Page 63 of Evil All Along

The sound of a footfall drew me back.

Millie stood at the end of the hall. Her eyes were red. She was clutching a tissue in one hand. Her flyaways had multiplied into the millions, and she was staring at Keme. Keme stared back.He had stepped away from Indira and was caught in a high-schooler’s pose, one thumb under the strap of his backpack, as though frozen mid-hoist. The rise and fall of his thin chest gave him away, though. It was like the flutter of a bird’s wing. A strand of hair that had fallen loose from his beanie drifted on the restless movement of his body.

“Keme?” Millie whispered.

And it was, in all the time I’d known her, the firstrealwhisper.

Another second passed, and I seemed to realize at the same time as everyone else that Keme wasn’t going to move. I stepped over to him and whispered, “Do you want me to talk to her? You can do this later.”

He didn’t answer except to blink frantically as his eyes welled. And then he looked at me. And it was a question.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “Whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.”

In slow motion, he re-settled the backpack’s strap across his shoulder. And then he nodded.

He walked down the hall toward Millie, and Millie started to cry again, pressing the wadded-up tissues against her eyes. He said something to her, and she shook her head, and they stepped into the billiard room, and Keme slid the doors shut behind them.

I let out my breath slowly and turned to see Indira and Fox not looking much better. They were, to my surprise, holding hands. Fox was a mess, weeping openly now. Indira still held her usual composure, except for a shimmer in her eyes. She surprised me again when she released Fox’s hand so that she could take me into a hug. Her arms were light, barely settling on my shoulders, and the night was full of surprises, because then she kissed my cheek and said, “Thank you.”

Before I could say anything—like explain that I’d pioneered being-beaten-up-by-a-teenager as a parenting style—the front door opened. Bobby entered the hall a moment later. He was still in uniform, and he glanced up and down the hall before his gaze settled on me.

“With Millie,” I said, jerking a thumb at the billiard room.

Bobby nodded, and then his expression morphed into concern when he said, “What happened to you?”

“Nothing—”

“You’ve got blood on your shirt.”

“Oh, that. It’s nothing.”

“Uh huh,” Bobby said, and he put his hand on my back and steered me toward the stairs.

In our bathroom, Bobby sat me on the toilet while he inspected my scalp. When you knew someone really well, you could tell a lot about them by the way they breathed. For example, as Bobby cleaned the laceration, I could tell he was upset. Ifupsetmeant: filled with boiling rage. I could also tell because he was very, um, aggressive in applying some sort of stinging gel to the wound.

“I don’t think you need stitches,” he said as he crouched in front of me. “Do you feel dizzy?”

“No.”

“Tired?”

“Pretty much constantly.”

“Headache?”

“Uh, minor. Also, what did you put on that cut, because it feels like someone slapped jellied gasoline around and then set it on fire?”

Bobby caught my hand as I reached up to check if this was, in fact, the case.

“Any problems focusing?” he asked. “Do you feel like you’re thinking clearly?”

“Bobby, I’m fine.”

“Fantastic. Then you know what’s going to happen if I catch you messing around with that laceration.”

“Uh—yes.”

“And you can explain what exactly happened tonight.”

---