benjamin,” I tried.

“You think I don’t wish I’d been invited to that party?” His voice cracked.

“You’re still new here. There are cliques—”

“And another thing: You don’t have to hide shit,” he said, opening his door and stepping out. I hadn’t even cut the engine yet.

I didn’t know if he meant the underwear or the pool signin sheet. Maybe both. I followed thirty feet behind, heart hammering, trying to catch up before he reached the station’s front door.

Over his shoulder he said, “I saw how you handle things.

Maybe you can let me handle it from here.”

“We’ll handle it together.”

But he wasn’t listening, and now we were arguing within feet of the police station’s front door.

“Fucking sucks my own mother doesn’t trust me.”

“It’s the world I don’t trust, Benjamin. Wait up!”

My own voice sounded wrong to me, like I was shouting into a tunnel. I pushed ahead, replaying Hernández’s relaxed tone during our call, half an hour ago.Stop by. It sounded so casual.Bring your son. Completely casual.

My father and stepmother drove Ewan to the police station. They left me at home. Told me to stay near the phone in case it rang, but it didn’t. Everything was casual, then, too. At first.

“Benjamin, wait.”

No one even asked me to fill out a statement. Everyone knew I’d been blacked out for most of the night in question, as well as young and traumatized. Ewan was arrested and brought before a judge. Then he was out on bail. A week later, after Martha’s death, he was brought in for questioning again, and I was alone with my father, preparing for Martha’s funeral.

“Hold the door,” I called louder. “We should walk in together.”

But the smoky-glassed door had already closed behind him.

When I pulled on the handle, the door was surprisingly heavy. I had to lean back to get some leverage before the door opened with a suctiony pop and whoosh, the air-conditioning hitting like an arctic blast.

Benjamin was at the reception desk, trying to get the attention of a woman handling the phones. I caught up, turning as I heard Hernández coming toward us from a long hallway, raising a hand in greeting. The row of recessed lighting in the hallway ceiling caught my eye. Glowing spikes of light radiated from each hockey-puck-sized fixture, and then the spikes began to change color, from white to shimmery pink. The corners of my vision darkened.

When I opened my eyes, Hernández’s face was directly over mine. An unfamiliar female officer crouched next to him. Cool, gentle fingers encircled my wrist.

“Mrs. Rosso?” the woman cop asked. “Can you hear me now?”

The back of my head hurt. I tried to straighten one kinked leg but it weighed too much to move.

“How about now?”

Hernández said loudly, “Did you take anything?”

In the background, I heard another male voice softly questioning Benjamin, who kept saying, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Hernández repeated, “What did you take?”

“Nothing,” I said.

A dull pain radiated down my legs. I couldn’t tell which parts hurt from falling and which parts hurt from whatever was happening to change the proper pace of blood flowing through my arteries and veins.

I levered my way into a sitting position, head straining to catch sight of Benjamin. “Where’s my son?”