Chapter One
The Greenmans have been my foster family since first grade. I have little to no memory of my real parents, most likely from the multiple head lashings I received from second to third grade which stopped when a teacher began to notice my bruises and Mrs. Greenman—the least motherly person on the planet—had resorted to hiding them with my clothes and later replacing them with prolonged periods of imprisonment in my room. Of course, I deserved it: I hadn’t taken out the trash or cleaned my room or something they had told me to do but, through my constant hunger and fear of failing school, had forgotten to do. I’ve nearly failed school twice, yet my uncanny intelligence has kept me afloat.
It’s what’s kept me afloat since third grade, when my only friends were Camus, Socrates, and Plato—philosophers whose works I’d privately borrowed from the internet at school. The library in my hometown had been shut down primarily due to budget cuts, so the literature of the internet has been my place of solace and comfort. It’s also the reason for smaller lashings and a recent near hit-and-run outside of our house. Mr. Greenman’s truck had nearly made me a pancake because the computer had crashed. After that I only used Encyclopedia Britannica and Worldbook at three in the morning so as to avoid any more beatings. Mrs. Greenman had stopped him before the neighbors could notice, and that was the one good thing that overweight drunk had done for me.
It started as a normal day at school: Crazy Kevin—a tall, pale-skinned boy with greasy black hair and blue eyes—was making his usual rounds. His Mom was elected to the school board a few years ago, allowing her son to do whatever he wanted. I’m his favorite victim—poor, scrawny, and always weak Kyle Greenman. He hasn’t hit me in a while, since I give him my lunch almost every other day. When someone like him has high-level connections, no one—not even the stone cold principal—has even stood in his way.
That is, until Julia showed up.
She arrived at the start of second semester. Her blue eyes, pale skin and long, jet black hair differentiate her from the rest of the females in my class. It’s almost similar to how I stick out—dirty, thin and wearing the same clothes every day. Put simply: I’m not the most handsome devil in my class. I’m actually quite the opposite compared to Julia, whose features made even me, a prude, take a brief glance upon her arrival.
She’s mostly quiet, and sits in the back. I usually sit up front, and that was why I don’t recognize her as she enters the cafeteria that day. I sit at my usual spot—a lonely circular table which only I inhabit. The others sit in groups, chattering amongst themselves. I look at the PB&J sandwich I made this morning right after I finished making Mrs. Greenman’s hamburger. It’s crumpled and about to go stale as I pull it from the brown bag. My teeth nearly bite my tongue as my first chew is interrupted by the words:
“Excuse me. Can I sit here?”
The voice is light and almost angelic. I nearly bolt from my seat. No one has ever asked me that question before. It’s so alien to me I can’t think of a response besides a curt nod. She took a seat across from me, pulling out a solid apple and taking a bite of it. Chewing it, she asked, “So, what’s your name?”
“K-Kyle Greenman,” I stutter. My voice almost sounds instructional.
“My name’s Julia,” she replies. “I just moved here from Bethel Park, Pennsylvania. I think you’re in Mrs. Roberts’ Social Studies…”
Her voice trails off the moment a familiar fist pounds the table, causing it to shake as if an earthquake has struck. The cafeteria grows quiet. The teachers sitting in the middle don’t stop their conversation, but eye the children carefully while ignoring my little section of the cafeteria. Kevin grins at me, while the others look at him cautiously. He gives them a sweeping glance, sending their eyes directly to their plastic disposable trays.
“Now Kyle,” he says, his voice low and demanding as always. “I believe you owe me a sandwich.”
I’m inches away from putting my PB&J in his hand when I hear:
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
My heart seems to go still, both at hearing a cuss word-a taboo at my school-and hearing someone speak up to Kevin. No one speaks up to Crazy Kevin Lyman unless they want to leave school in a hearse. Apparently, Julia isn’t familiar with how things works around here. I dart my eyes at Julia’s, silently warning her to back down; the once warm sea blue eyes are now ice cold, the kindness gone from her voice.
I can scarcely breathe.
Kevin just blinks at her for a little while, then chuckles. His laugh is very demonic and almost infectious. He grabs her by the collar, preparing to school her on how he ran things. Her face remains rigid, unaffected by the fierceness in his eyes; she is the sheep and he is the hungry wolf preparing to feast on her. He’s about to school her as to why he’s immune to the school’s conduct code. I have a feeling she won’t be pale when she goes home this Afternoon. I can’t bear to look. I hold my hands over my eyes.
“So, bitch,” he says in a low tone, setting his eyes in that same laser-like glare that comes right before one of his legendary punches. “You gonna defend your boyfriend?”
She seems barely afflicted by his threatening demeanor. She retorts in a tone I’ve only heard wrestlers booming from downstairs on Monday Night Brawl. I open my eyes, my hands outstretched as if to stop her somehow.
“No. I’m defending his right to eat his sandwich any goddamn way he pleases!”
And then the unthinkable happens.
She punches Kevin so hard that he waltzes backwards headfirst into the wall. The action alone interrupts the forced solitude throughout the cafeteria. I reach over and grab Julia’s arm, whispering “Are you out of your damn mind?”
She doesn’t respond. She shakes me off and walks quickly and quietly out of the cafeteria. My arm is still stretched forward, as if holding the ghost of the arm which she’d used to punch Kevin. I remember how they’d stated I was prone to temper tantrums in first grade. It had started when Kevin and one of his henchman had ganged up on me and demanded to borrow some crayons. I responded how one of the Jedi knights had responded when attacked on Star Wars and pushed my sharp number two in his buddy’s stomach, causing me to land in two years of psychotherapy with the label “passive aggressive” and “emotionally unstable” stamped on my permanent record. There was no blood then, but there is now. Two teachers spot me standing frozen over the trembling Kevin, reciting my name. “KYLE GREENMAN!” one stout woman wearing a blue sweater and khakis booms.
I freeze.
Kevin lies in a heap on the floor, his eye darker than midnight. A horrifying river of blood has painted the white-brick wall as the principal grabs hold of me and marches me down to her office. I’m out of breath and barely able to explain to her that Julia did it. I’m still unable to call the real culprit out on it when Mr. Greenman arrives, grabs me by the arm and places me in his pick-up truck thirty minutes later, driving me home.
