Punches to Band-Aids
Marcus
My steps echo on the cobbled street as I turn left, my mind still stuck on the image of my mother smiling, waving goodbye to her other—wanted—son as I stared at them from behind a dumpster.
I kick a small stone out of my path, and it hits the narrow alley wall—the supposed shortcut home—that I take when I want to hide from the world for a long time.
It’s not like anyone will miss me.
“Oomph!”
Thud.
My eyes widen as a girl hits the brick wall a few feet in front of me, her momentum peeling her off it almost immediately.
Thoughts scatter and my breath catches as another girl steps in, punching her in the solar plexus before she’s even caught her breath.
My feet are already moving forward when the girl raises her head, down but not out.
Her eyes, one blue and one brown—huh—sparkle with fury, even though she’s thoroughly winded.
I can’t help but admire her strength as she grabs the other girl and pulls her down.
My feet pick up pace, and I’m running towards her.
There’s something in her eyes—defiance, maybe? She is staring at an epic beatdown without flinching, and I…something twists in my chest until bitterness coats my tongue.
I can’t let those other girls beat the fight out of her.
So I do something I would never normally do.
I step forward and place myself between her and a kick that will likely rupture an organ or fracture her ribs.
—-------------------------
Celeste
The rough edges of the brick dig into my back as I hit the wall, before my momentum causes me to bounce forward, right into a fist.
The breath leaves my lungs but I lunge at the girl, grabbing her hair and pulling her down.
Her friend barrels into me and screams, pulling me off the bitch and slapping me hard.
She steps back for a kick and I curl up on the hard ground, waiting for pain that never comes.
Instead, a boy stands between us, facing me, a scratch on his forearm and a shoeprint on his shirt.
The two girls I was fighting with are already running away. I get up and lunge after them, but he grabs me by the waist.
“Hold up now, they’re too far away. Are you alright?”
His chest is warm against my back—a sensation I’ve never experienced. His form towers over me, his forearm flexed against my waist, strong but gentle.
A shiver runs down my spine—but it’s not the fear I was expecting…It’s a sense of safety.
My pulse hammers against my throat as the adrenaline crashes. I push against his arm and huff, “I’m fine. I had that handled.”
You didn’t—but he doesn’t need to know that.
His forearm flexes against my stomach as I wriggle to free myself and follow them.
“Mm-hmm,” he says, “Sure. Although your hair tells a different story.”
“You should’ve seen the other girl—” I start, but he breaks out laughing.
I grab my school bag from next to the wall where I dropped it.
“Is that it? I guess you’re welcome.” His voice still carries a hint of his laughter.
I roll my eyes, while he smirks and brushes off the dust from his shirt.
“I didn’t need the help.” I straighten my clothes, dust myself down, and test my cheek. It’s going to hurt something fierce tomorrow, I can tell.
Still—worth it.
I have one rule—no one insults my mother—to my face or behind my back.
Everything else I can put up with, but not this.
“A whore was bound to produce a bastard. I’m going to make her pay for daring to show her face in a school like ours.”
I don’t care that they called me a bastard… but calling my mom a whore?
Those bitches should’ve known better.
I always find out—and I always settle my scores.
The guy is cleaning his scratch with a handkerchief—it’s still bleeding.
A twinge of guilt makes me wince inside. He did help me.
I pull out a band-aid, rip off the packaging, push his hand away and apply it on the wound.
“Don’t go getting involved in other people’s fights, softie. Next time, it could be worse.”
His brows disappear in his dark bangs, leaving his blue eyes wide open.
So electric. So damn dangerous.
I clear my throat and step back.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
I nod and turn around.
It’s time to get back to the hospital—mom is probably throwing a fit again.
I studiously ignore the gaze burning into my back as I double march out of that alley, sure of one thing—
I’ll never forget those eyes and the promise of warmth they brought.
—------------------------------------
The walk to the hospital passes surprisingly quickly. I step into the ward and the noise hits me first. The antiseptic smell is so strong it makes me gag. The nurse is sponging my mom clean.
The scent of vomit lingers around her bed, and instantly my fury is replaced with concern.
“What happened?” My words mingle with mom’s, though mine are clearer.
“Did you fight again?” Mom’s words are faint, and a coughing spell starts almost immediately.
“Don’t talk… I’m here.” I take her hand in mine. The nurse gathers her things and leaves.
“I need to tell you something…,” mom continues in a whisper. I lay my head on her lap as she gently strokes my hair.
“When the time comes, go with your dad. I’ve told him everything.” Her coughs turn violent.
“No…” I whisper with tears in my eyes. “I’m never leaving you.”
“I’m sorry for not taking care of you better.” Her voice is barely audible. The cancer has eaten everything— her lungs, her throat… Everything.
I shake my head.
“Be nice. Don’t fight.” I shake my head again. The monitor next to her head starts beeping violently.
I jerk up and shout for the nurse. Mom tugs on my hand.
“Love you.”
The beeping flatlines into a long tone, and even I know what it means.
Nurses and doctors converge around her. I stumble back and wait as they do everything they can to revive her—but I know the truth.
She’s gone. She said her goodbye.
For the first and last time in my almost eighteen years, she said she loved me.
“I’ll be fine, mom.” I whisper. “You can be happy now. Go in peace.”
I sit by her bed while they announce the time of death.
They say things I can’t hear. I sign some things I don’t read.
They hand me mom’s death certificate. I pack up our things. We gave up the house long ago.
I have nowhere to go.
I walk to a shelter for the night.
I’m grateful mom made arrangements for the funeral before she passed—I don’t think I could’ve.
It’s held two days later. I wear the only dress I have, a black dress mom bought me before we moved to the hospital full time.
I don’t remember much of what happened, except that I was the only one. No one came—not that I expected them to.
There isn’t a single acquaintance we haven’t borrowed money from, and mom’s long alienated every member of staff at the hospital.
Her resentment and misery were like poison mist—corrupting everything it touched, including me.
Everyone was at fault, except her. Still. She was mom. And she stayed—even when she didn’t want to.
I sit in the empty first row as the minister says a few words. I drop dirt and a rose into her grave before leaving.
I sit on the bus stop outside the cemetery while I stare at the road.
What next?
I petitioned to get emancipated three years back. I’ve worked part-time for years. I was hoping to start my senior year this fall.
Even after school resumes, I should be able to continue working part-time. Maybe I can work something out with the school?
A place to stay might be a challenge.
Or should I just get a fulltime job? I still need to pay people back for the money they loaned us.
The thoughts cycle in my mind, keeping the emotions at bay.
A shadow fills my vision.
A black car slides into view in front of me and the driver exits.
“Miss Shaw? I’m from the Lowell estate. Your father, Mr. Jonathan Lowell sent me to pick you up.”
I stare at the driver in something akin to shock. I didn’t honestly believe my father would take me in. I genuinely thought it was some bullshit he fed my dying mom.
I sit in silence on the bench, weighing my options.
The driver waits patiently, allowing me my space.
Even though I bathed, I can still smell the shelter on me. One of the straps of my two bags is fraying where a rat gnawed on it last night.
Pride might be the only thing I have, but I can swallow it if it means a roof over my head and a place to figure out my next steps.
Whatever my father might have planned, it can’t be worse than living in the shelter, or the streets.
Heck, depending on his mood, I might even be able to hustle a few things out from him.
Finally feeling resolved, I lift the two bags sitting next to me—the sum total of all my possessions and walk towards the car.
A new chapter awaits.
Will it pan out?
My fists tighten on my sides as I lean back into the soft seat.
It will have to. I still haven’t met a challenge I can’t overcome with sheer grit—and I don’t plan to start now.
—-------------------------------------
Marcus
Electric blue eyes—same as my mom’s—stare right back at me as I splash some more water on my face.
The scratch on my forearm still stings where I got cut while saving a girl from getting beaten to within an inch of her life.
Her smart mouth and cavalier attitude still bring a smile to my lips.
Her eyes flash in my mind—one blue, one brown. There was just something about her—she keeps popping into my thoughts at odd times ever since I ran into her.
Will I ever run into her again?
Two whole weeks have passed.
Two whole weeks since I got scratched… Since I’ve waited on pins and needles for the opportunity of a lifetime.
My thoughts cycle back to my mom as the blue eyes we share search my face for anything else that might prove I was her son.
There isn’t.
Mom left when I was only ten, and dad has never been the same since.
Dad told me she died. He doesn’t know I found her—saw her with her new family—after winning the CTF. That I actually managed to track her down.
She looked happy. I don’t know why she left—but I guess we were never enough—I was never enough.
When mom left, I didn’t just lose a mother… My eyes land on dad’s door.
My father’s snores in the other room rise and sputter in an erratic symphony—I lost my father as well.
I sit on the stairs by the door. The wood is worn—I don’t remember when I last oiled it—as I watch the mailman drop our mail through the slot and leave.
I retrieve the mail and start sorting through it.
Most are unpaid bills, but hopefully…
There.
I grab the envelope and place it reverently in the middle of the counter. I go to grab it but pull my hand back.
I can’t forget the day that brought me this opportunity.
My field of vision narrows as I zone into my computer screen. All sounds fade, except for the beat of my heart.
The energy drink tastes like caffeine and something bitter that lingers.
3 more lines and I’ll have the node, I estimate. I could win this.
My keyboard clicks at incredible speed as I type out the last of my code and hit enter. My heart thumps in my chest in the microseconds it takes for my program to execute.
The crowd goes wild as I capture the last node of the enemy and I win the Solo Title.
It’s my first time participating in this CTF tournament. No formal training, no tech background. I did it!
A smile erupts on my face, though it dims slightly.
Even at this moment, all I can care about the most is seeing dad smile—without having to drink to make it happen.
The host leads us to a podium where our prizes are distributed. For winning first place, I get a trophy and a check for $5000. That money will go a long way towards funding my college tuition.
I’m just stepping off, when a man dressed in an expensive suit with unique silver eyes, probably in his late forties walks over.
“That performance was brilliant, son! How old are you?”
I stare at him in open-mouthed disbelief. That’s Daniel Ingram of Ingram Technologies.
“I—uh—eighteen, sir.”
He laughs and pats me on the back.
“Son, I’m impressed. Which high school do you attend?”
“Uh—Alpen High, back in my hometown. I’m not from around here, sir.”
His eyebrows rise. “Really?”
He pulls out a business card and hands it to me. “How would you like to attend Westridge Prep?”
I swallow as I take his card.
“That—” I think for a second, trying to find the appropriate phrasing before landing on the unvarnished truth.
“—wouldn’t be possible, sir.”
Westridge is notoriously difficult to get in, and even if I do, their tuition alone would bankrupt us.
“Email me your details. Share your transcripts for the last three years as well.”
He waves and walks away, leaving me standing there, waving while I hold his card close to my chest—almost as if I’m holding gold.
I scratch my neck as I hover there, swinging between waiting for dad or going for it.
Quit stalling.
My fingers shake as I carefully rip the top of the envelope and pull out the paper.
The sheet is thick, as is expected of the best prep-school of the state. This is it.
’Dear Mr. Marcus Holden,
Westridge Preparatory Academy is delighted to inform you that your request for transfer has been accepted.
Additionally, on the basis of your transcripts and a special recommendation from Mr. Daniel Ingram himself, you have been granted a complete scholarship for your duration of study and stay with us.
Should you accept this opportunity, you will be required to maintain a 4.0 GPA. You will also be expected to participate in one sport, and take two advanced classes each semester.
Failure to meet these requirements will cause the scholarship to lapse until such time as these metrics are maintained again.
Please note, WPA expects you to be at your best behavior at all times. Bullying, hazing, cheating or any form of nuisance are not tolerated and may lead to disciplinary action. Any initiation of disciplinary action against you will lead to termination of scholarship.
A serious enough charge and proof of guilt may even result in expulsion. WPA takes pride in its students and expects the same of them.
Should you accept, kindly sign and mail us the acknowledgment within a fortnight of receipt of said letter.
Further instructions, date of commencement and other related details are part of the orientation package sent along with this letter.
We hope to see you soon.
Sincerely,
Mr. Jace Hartley, Vice-Chancellor (WPA).’
The letter drops from my numb fingers and I collapse on a chair. I got in. I GOT IN!
I carefully put the letter back into its envelope, go through the rest of the package and can’t stop a delighted whoop.
Just the name of this prep-school attached to mine will open doors I never could have imagined entering.
I glance at my father’s door. A weight drops into my abdomen.
My gaze returns to the letter, far less delighted than before.
Will he even realize I’m gone?
I shake my head. Such fantasies are for those who are wanted.
I inhale deeply, fingering the envelope’s sharp edges until a thin, sharp cut oozes blood on my finger.
I might not be someone anyone chooses the way I am…but at WPA, I can become the person everyone wants…and if I have to bury the real me to the very depths of the earth to make it happen…
My mind drifts to my mother—happy with her other son…to my father—happier with his bottle than he ever was with me…
Then so be it.
Resolve strengthens in my gut.
Marcus Holden—rejected by even his own parents—will die before the world can see his truth and reject him for it.
