Page 73 of Seeing Grayscale

“Flicking them!” I shout.God, I’m a loud drunk.

We giggle at each other. “So no booger eaters. That’s good. I don’t think this would work if you did,” he teases.

A little gasp squeaks past my lips. My slow brain takes a minute to realize he doesn’t meanthisin the way I want. Popping my thumb in my mouth, I try to find something to rip at with my teeth, but he pulls my hand away. “Why do you do that?” he asks gently, examining my wet thumb.

“Habit.”

“But why? Why is it a habit?”

“I started doing it…after. After my parents…died.” He tenses but slowly laces our fingers together. “The first foster home I was placed in didn’t like me, and I was so…sad.I couldn’t find any reason to be happy. So they’d yell at me. I got so scared that they would hurt me that I started biting my thumb.”

“Did they?” he asks darkly. “Did they hurt you, Gray?”

“Not them, no. But the second ones did. I went to school with bruises all the time.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “The shitty part is that, at first, I was kind of okay with them. With Rita and Jon. But…yeah. This is getting dark.”

I lift off him, pouring us some more liquor. We drink in thoughtful silence, and when the last of sobriety poofs frommy system, Hunter pokes my thigh excitedly. “Wanna see something cool?”

My eyes flutter as I turn my head in his direction, a stupid grin on my face. “Always.”

THIRTY-TWO

“This…isfuckingrad,”Grayshrieks, clawing at my sleeve to keep himself upright as we stand in my backyard, looking at the Giant Connect Four game I bought two years ago after getting shitfaced. “Dude! Let’s play!”

“Wait!” I rush out, fingers flying to the buttons of my shirt. “I need my battle bandana.”

He blinks up at me. “Huh?” he slurs, wobbling again.

“Mybattle bandana,” I repeat slowly. How does he not know what that is?

Careful not to topple him—which is impressive considering I’m not much better—I remove his grip from my arm and peel my shirt off. Left only in my undershirt, I twist up the blue material and tie it around my head.

There.

I’m ready for fuckingwar.

“Holy shit,” he squeaks, a stray finger poking at my pec.

I swat his hand away and jog over to the game. The four-foot-long plastic game board is the battleground, and I will win. Mark my words. I rarely get a chance to show off my dazzling competition skills, so I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet, waiting for him toget over here.

“Hurry up!” I bark.

Steely determination hits as he eyes my bandana with envy. “I want one of those,” he points.

I gesture at his long-sleeved shirt. “You have one.”

“Fuck! I do!” he squeals, ripping his shirt off and quickly securing it to his head.

Half of me wants to ogle him, but this isn’t the time to check out his body.

No.

Total domination isnow.

For the next hour, we are neck and neck. I win one round, and then he comes in and steals the limelight. We curse, laugh, and fall over a few times because…wow, we drank a lot of whiskey.My eyes blur, and I can’t feel my hands, but I eyeball the damn game board. This next win is a must. With my tongue sticking out, I think hard about my next move.

“Come onnnn,” he whines. “Stick it in the damn hole!”

“It’s as-slot,” I inform him, squinting when the hollowed-out spots double.

---