Page 86 of Too Many Beds

Below the Beds

F.A. Lantern

Content warnings:domestic violence | child abuse

Don’t get involved,Ben tells himself, unable to look away from the trio of boys surrounding the crouched figure of the smaller child.It's none of your business.

He can already feel the sting of his foster mom’s slap when he gets sent home from schoolagainfor fighting, making her leave work to pick him up.

I don’t get paid enough to take care of you when you make me miss work!She screams the same things every time she hits him. Ben wishes he could ignore the three bigger kids as one of them pulls his foot back and kicks the smaller boy in the stomach, but he can’t, he justcan’t.

He’s ten, but he’s as big as a sixth grader and that alone is enough to keep him from being picked on, despite his sometimes-dirty clothes and his too small shoes. At least, no one messes with him anymore. But Samuel, the kicker, picked on him for weeks before Ben finally shoved him into the dirt hard enough to bloody his nose.

He never tried it again, but Ben can hear the snide comments he makes in class when Ben doesn’t know an answer, or when he comes to school in the same shirt three days in a row.

Ben could put his head down and go to class, make himself small and not get into trouble, and avoid all the consequences he knows he’s going to get. But the boy makes a stuttering little cry as his backpack is dragged off his body, even as he struggles to hold on to it.

“Give it back!” Ben snaps, his hands in fists at his sides a few feet from the huddle of boys. “It’s not yours!”

Samuel tenses before he turns, handing the backpack to one of his buddies as he faces Ben, an ugly sneer on his face. “What doyouwant, assface?”

Samuel’s friends snicker, pleased by his insult and their greater numbers. On the ground, the smaller boy sniffles, bringing his scraped, bloody hands to his face to readjust his crooked glasses. Ben doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t need the reminder of how it feels to be small and helpless and overwhelmed.

“Just give him back his backpack and leave him alone,” Ben tells Samuel, jerking his head at the boy pawing through the bag, looking for snacks or money or anything else he thinks he can take.

Samuel’s friend pretends to ignore him, darting a glance at Samuel for approval before he chucks a sandwich on the ground and stomps on it. The younger boy makes a sad, hopeless sound that cuts through Ben to the quick.

“Or what?” Samuel sneers, his voice deliberate, his piggy eyes eager and mean. “What are you gonna do about it? Cry to your mother? Oh, wait, you don’thavea mother?—”

Ben shoves him hard enough that he hits the ground with a startled grunt. Everyone freezes for a long moment, waiting for Samuel to react, waiting for Ben’s next move.

It’s the younger boy who moves first, shoving himself to his feet and running away, abandoning his backpack, still held loosely in one of his bullies’ hands.

“What is going on here?” A sharp adult voice cuts across the yard, and Ben feels his heart sink.

“Nothing, Ms. Stevens,” he mumbles, taking a big step back and wondering if he can mimic the younger boy and run.

“He pushed me, mom!” Samuel whines, holding up his dirty palms as evidence as he looks pathetically up at his mother. The PE teacher frowns, narrowing her eyes at Ben as she pulls her son to his feet, looking him over critically.

“Your hands, baby,” she sighs. “Go to my office. I’ll get you cleaned up and write you a note for class. You!” She points a stern finger at Ben. “Come with me right now.”

Ben feels his stomach fall to his toes and his mouth go dry. He wants to protest, he wants to explain himself, but Ms. Stevens isn’t going to listen to him, and neither is Mr. Sweeney, the principal.

Behind his mother’s back, Samuel grins at him, sticking his tongue out victoriously as Ben is pulled away.

Benhateshim. He doesn’t like the feeling, the sick, hot rage that makes him feel like choking. It tastes like helplessness and despair and is far too bitter to comfortably swallow. He doesn’t say anything as he is dragged away, across the schoolyard to the administration building.

The back of Ben’s neck itches, but he keeps his burning face pointed at the ground. It’s obvious enough what is happening to him, even without Samuel tellingeveryonethat he got Ben in trouble. He doesn’t need to see the curious or gossip-hungry looking at him too.

“Sit here,” Ms. Stevens says, nudging Ben toward the row of chairs in the hall of the office and leaning over the counter to talkto the receptionist, who shoots Ben a sympathetic look before lifting the desk phone to her ear.

Ms. Stevens says something else and then turns to Ben, giving him a narrow-eyed glare before leaving the office. Ben slumps against the wall and kicks his sneaker over the linoleum until it squeaks.

The receptionist hangs up the phone and gives Ben a little smile. “Mr. Sweeney will be able to see you soon.”

Ben tries to smile at Miss Linda, but his chin feels a bit wobbly and his stomach feels watery. She is always nice to him, offering him smiles and sneaking him the occasional cookie from the nurses’ station, even when he is in trouble.

“Oh, honey,” she sympathizes, looking at him sadly and not fooled by his fake smile. “It’s going to be okay.”

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