Page 12 of The County Line
“What happened to your last big brother?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Dead. Shot in a drive by on Tenth street.”
Well, damn.Who told this kid the truth about what happened to him?
“Okay, kid, well, I don’t plan on getting shot anytime soon so you’re stuck with me until my time’s up. What do you usually do during this hour after school?”
“Did you even read the pamphlet?” he asks.
If one more person asks me about this mother-fucking pamphlet.
“No,” I deadpan because there’s no point in lying to this kid. I get the sense that he can see through people’s bullshit, and I have nothing to gain by trying to hide my lack of preparedness.
He smirks. “I eat pizza, sometimes play card games and if I have homework, I try to get it done.”
“Okay, and what’s your big brother do while you do all of that?”
“Look at nude photos of women on his phone.”
My mouth drops open as I gape at him. Well color me shocked because I wasn’t expecting him to say that. “Alright, well I don’t have any of those on my phone, so I guess I’ll just sit here then and watch you eat.”
“Why? You don’t got a girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
He raises a brow. “That makes sense.”
Can’t wait to hear his logic behind why that makes sense.
“Alright,” I slap my palms on my thighs loudly which elicits another angry glare from the big sister at the table next to us. “Well, this is off to a good start. I’m going to go grab a card game for us. You have a preference?”
He shrugs, “Get UNO. I’m kind of good at it.”
Forty-five minutes later, Malachi-kind-of-good-at-UNOwins his sixth game in a row, and I realize, I’ve just been punked by an eleven year old.
I want to say it sparks something inside of me—maybe a flicker of joy, or at least some kind of amusement—but it doesn’t.
I just feel... numb.
The kid seems decent enough, sharp and quick-witted in a way that makes me think he’s dealt with his fair share of challenges, but none of it is cutting through the thick fog I feel in my head. I’m still stuck in autopilot mode, going through the motions and counting the seconds until my hour-long, court appointed session is over.
He smiles when he notices someone arriving in the doorway of the center. “My mom’s here. Same time next week?”
“Yeah kid, sure. I’ll see you then.”
As Malachi sprints off, I gather up the cards, tossing them back onto the pile with the other games before eyeing the half-empty box of pizza on the nearby table.
I told myself earlier I wouldn’t touch it—figured I’d leave it for the kids and try not to bethatguy, even though it’s clearlymarked for the volunteers too. But it’s been over four years since I’ve had real pizza. The stuff that they served in the prison cafeteria barely qualified as food. I drift toward the box like it might bite first, then grab a leftover slice. Curiosity outweighs guilt. I take a bite, waiting to feel something—anything—even if it’s just regret.
“Hi! You’re one of the new volunteers, right?” a voice asks from behind me as soon as I take my first bite.
I turn around to find a younger, very short woman with long, dark blonde hair that falls on her shoulders in waves, and bright green eyes. She’s wearing a fitted white t-shirt and some sort of flowery looking hippie skirt that makes her look like she’d be comfortable leading a group sing-along for these kids and honestly, that might be just what they need right now.
“I am. Colt Marshall.”
“Ah, Regan’s brother.” She smiles easily and I still have no idea who this woman is. “I’m Lydia. I’m one of the lead volunteers here.”
“People do this for fun?” I try to joke but my tone falls completely short, and it sounds more like a demand.
