Page 2 of Lost Boy
At least not right now.
Might be later, though. I have some weed tucked in my front pocket, and I’m hoping thiscivil servantdoesn’t try to shake me down before I get to my uncle’s car.
I can hear Ms. Gail droning on and on, but I zone out, focusing now on the interesting pattern of dots on the speckled vinyl floor.
“Fallon.”
My uncle’s deep, authoritative voice filters into my ears again, alerting me that it’s time to pay attention.
“Let’s go home. I have everything I need.”
His eyes are soft as he peers down at me, yet his jaw is tense. Contrasting. I could write about it. Poems. Lyrics. Different thoughts. I keep them on paper and floating in my head. A way to silently voice things I wouldn’t otherwise speak out loud.
“Let me remind you, Mr. Rivers. Fallon turns eighteen in a week. You have no obligation beyond that.”
It’s true. She’s not lying. But Uncle Joel doesn’t seem to like her statement.
“Fallon is my nephew.Family.We’ll be leaving now. Thank you for getting in touch with me, Ms. Gail. But I won’t be needing any future advice or phone calls. Goodbye.”
She huffs again before looking over her shoulder, pursing her lips, and pushing her glasses up her nose.
What-the-fuck-ever.
I didn’t doanythingto her. Except exist.
“Carry on then, Mr. Rivers. I have a busy caseload.” She spins on her heel and, thankfully, doesn’t spare a second glance.
“Do you have more things for us to get?” He eyes my belongings curiously.
Mom lost the house after Dad died.
We lost a lot of things.
“No.”
His frown and the creases between his eyebrows deepen, but Uncle Joel isn’t old. He was my dad’s younger brother and probably isn’t even thirty-five yet. His brown hair is short on the sides, longer on top, and styled neatly. He has black-framed glasses, but the man is no nerd. He isjacked. I was always intimidated by his size as a kid. He’s at least six-foot-four and clearly works out regularly. I don’t have the energy for such things, and I’ll be lucky if I ever make it to five-nine. Hope he doesn’t expect us to bond over sports, either. That won’t happen.
“Well, are you ready to head out, then?”
If he insists.
“Okay.”
“I got in late last night, crashed at an airport hotel, then came here first thing. I’m so sorry, Fallon. I left California the second Ms. Gail called me. Are you sure you’re alright? Do I need to take you to a doctor to get checked out?”
It’s just a black eye.
“I’m fine,” I mumble, uncomfortable by the care in his tone and the earnest look in his bright blue eyes that remind me of Dad. I glance down quickly and pick at the black nail polish that’s been chipping away for the past week. I’ve just been too tired to do anything about it. Then Mom’s arrest happened, the group home, and now this. Not sure I even have nail polish remover anymore.
“If you’re positive, Fallon.” He sounds unsure.
I give him a single nod in acknowledgment. I’m tired of talking.
He leans down to grab my bag without asking, squatting so we’re at eye level. “Why didn't you tell me things were this bad, kiddo? And I don’t mean in the last week since your mother’s arrest. I mean, in the last three years.”
Why is he asking this kind of questionnow?
Here?
