Page 3 of Slots & Sticks
It’s unnerving. Even to them. I see it. They don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t yell, doesn’t run.
The boy takes one step forward.
They back off. One throws the jar down. “Whatever. Keep it, freaks.”
They stalk off, muttering.
As silence rushes in behind them, my breath feels too big for my body. Then—him. A shadow at the edge of the sidewalk. Skinny, but steady. Not one of them. Not even close.
The boy turns and meets my eyes for half a second.
Then he sits on the curb.
Like that’s all he came to do.
He doesn’t talk.
Not that day. Not the next.
The kid shows up around the same time every afternoon, quiet as cloud cover, and takes his spot on the curb. Like he’s got nowhere better to be but right here. Watching. Guarding.
Protecting.
I don’t even know his name. Where he lives. Who he belongs to.
The first time I offered him lemonade, he didn’t even blink.
So now I leave it beside him. A cup with a lemon wedge on the rim, sweating in the heat. Sometimes he drinks it. Sometimes he doesn’t. Either way, I keep setting one down.
He hasn’t missed a day.
He’s always in the some worn T-shirt, always with the name of a faraway place embroidered on the front. His skin is tan, like he lives outside, and he’s got a scar across one eyebrow that makes him look kind of dangerous, even though he hasn’t said a single word.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, but I can feel him noticing. Not just the bullies. Me. Like he’s mapping out the way I fall apart, so he can be the one who holds the pieces.
Vanessa asked me about him when she came back. “Who’s the silent bodyguard? You hire him off Craigslist or something?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He just… came.”
She rolled her eyes like it was weird—which, okay, it is—but she didn’t push. Vanessa’s cool like that. And she stopped asking questions once she saw the look I gave her when she said he was probably some weirdo creeper.
Because he’s not.
I don’t know how I know that. I just… do.
One time, I tried to sit beside him. Not right next to him, but close enough to say thanks. He didn’t move. Didn’t freak out or tell me to go away. But he went so still, it was like the universe hit pause.
So I backed off. Sat at the table. Let him have his curb.
He needs the silence. I can tell.
Me? I need him.
Not because I’m scared the boys will come back. I mean, yeah, I am. But it’s more than that. It’s the way I feel when he’s here. Like I can take up space again. Like I’m not someone’s punchline or someone’s daughter or someone’s target.
I don’t even know his name.
But he keeps coming back.
