He stops and whips his head around, which helps the momentum when I snap his neck.

Gillian is horrified. She gasps and throws blood-covered hands over her mouth. Then, as Donald is crumpling to the floor, I slam his head into the countertop.

“He was hiding in your house when you got home,” I say to her, letting his body slump the rest of the way to the ground. “He attacked you.” I pull his legs out a little so it looks like he fell. “You fought back.” There is a glass of water on the counter. “Pushed him.” I throw the contents on the floor. “He slipped. Fell against the counter. Broke his neck.”

She doesn’t acknowledge anything I say. She slides to the floor herself and stares in horror, completely blindsided on two counts: his and mine.

I go to her. Take her shoulders. Shake her until she focuses on me. “What happened?”

Her lids flutter. “What?”

I shake her again. “What happened here?”

“I— He was in the house.”

“Waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me. He attacked me. He stabbed me.” She gasps when she realizes she’s really been stabbed. Starts to hyperventilate. I lift her off the floor and sit her on a chair.

“What next?”

“I— I pushed and he stumbled back. He fell. Hit his head on the counter.”

“You have to slow your breathing.” I put a hand on her back. “You’re going to pass out and you need to call an ambulance.”

She nods, scared out of her mind, and gradually begins to recognize me. I see it in her expression.

I change mine. Harden it. Shake my head. She nods again, understanding.

I lean over her and kiss her cheek. She wants to hug me but she doesn’t. I think she doesn’t want to get blood on my clothes. I’m wearing the hoodie, so she doesn’t know my clothes are already bloody.

“Call the police,” I say.

She puts a hand on my cheek. “He would have killed me.”

“Call the police,” I say again. Then I leave.

I hear a whispered thank-you as I hurry out the door.

I can’t see what happens to her anymore. Her future is hers now. Donald was slated for hell the minute he made the decision to take her life, so even though he didn’t get to kill her, he is still going down. I don’t stick around long enough for the floor to open up and swallow him, though. I’ve seen only one person go to hell. I have no desire to see it again.

Kim and I walk back to the apartment, and I wonder why I did that. Why I stuck my neck out for Gillian. She was supposed to die. I wonder if I’ve thrown a wrench into some cosmic order in the universe. I wonder if that one simple act will cause the destruction of our world in a hundred years. Then again, I could just as easily have saved it. It’s impossible to know what one tiny change will do. What kind of effect the butterfly will have. Maybe the tsunami will happen whether the butterfly flaps its wings or not.

We get back before Earl does, and Kim washes the blood off me again. Gets me a clean shirt. Makes me spaghetti. She wants to ask what happened, but she doesn’t. Which is good. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I’ve just killed a man. If I can do it once, why can’t I do it again?

No. I can’t. I can’t risk going to prison and leaving Kim alone. She would be put in foster home after foster home. At least in our situation, I know I can take care of her. I can be here for her.

13

The years go by and we exist. I convince Earl that Kim needs to go to school. I make promises if he will let her go. More if he will let me go as well.

So a few weeks later, I am in high school. I’ve never been to school of any kind. It’s like being in a foreign country where I know the language but not the customs. Kim is scared when I walk her to middle school and drop her off. I tell her she’s in the same grade as Dutch. I tell her she is going to love it. I tell her I’ll be there to pick her up the minute she gets out.

She nods, completely unconvinced. Kim has never been to school either, but a group of girls rushes up to us when we arrive. One of them takes her hand and they lead her to the playground before she can change her mind. I’m grateful and head to my own institution of higher learning: Yucca High.

The kids stare when I walk on campus, so I put up my hoodie. Only in school, I’m not allowed to wear the hood up, so I get in trouble every few feet. I drop it back, walk a ways, then put it up again. It doesn’t stop the staring, but it helps me cope with it. Like I’m in my closet. In a dark place. Safe. Forgotten.

I get registered and they hand me a class schedule, so a little while later, I’m standing in a room full of kids staring at me. Again. It’s physical science. The teacher looks at my schedule, then introduces me. To the whole class. I’m floored they actually do that. I can feel my face warming as I shift my weight.

Thankfully, nobody says anything. The teacher points to a seat. It’s surrounded by the hopeful gazes of sophomore girls.

“Hood down,” he says, his voice harsher than most of the others’.

I sit down and push my hood back. There is a coordinated release of breath around me. The emotion swirling in the room presses into my chest. I’m not sure I can do it. This. Any of this. My lungs aren’t working right, and everyone is looking at me. Gazes rake up my back and across my skin. Some are so full of longing, I almost feel sorry for them. Some are full of hatred. I do that. Inspire hatred for no reason. I figure it’s part of who I am. Another gift from hell. The hatred, I understand. The longing, not so much.

The teacher, a Mr. Stone, hands me a book. Points to the page number on the board. But I’ve already read the entire thing cover to cover. He asks a lot of questions about the chapter the class was supposed to read the night before. I know all the answers, but because I’m new, I’m spared the dreaded hot seat. That probably won’t last long.

All my classes go pretty much the same way, and by lunch, I still don’t have my bearings. I wonder if I ever will. My world has always been so small. So concentrated. This is like a diluted version of it.

I make my way outside while others are rushing for the lunchroom or the parking lot. There aren’t a lot of benches outside and most are taken, so I head for a quiet corner with a slice of grass that’s still green despite the chill. A voice resonates nearby as I sit on the grass.

“What’s up, cabrón?”

I look up. Block the sun with an arm to see a kid standing there. He walks over, and it takes me a minute, but I recognize him from the park. The one with the bomber jacket from that day five years ago. Amador. I wonder if he recognizes me, too, or if he’s just really friendly. I give him a head-nod greeting, so he sits next to me. Unfolds a tube of tinfoil. Reveals a burrito. The scent makes my mouth water.

He offers me half. I shake my head. I don’t have any money for lunch, but I’m not hungry anyway. At least that’s what I tell myself. He tears off half anyway and holds it out. I drop my gaze and take it.

Amador is like any other kid there and yet as different from them as Dutch is from me. There is a calmness about him. A stillness beneath choppy water. Being around him is soothing.

We eat in absolute silence; then he takes my schedule out of my hoodie pocket and opens it up. Nods his head. Passes it back. “We have two classes together.”