Page 46 of What Boys Learn

Benjamin answered without delay. “I think that’s really interesting, actually.”

Hernández grinned. “There you go. Nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

I felt rage bubbling at the base of my throat. “What do you mean by that?”

Hernández screwed up his face, like he couldn’t imagine why I was taking offense. How much did he know about my brother? How much did he know about my entire family?

He said, “I just meant that Benjamin might end up becoming a psychologist. Like his mom.”

18

When I thought about a younger Benjamin I didn’t remember one boy, I remembered flickering images, silly and happy and sad moments. I remembered being curled up next to him on a couch when he was two and a half, with an earache, and how his bright red feverish cheek felt against the back of my hand. I remembered listening to his breathing slow and feeling the deepest possible sense of peace looking at his relaxed, sleeping face, once the pain and fever had passed.

This was another fever. We’d get through it.

Joe came back with two bottles of water and a five-inch binder. It didn’t have a label on the cover and there was nothing on the spine, either, plus the sheets inside didn’t seem to take up much space. Hernández left it sitting closed on the table, his glance flicking toward the dark one-way mirror at the back of the room. I wondered how many people were watching and listening.

“I bet there’s nothing in it,” I said.

“Is that what your boyfriend told you, that we bring in empty binders to manipulate people we’re interviewing?” He chuckled once. “Go ahead, Mom. Open it.”

With invisible eyes possibly watching, I flipped open the binder.

“Oh, that’s a good page.” Hernández nodded. “Read that top text aloud for both of us.”

I squinted at the small font, readingBITCHandCUNT. So, the binder wasn’t empty.

“That’s one to Isabella Scarlatti from your very own son.”

I kept reading silently. Hateful words, the kind you’d never want your son to say or text to anyone. Threatening, violence-filled words that appalled me.

“We’ve also heard from a few classmates that people call your son ‘scary.’ I guess he gives girls the creeps. Which isn’t illegal. I’m just saying.”

I tried to speak but my mouth was dry. It was cold in the room, even colder than the hallway and reception area. Hernández was wearing a suit. Benjamin was wearing a T-shirt. I was wearing a tank and in the last minute I’d started to shiver.

I said, “He’ll need to eat some dinner, and it’s friggin’ cold in here.”

“We can get him a second bag of chips, if that’s what he needs.” Hernández flapped the bottom of his tie, straightening it. “Benjamin, if you’re anything like me, you can’t sleep in a hard chair. Believe me, this is not a pleasant place to spend the night. You’ve done a fantastic job so far. Let’s get this all finished before bedtime.”

The wall clock read a quarter to six. Hernández was already talking about bedtime, like there were hours and hours of questions left. Benjamin gave me a pleading look, which I took at first to mean he wanted me to find a way to extract him and end the interview. I was wrong.

“Okay,” Benjamin said. “Just ask me whatever you want to ask me. I’m tired of this taking so long. I want to go home.”

Hernández smiled big enough that his dimple flashed.

“Smart kid. Let’s start over with the person who was picking up Isabella—a couple of weeks ago, you said. You said you never saw the car. When I asked you for a color, the plate, anything, you said—”

“I didn’t see it. Iheardit, making a bunch of noises before it died. Then it started up again and I could hear it coming around the side of the building. Super noisy.”

“Like, screeching when it turned?”

“I wouldn’t know if it was turning because I couldn’t see it. But no, it wasn’t a screech, or a scrape. Not like a muffler hanging down or something. I don’t think.”

“I’ll note the description in your interview,” Hernández said without bothering to pick up his pen. “Squeaky car. Well, my car makes noises, too, but more so in the winter, when it’s not warmed up. And this wasn’t a cold day, was it, Benjamin?”

“Not squeaky,” Benjamin said. “Ticking, more like.”

“Like a bomb.”