Page 28 of Saving Sparrow
“I don’t think so.” Elliott fidgeted with the dress, and I subtly nudged Quentin’s leg when he opened his mouth to try to change his mind.
“Well, if you ever want to, you can,” Quentin said.
“Thanks.”
I read while Quentin finished up with Elliott’s hair. He nearly stroked out after finally mastering the French braid, only to have it unravel because he hadn’t secured the ends.
“This is way too much hair,” Quentin complained. “I want the last thirty minutes of my life back.”
Elliott chuckled, and Quentin and I looked at each other. We’d never heard him laugh before. Elliott’s amusement faded when he noticed my shocked expression, and I thought for sure he’d bolt.
We sat there like idiots, quiet, not knowing what to do next. It was just a laugh, no big deal, right? Then why did it feel like he’d accidentally shared something he hadn’t planned to?
Quentin was still kneeling behind him. He began working on the braid again, returning the energy in the room to something sort of normal.
Elliott closed his eyes, like maybe Quentin’s fingers running through his hair was exactly what he needed. “My mother loved my long hair,” he whispered as if revealing something sacred.
“What about your dad?” I asked carefully, heart pounding.
“I don’t think he cared either way. Not until he caught me hiding in my closet”—He flicked his gaze up to me—“wearing my mother’s clothes.”
“What did he do?” The question came from Quentinthis time.
“He started shaving it off after that. They wanted me to be a boy.”
“But youarea boy. Your hair, or what you wear, has nothing to do with that.” Quentin sounded upset on his behalf, and he looked like he was ready to track down Elliott’s dead parents and give them a piece of his mind.
“Yeah,” Elliott said, but he didn’t sound so sure. He steepled his fingers together in his lap, and although his lips didn’t move like they usually did, I got the feeling he was praying. Maybe without even realizing it.
“How’d you manage to grow it out again?” I asked once that faraway look left his eyes. He never told us when his parents died, but I got the impression it wasn’t that long ago. Not long enough for his hair to have grown more than a foot long since.
“He gave up on it one day. Gave up on trying to fix me.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” Quentin said encouragingly.
Elliott’s gaze grew distant again, his forehead creasing like he was fighting to remember something. A lone tear spilled down his cheek. “I don’t think it was.”
Elliott hadn’t shared anything too personal again, but he did become more relaxed over the course of the next few weeks. He no longer tensed when Quentin made his obnoxious shower jokes, and he’d even picked up trash-talking while rolling around in the grass with Quentin. He liked football. He hadn’t been pretending.
Elliott’s aunt was rarely home, leaving him alone for days and weeks at a time. She and my stepdad were alike in that way. I wondered if it was ignorant neglect on her part, or if she actively avoided him the way Dylan avoided us. After all, she went from having no kids to being responsible for a teenage boy overnight. I was sure that hadn’t been on her bucket list.
We offered to spend nights at his house when he refused to sleep over at ours. He shot us down, swearing again he didn’t mind being alone. I thought it was a nice way of him saying he needed space after havingbeen smothered by us during the day. Quentin didn’t understand or like it. Truth was, I didn’t either, but unlike Quentin, I knew not to push.
They ran drills every day while I chose to read or sunbathe by the pool instead. Every now and then, I’d catch Quentin staring at me, grinning. Elliott fit; he was our missing piece, only we were too naïve to fully understand what that meant.
“No puedo respirar, cabron,”I forced out as my torso smashed into the padding of the lounge chair. I’d dozed off, and Quentin decided it would be funny to flop his muscled body on top of me. He chuckled, rolling off onto the grass, allowing me to sit up.
Elliott jogged over, out of breath, the football under his arm. “You can’t breathe,” he translated before dropping onto the edge of the lounger.
“You speak Spanish too?” Quentin asked, shock and betrayal in his tone.
“I’ve been teaching myself a little,” he murmured shyly before turning away. I smiled. He’d been teaching himself for me.
“New rules.” Quentin pulled off his sweaty shirt. “No more speaking Spanish until I learn it too.”
I rolled my eyes. “Is there a reason you almost crushed me to death?”
“Oh yeah. Elliott’s coming with us to practice.”
