Page 17 of Neverland

“Did he hurt you?”

I nodded, still sobbing.

“Show me.”

He gently held my injured arm and assessed the damage. The baseball bat had split the skin, sticky, dark blood coating my arm, bruising and swelling already taking shape.

“That fucking asshole,” Romeo seethed, moisture glistening his eyes. He turned his head quickly to blink away tears. Romeo was quick to go into battle, unafraid of being hurt if it meant he was seeking justice. He was also quick to take on my pain. If my heart broke, so would his. If I cried tears of anger, so would he. But Romeo was also quick to be my protector. “Come on,” he said, putting on a brave face. He wrapped an arm around my waist, lifted me to my feet and guided me to the front door.

Unlike my house, Romeo’s was a traditional Mexican house in a neighborhood that was mostly post-war houses. His dad, a builder, had transformed it into something that felt more like a home. All arches and pale-yellow render. Colorful religious trinkets were dotted around the house and statues stood proud in their white rock gardens.

“Mami,” Romeo yelled. “Mami!”

Moments later, with eyes wide in concern, his mother ran down the hall from the kitchen. Wearing an apron and wiping her hands, she cursed in Spanish.

“Miho, what’s happened?”

Romeo turned to me for answers since I hadn’t told him much. “A baseball bat,” was all I could manage before it brought on another wave of pain.

Mrs. Sanchez rushed forward and gently studied my injured arm. She was an EMT nurse who had the patience of a saint when it came to those in need, but it didn’t take long before her face turned to a bitter scowl.

“Did that no good asshole do this to you?” Mrs. Sanchez was a very religious woman and would clip the ear of anyone who cussed, except for when it came to my father. When it came to him, she would unleash a fury that would have God himself shitting his pants.

I nodded, my thoughts falling to my mother. I wondered if she still had a pulse or if she would wake in a pool of her own blood.

“The good news is, it’s not broken. But… the piece of…” she eyed the two of us before correcting herself, “… he came very close to it.”

I could thank the trip-hazard rug for being my saving grace this time.

Mrs. Sanchez sat me at the dining table as Romeo’s father walked in. He stopped at the threshold, a newspaper in hand, glasses lowered on his nose and confusion on his handsome face. “Que pasa?” he asked with his thick accent.

Mrs. Sanchez threw her hands around in frustration as she rummaged through the kitchen cupboard for her medical kit. Her Spanish was angry and rapid and although I was sitting on an A in Mr. Estaban’s class, I failed to keep up.

“What’s she saying?” I whispered to Romeo who was smiling at his mother’s outburst. It was clear who Romeo inherited his anger from.

He cleared his throat, unsure if he should repeat. “She, um… she…”

“Just tell me.”

“She said ‘that dickless bastard of a man needs to be’—”

“Romeo!” Mrs. Sanchez reprimanded over her shoulder, arms outstretched to reach the medical kit in the highest cupboard.

He grinned and despite everything, I found it infectious. “See? She can say it but I can’t.”

“That’s probably a good thing. You get into enough trouble as it is.”

He cheekily stuck his tongue out at me and I returned the gesture.

Mrs. Sanchez started preparing bits and pieces, all while lost in a heated Spanish discussion with herself. I admired this lady who wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. Hell has no fury like an angry Mrs. Sanchez.

For the next ten minutes we sat in silence, me too numb to talk. Romeo held my good hand and didn’t flinch once when I squeezed tight, alcohol stinging the open wound. Mr. Sanchez paced back and forth in the kitchen while trying to convince the police to check on the state of my mother. Somehow the conversation had turned into him being asked questions about his whereabouts, and his relationship with my mother.

Once the bandage was clasped and mugs of hot chocolate were slid in front of us, Romeo led me out to the backyard and to a place we called our second home, Neverland. Neverland was an old treehouse built well before the Sanchezes moved in, but it was a place I’d often come to when escaping my father’s drunken tirades.

At the base of the ladder, Romeo pivoted to face me, his eyes wide like he had just recalled something. “I need you to stay here a moment.”

I giggled at his urgency. “Why?”

---