Here’s Looking at You, Kid

an accidental romance in fifteen parts

by Douglas

Chapter 12 – Kicked Out

I got back to Berkeley on a Thursday night, jittery and cranked up with caffeine, and still so tired from the endless drive up – and the time out of it that I’d snatched, to meet Cole – that I wound up sleeping almost twelve hours.

But the next day, Friday, was bliss.

Yeah, the new semester was coming up . . . but not for four more days. Four days to settle in, get the few books I still needed, figure out my schedule . . .

After the panic of finals, and all the stress (even if it was a GOOD stress) of Christmas and family and San Diego, it was like a vacation. A day to relax; to hang a little with Mark and Matt and Giovanni, to go for a short bike ride, and to just, slow down.

I didn’t even have much unpacking to do. The University lets you keep your stuff in your rooms over Christmas break, at your own risk. And nobody stole my espresso maker, and nobody – as far as I could tell – took any of Derrick’s clothes, so coming back to school was like coming home, in some ways. A lot of ways.

Okay.

So there was a little more to my contentment, my happiness, than that. A little.

Things were going well, in my life, right then. Things were going really well.

I mean – I was in love. Really, honestly, seriously in love; but for the first time in my life I knew, I knew down in my bones, in my DNA, that the one I loved, loved me back. I KNEW it.

If you’ve been there, if you’ve experienced it – you know how, how sublime, the experience is. How life-altering; how ecstatic.

Everything good in my life fed from that, just then. All the other facts, the other realities, that flowed into my happiness.

Oh, sure; there was still the issue, The Dance across the age-of-consent line; a constant worry.

But . . . I was tutoring Cole, now, he could visit me in my room anytime, at least for an hour or so; nobody (except Rajiv The Narc) could object. And with coursework and reading assignments over the break, he had every excuse to come by tomorrow, after he got back from Santa Monica.

We’d already arranged it.

And the idea of it, the prospect of being alone with him, in my room, again, was coloring everyone and everything around me in that golden fog I’d been experiencing since October.

Yeah; Cole, and our situation, was most of it, for me; the source of my happiness. But – for once in my life, it looked like the details, all the other details, were coming together too.

Like Derrick; Derrick was happy, in love himself, and moving in with Drew, and just knowing that – and seeing the joy in him, on his face all during Christmas vacation, made me break into smiles at odd times. I was happy for Derrick.

And yeah; thinking about the Derrick and Drew situation led perfectly into the other big thing in my life; my apartment. My first home-away-from-the-parents; the refuge I’d lucked into. Dark; wood-paneled; quiet; totally private. A place for me and Cole; a place where we could, almost-live-like-a-real-couple. Like an adult couple; no Rajiv, no in loco parentis implied or imposed or required.

Sure, I still needed to break the contract on the dorm room come April . . . but I didn’t think it would be a problem; there were waiting lists for two-room suites, like ours. It wouldn’t be a problem.

But I’d already decided; I was keeping the meal plan. Converting the points into a Non Residency Meal Plan, that we could still use for eating at the campus dining halls. After all, I had a growing boy to feed.

So, all in all, as the early January dusk fell, and I watched the lights come on in the Oakland hills, while I waited for Cole’s call – all in all, I felt . . . happy.

Content, even. In control, somewhat; relatively safe . . . yeah. And a lot, happy. A lot happy.

And so of course that’s when the world began collapsing down on us. In two short, sharp shocks.

*

My cell phone went off a little after nine, just as I was getting a little sleepy, thinking about watching a DVD on my laptop, maybe; I was so relaxed. Blissed out.

It was Cole’s ring tone, the one for his prepaid cell, as usual. I opened my phone.

“Hey, baby,” I started, smiling. “I was just – ”

“Jeremy. Are you back? Back in Berkeley, I mean?”

“What.” I heard my voice go flat, and my heart rate started pounding up, and up, out of nowhere.

When you know somebody – I mean, really know somebody, really well; you can tell so much, from the tone of their voice.

Cole’s voice, right then – it was the tone of voice you hear in a nighttime emergency call, the kind of call you get with horrible news attached to it. Harsh; stressed. Shaking, a little.

“It’s Trevor,” Cole went, flatly. Bluntly. “He got outed to his dad – or he outed himself to his dad, I’m not sure. But his dad beat him up, and kicked him out of the house.”

“His father beat him up?”

I could feel the pulse pounding in my ears, now; a rush of shock.

“Well, his dad hit him. More than once.” I could hear Cole take a breath, and swallow. “He says he’s bleeding.” It came out with a kind of pathetic, shuddering, self-control.

“Fucking shit.” I stood up, blindly. “Fucking hell. Does he need the police? Paramedics?” I was beginning to breathe harder.

“He says it’s just a cut, the idiot. I don’t know how bad it is. But he won’t call the police; he took BART into San Francisco, he called me from there.”

“What?! Why?”

“I don’t know why! He doesn’t have a plan, he doesn’t have a place to go; he just wanted to run, I think. And get away from his dad; like, he couldn’t stand to be in the same city with him. But he’s talking totally crazy, Jeremy, he’s so freaked out . . . I’m trying to talk him down, get him to call the police, or something; but – I’m down here!” I could hear a world of frustration in his voice. “If I were there, I could get to him, I could talk him down, I could get him to come over to my house – ”

“Yeah, yeah.” I was already looking around; stooping, to grab my socks. “Yeah; I’ll go get him. He can stay with me, tonight.”

“I’m not sure where he is! He’s talking crazy, he won’t say where he is. I think he’s moving around.” Cole’s voice was shuddering a little worse, now.

“Fucking bloody hell.” I stopped, a second, to think, as I began pulling on my socks. “You’ve got to keep talking to him, baby. Just, do what you can; try to calm him down. He’ll calm down eventually, and he’ll tell you where he is, and I’ll find him. It’ll be okay.” I finished lacing up my left shoe, started in on my right.

“Okay.” A couple of shuddering breaths, on his side. “Right.”

I straightened up, looking for my jacket. “What about his mom? Was she there? Does she know?” That would have made it just so much more horrible . . .

“No! She was out for the night; that’s why his dad started riding him, that’s always when his dad starts riding him, it’s why the whole thing happened.”

“Does she know? Did you call her - ?”

“She doesn’t have a cell!” In an almost-wail, from Cole. “She’s never had a cell! Can you believe it? She’s never had a cell! The only thing I could fucking do was call his house; and nobody’s picking up. I’d bet his asswipe father is there, thinking it’s Trevor trying to call home . . . ”

I hoped that was all it was.

“Okay; okay.” I finished putting on my jacket, and scooped my wallet and keys out of the cubbyhole at the head of my bed. “Okay.” I frowned, at the clock on the face of my cell; it was already after nine, and the BART train service closed at midnight; and I didn’t know where in the city Trevor’d gone. “I’m going to have to drive; it’ll take me a little longer – ”

“That’s all right. I still need to talk him down,” went Cole. Another breath, and another swallow. “I love you, Jeremy.” Still in that stressed voice.

“I love you, Cole.” I stopped, for a beat. “It’s gonna be okay; just call me, as you find out more, all right? Just keep me updated.”

“I will.”

“It’s going to be all right; I promise.”

*

A Mini Cooper’s a great car to be driving, if you’re mad, or upset, or afraid.

It’s small and light, but it’s powerful; the engine’s kind of snarly, and it handles rock-solid, and with the manual transmission you can just rocket your way through and past the lumbering SUV fleets on the Bay Bridge . . .

The way I was doing, just then; past a Chevy Suburban driver going under the speed limit, his mouth a big ‘O’ as I muscled around in front of him, leaving him dwindling in my rear view mirror, as I plunged into the orange-lit Yerba Buena tunnel.

Okay.

So, a gay boy gets kicked out of the house; by his father, or by both his parents – whatever.

And so, maybe, it gets a little physical, too. Maybe he gets pushed, or slapped, or hit, even.

It’s not news. I mean, it just isn’t; it happens all the time. Every day; way, way too often.

Wait ‘til it happens to you. Or someone you know.

Trevor was family; he was family to Cole – more important to Cole than his own father. And that made Trevor family to me, too. Even if I hadn’t already known him, and liked him, and considered him a friend – he’d be family.

So no, this wasn’t just the same old story, to me. I was upset, bad. Angry, and afraid; even if Trevor was probably okay, even if he hadn’t been tied to a fence and had his brains beaten out and left for dead, even without anything as horrible as that, I was upset.

Wait ‘til it happens to you; or someone you know.

My cell bleeped Cole’s ringtone as I was accelerating up the gentle rise of the Bay Bridge suspension span, the towers of San Francisco a cliff of light in front of me. I flipped my phone open, one-handed.

“Hey.”

“He’s in the Castro,” Cole went, at once. His voice still a little stressed, but more normal than before. “He’s at that cafe-place we went to last time; the Cafe Flore - ?”

“Yeah; I remember it. Good, good.” I felt a rush of relief, that I knew where he was, how to get to him. San Francisco is a big place. “Does he know I’m coming?”

“Not yet. He’s still talking a little crazy; he swears he’s not going home, he keeps saying that over and over, he won’t go home.” A short pause, on his end. “He says maybe he’ll find some people to crash with in the Haight.” Another short pause. “Or he’ll find someone to hook up with, in the Castro.”

And maybe earn some cash, in the process. I winced. “Not a good business plan.”

“I know, I know, I know, it’s just talk. But Jeremy – I really don’t want him sleeping in some doorway, tonight. I really don’t . . . ” and the worry was back in his voice, a kind of helpless, teenage-boy’s worry.

“It’s okay,” I said; passing the mid-part of the span, the big cables at the side of the road beginning to curve up and up, again. “It’s okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“I hope so. His battery’s almost dead. I really don’t want to lose contact with him . . . ”

“Fuck. Well, I’ll call you as soon as I park; just get him to stay there, all right?”

“I’ll try.”

I wasn’t sure of the best way to get there, so I played it safe, getting off on Ninth Street, and snarling up the blocks to a hard left onto Market Street, the big main street cutting diagonally through San Francisco.

Market was deserted, almost, this time on a Sunday night; all closed-up buildings, and pockets of homeless people huddling or sleeping on the sidewalks, or arguing, or ranting, it was a kind of inferno, a hell, really, and I thought about all these people as PEOPLE, people who hurt, people who were kids, once, with parents who maybe loved them, and I thought of Trevor maybe being homeless, tonight . . .

Market’s got a lot of stoplights, that blink red even on a Sunday night. I cursed each one.

And then, finally, I was parked; close enough. Out into the cold January night, and flipping open my phone, as I walked up the sidewalk, fast.

“’Lo?” from Cole.

“Is he still there?” I could see the cafe ahead, now; trees and green plants lining the sidewalk, and the enormous, floodlit rainbow flag at Castro and Market off down the street, in the distance.

“He was a few minutes ago. His battery’s dead, now.” That stress in his voice.

“Okay. Well, stay with me a minute, all right?”

And then I was walking through the cafe’s iron gate, my phone still at my ear.

The Cafe Flore is this really odd place, on Market in the Castro; a narrow, triangular plot on a sharp corner, all plants and bamboo and bushes lining a glass and wood fence, protecting an outdoor patio; and in back of the patio, a tin-roofed, glass-and-wood walled building, almost a shack, really, covered and screened by vines and plants and even more bamboo.

I wasn’t surprised Trevor was here. It was a cafe, a coffee place; not a bar. One of the only places in the Castro where an underage person – like Trevor, like me – could legally go.

As I walked in, the outdoor patio was dim, and deserted; little marble-top tables, with benches along the fence and the glowing glass wall of the shack, all overhung by trees.

Almost deserted.

In a corner, near some leafy vines, was a slender figure; hunched down over a table, hand up to one side of his face. A figure with shaggy blond hair that I recognized in the glow from the shack.

I walked up, and held out my open phone to him.

“It’s for you,” I said, as he looked up.

*

I came back outside with two big mugs of hot mulled apple cider. Trevor was still huddled; my phone was closed, and on the table in front of him.

“I’m not going home,” he said, unemotionally. Not looking at me.

“Nope,” I went, sitting down next to him on the bench. “You’re staying with me, tonight.” I pushed his mug over to him, and lifted my own, to take a sip.

Silence, for a second. A long, stretch of seconds; as we sat, and wrapped our hands around the hot mugs of cider, and sipped.

Sometimes, not saying anything is important.

The quiet went on, a few more sips. Until . . .

“Jesus,” I said; looking at him, out of the corner of my eye. “You’re shivering. You must be freezing.”

He was. Duh: it was January, and we were outside, all he had on was a light sweater, over a t-shirt. “Come on, let’s go inside – ”

“No!” Harshly. Turning away from me, a little.

 

“Okay, okay.”

Yeah; he didn’t want to be looked at, just then. Not with his face banged up. Too many questions; that’s why he was outside to begin with.

“Here.” I shrugged out of my jacket, took his arm – he had to take his hand away from his cheek, for a second, and he was reluctant – and put it through one sleeve, and he put his other arm through the other sleeve, and then he was pulling it tight around him.

“You’ll be cold, now,” he said. It came out with a kind of sniff.

“I was too warm in the car. This feels kind of good, actually.”

More silence, as we sat. And sipped.

“If I go back with you, won’t you get in trouble? With that guy?” He still wasn’t looking at me.

“Rajiv?” I think I puffed out a little sardonic laugh. “My RA. Well, I might get in trouble, if you were Cole. But since you’re not Cole, since he doesn’t know your name, he won’t recognize it on the guest sign-in log, so, no problem. Funny how things work, isn’t it?”

I didn’t really care what Rajiv thought, right then, anyway. Under the circumstances. The narcs of the world didn’t impress me, just then.

Another quiet pause, as people moved around inside the dimly-lit shack. Steam was condensing on the insides of the windows.

“Let me look at it, okay?”, I asked, gently.

“I’m all right.” Sullenly.

“Come on.” I gently, gently pulled his hand away from his cheek . . .

He’d been using a wadded up paper towel. The streak of blood on the towel was brownish, in the glow from the shack.

The cut on his cheek – in the dim light, it was hard to tell the cut, from the bruising; the bruising and the scraping.

Motherfucking hell.

“Hmmm”, I said. Touching his cheek, gently, with my fingertips. “Not bad; not bad. I’ve done worse, running into the wall in the pool.”

“Yeah?” from Trevor; with just a hint more animation. He was on the swim team with Cole. Of course.

“Yeah. ‘Wall Rash’, we called it.” I traced out the line of his cut, carefully; I wasn’t sure, but I thought it might need a few stitches. Maybe. “Happened to me a couple of times.”

The bruising – as best I could tell – was just beginning to color up, now. And part of his cheek look kind of, raw. Scraped.

His father was obviously right-handed; I noted that, with a kind of dull . . . I don’t know.

Not hatred. I’ve never really hated anybody, and I hope I never do; hatred is self-destructive.

But there was a place in me, where I felt something dark, something that scared me, a little, and it was aimed at Trevor’s father. Who had done this. To Trevor.

“We should get this bandaged,” I said.

“I’m all right.” Back to sullen mode; the paper towel on his cheek, again.

“Well . . . tomorrow morning, then.” The University Health Center was closed for the night, I knew, anyway; we would have had to go to some emergency room somewhere. And the police would definitely have gotten involved; which would have been good, but Trevor pretty clearly wasn’t ready for that. Yet. “You should let me put a bandage on it, tonight. At least.”

No answer, which I took as a good sign.

More sips, from our cooling apple cider.

“It’s my fault,” Trevor went, abruptly, out of nowhere. Looking down at the table.

“What - ?”

“It’s my fault. I let him get to me, and I shouldn’t have.” The words started coming out, now, faster. “I mean, I should have just left, I try not to hang around when he’s there and my mom is gone, I should have just gone out. But it was cold outside, and I thought it was going to rain . . . ”

“It’s not your fault.”

He didn’t even hear me. “Whenever we’re alone, whenever my mom isn’t there, he just starts picking at me, and picking at me; riding me. Everything I do is wrong. How I’m so immature. My grades aren’t good enough.” He gave this angry little snort, a sharp intake of breath. “And lately he’s been going on about how I don’t have any girlfriends; how I haven’t even started to date yet. Yeah, right.”

Fucking hell. “It’s not your fault, Trevor.”

“Oh, he knew about me being gay, of course he knew. I could see it.” He had one arm wrapped around himself, now, as he talked. “I think he’s known forever; for a long time. And he’s just been picking and picking at me, more and more. He was saying I was such a baby, and how I was afraid of girls, and how girls would make a man out of me.” I saw a corner of his mouth twist up, under the paper towel. “And then today he started in on me still being a virgin. He kept saying he bet I was still a virgin, and that he had his first girl when he was fifteen, and that I was still a virgin at sixteen – is that weird, or what, talking about your kid’s sex life? Being obsessed with your kid’s sex life? Is that fucking perverted?”

“Yeah. Totally weird. Abusive. Trevor, it’s him, not you.”

He still didn’t hear me. “And he kept on and on and on like that, he wouldn’t let me alone, and then,” and Trevor drew in a shuddering breath, “and then . . . I just, kind, of, went off.” Another shuddering breath. “I went off. It was like somebody else was talking, inside my body; like I didn’t have anything to do with it. I just got so mad . . . ”

“What happened?” I asked, gently.

A quick, harsh breath of laughter. “I told him I lost my virginity two years ago, to a guy with a bigger dick than him.”

Ooofta.

“And – that’s when he hit you?” Gently, again.

Trevor looked down, again. His voice was muffled. “No. No; first, he called me a faggot, and he went on about how he always knew I was a faggot . . . He said a lot of things. And there was a lot of yelling. A lot more yelling. From both of us.” Another sniff, from Trevor, his shaggy hair outlined in the glow from a streetlight, spilling over the collar of my jacket. “He yelled at me, and I told him I thought he was a rotten husband to my mom, and stuff . . . And then he hit me . . . ”

His voice trailed off.

“More than once?” I had to ask it.

Longer silence. “Yeah.”

“Trevor, it is so, so, not your fault. You’ve got to believe that. He belongs in jail; and you can put him there.”

No reaction to my words, still. “And then, after he hit me, he kicked me out. Well, more like he pushed me out; he said I was no son of his, he said that he didn’t have a son any more, and he never wanted to see me again, and, and, he pushed me out the front door, he pushed me down the porch, and I fell down, and he slammed the door behind me . . . ”

As he said it, his face was contorting up, more and more, and by the time he got to the end, his mouth was scrunched up, and it came out between sobs . . .

And as he cried, quietly, like a man, I put my arms around him, his body all bulky under my jacket, and I pulled his head onto my shoulder, because it was the only thing I could do; holding him, like that.

I knew Trevor, well enough.  I knew he wasn’t crying for himself; he wasn’t crying from the pain, or the rejection, or the humiliation.

He was crying because he’d lost his father. Maybe not much of a father; but the only one he’d ever had, and now he’d lost him, forever, a loss far more permanent than death could ever have brought about. He’d lost his father, forever. And Trevor went on crying, and I kept on holding him there, on the bench, for a long time . . .

*  *  *

We got back to Berkeley late.

The whole trip back, across the bridge, then walking across the darkened campus, Trevor was quiet. But he wasn’t being sullen; it was the quiet of exhaustion, mostly emotional exhaustion, I figured, and I didn’t push him.

The first thing I did was get him down to the washroom; and he was still quiet, and passive, as he let me clean up his face, and put on some antiseptic, and bandage his cut as best I could, under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Yeah; I was pretty sure he’d need some stitches. The cut was more like – a split. I couldn’t exactly get the edges together.

I did the best I could.

The rest of his cheek, the side of his face – well. It looked worse, maybe, in the bright light; but it was reassuring, weirdly, to see all the detail, the scrapes and the rawness. I sprayed more antiseptic over everything, and then steered him down the hall, back to my suite.

Thinking; the whole time.

Remembering the laughing-boy Trevor who’d written down Cole’s name and number for me, at the pool party. And the little-shit Trevor who’d run the brilliant scam on Cole’s ex, Michael, out of nowhere, just at the spur of the moment. The Trevor I’d come to know, who was maybe wilder, maybe more of a brat, than Cole, even.

Comparing that Trevor to this silent, wounded boy.

Wishing, really wishing Cole was here. Missing Cole, just then, more than ever. Missing him, for my own sake; but even more, missing him for what he’d be able to do.

“Okay,” I said, brightly. Trying not to be false-cheerful. “You’re in luck, the sheets are clean.” Trevor stood there, in my bedroom, blinking in the light.

“One thing first,” I went on. I’d been dreading this part. “You know . . . ” as I looked into those expressionless, exhausted eyes, “ – you’ve really got to call your mom.”

“No.” It came out flat; instantly.

“Yeah, Trev, you really do.” I chose my words, carefully. “If she knows what happened tonight . . . well. I guarantee, she’s having the worst night of her life, right now. Not knowing where you are, I mean.”

The first night I ever spent with Jesse . . . I’d kind of forgotten to call home, beforehand. And when I showed up, eventually, the next day –

Well. I think I learned, then, from my parents, what Trevor’s mom was going through. If she knew what’d happened. Maybe even if she didn’t know.

“No.” That same, flat tone. “He’s there.”

“It’s your mom, Trev,” I went. Softly.

“I just . . . no.” He looked down, not meeting my eyes; then he looked up, at me. “I’ve never talked about it, with my mom. I just, can’t . . . ” And his face, in that moment, was a portrait of sheet exhaustion; of utter helplessness.

I knew he meant, the whole situation with his dad. The verbal abuse.

“Okay,” I went. “That’s okay. But I have to call her, then; she has to know where you are.”

“Would you?” The relief on his face was pathetic to see.

“Yeah.” I leaned against the doorway. “Yeah. Just give me the number . . . ”

And then, after Trevor wrote it down for me – and it was kind of a grim echo of that first night, at the pool party, him writing down a number for me – then it was time for bed. Trevor looked like he was about to drop.

“I’ll be right outside, if you need anything,” I said. “Watch your step though.” I tried to keep it light. “I’ll be on the floor.” Derrick and I kept spare blankets and pillows for emergencies like this. “Oh, and Derrick and Drew might be getting in, late; don’t bother to get up, or anything, it’s okay.”

And in that instant, that moment, I saw him flinch, almost imperceptibly. And I realized – I hadn’t exactly made the sleeping arrangements clear, before . . . and I just stood there, like an idiot, with the realization, the embarrassment painted on my face . . .

And then, Trevor was in my arms, hugging me, tight, his good cheek pressed against my shoulder.

“Cole is so lucky,” he whispered. “Cole is so fucking lucky.”

And then he was in my room, and the door was clicking shut, and I was left blinking at it, for beat after beat after beat.

*

I made the calls from Derrick’s room; with the door shut. Trying to speak softly.

My first call was to Cole. I knew he wouldn’t go to sleep, until he heard from me. He’d be waiting for my call, impatient as always.

“Hey,” I began, when he picked up. “We’re back. Everything’s okay.”

A hiss of exhaled breath. “Good,” he said. “Good. I was afraid he left, and you were chasing after him, all over San Francisco. I really was.”

“Sorry . . . I could have called you earlier, I guess. But he was pretty wiped out when I got to him, and I just wanted to get him calmed down, a little, and back here, safe. He’s in bed, now, and I think he’s going to sleep.”

“How’s his face?”

I hesitated, just a second. “Better than it looks. I’ve got a bandage on his cut. It’s not bleeding anymore.”

“That bad, is it?” Cole’s voice was grim.

“Honestly – he’s bruised, and scraped, but it’s not terrible. But his cut worries me; you need to tell him to let me get him to the doctor, tomorrow. I don’t want him to wind up with a scar.”

“I will. I will . . . Fuck, fuck, fuck, I wish I weren’t down here!”

“I know . . . Listen, did you call Trev’s mom, yet?”

“I tried! Three times; the last time, about an hour ago. There’s no answer.”

“They don’t have a machine?” I scrunched up my face.

“Of course they do! The Asswipe turned it off, he must have turned it off, he didn’t want Trevor leaving any messages. Like Trevor ever would, after getting kicked out like that; Trev’s just so, so proud, he’d never call home, he’ll never even go back. How could you not even know that much, about your own son?”

“I don’t know . . . But, baby, I have to try to leave a message, or something, for his mom. I’ll call; but if I can’t get through, do you think I should go over there, or something? Leave a note?”

“Don’t go there,” he said; grim, and angry. “Not without me. His dad’s about twice my size, that’s what makes it all so fucked, that he’d hit Trevor like that. It was just a fucking beating, not a fight.” He sucked in his breath, again. “God, I wish I’d been there.”

“Okay. Okay; I’ll just try to call, again. Maybe I’ll keep trying.”

Big or not, I would not at all want to be Trevor’s dad, facing a Cole as furious as this. The anger just radiated out of my phone; a cold, cold rage, and I knew him well enough to know that he could be dangerous. One way or another, short term or long term, dangerous.

“I looked at coming back tonight,” Cole went. “But flights are pretty much shut down until morning. And my dad doesn’t want me coming home before my mom gets back, tomorrow afternoon.” The disgust in his voice was thick.

“Like that would stop you.”

“Like it won’t. I’m coming back in the morning.”

I hesitated. “Listen, why don’t you wait to hear from me? I mean, I’ll call you tomorrow, early, and let you know what’s going on, and you could decide if you want to come back early.” I paused for a second. “I’d hate to see you get in the extra trouble, if you didn’t need to. And after all, it might take you longer to get away from your dad, and get to the airport and change your ticket, than just wait.”

He thought about it, for a good five seconds. “Maybe . . . Okay.” His voice was reluctant. “But call me; be sure to call me, early. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” It came out as something close to a command.

“I promise.”

“You know, Jeremy – ”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t even have to ask you, to go chase down Trevor, or drive all the hell over to San Francisco, or to take care of him like this. I didn’t even have to say please, or anything.” The whole tone of his voice was different, now; softer.

“Like you’d need to?” I puffed out a laugh.

“I guess I knew I didn’t.”

I just smiled into the phone.  “Yeah. Yeah, I love you too. Now, get some sleep, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I dreaded making the second call; what if Trevor’s father picked it up? But I didn’t really have any choice.

“Hello.”

It was a woman’s voice; harsh, and frightened, and stressed. I let out my breath.

“Mrs. McCarthy?”

“Yes - !”

“Yeah, hi, my name’s Jeremy, I’m a friend of Cole’s . . . and of Trevor’s, and I just wanted to let you know, he’s okay. He’s safe, here, with me.”

“Oh, thank God. Oh, thank you. Thank you. Oh, thank God . . . .”

I waited, as she pulled herself together; embarrassed by the raw emotion, at the same time sympathizing with her, feeling for her, feeling for what she was going through.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, again, at last; a little more evenly. “Where are you? Can I talk to him - ?!”

I hesitated. “We’re in my dorm room, right off campus; and, well, he’s already in bed, asleep. He kind of had a tough day.” I paused, a second, and went on, slowly. “I could go wake him up . . . but I sort of got the impression, he wasn’t exactly ready to talk about it all with you, yet. But I’ll wake him up, if you really want.” Then I had a thought. “Do you know what happened - ?”

“Between him and his father?” Her voice was grim, now. “I heard my husband’s side of it; before we had words, before he took the truck, and left. Are you sure Trevor’s all right?”

I hesitated, again. “He’s a little bruised up, and scraped up, and there’s a cut – ”

“He has a cut? Where?”

“On his cheek. His left cheek. It’s bandaged, and it’s not bleeding, but it might need stitches.”

“Stitches.” Unbelieving silence, for a second; and as she went on, her voice went low, and icy with anger. “Stitches. So my husband really did beat my son. His son. His own son.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I didn’t know what else to say.

Breathing, from her side of the conversation; then she went on, in a completely different tone. Low, and flat.

“It’s my fault. It’s my fault.”

Those were Trevor’s exact words to me, I didn’t say. Blaming himself.

“He’s all right here, tonight,” I went, gently; after a pause. “I think I’d let him sleep here – ”

“His father is still out,” said Trevor’s mom; back to being brittle, and grim. “So, yes, I think that might be best; if it’s all right with you. But I need to know the details, of where he is, and how to get in touch with him. I’m sorry, your name was – ”

“Jeremy, ma’am. Jeremy Pederssen; P-e, d-e-r, s-s-e-n. I’m a friend of Cole’s. We’re in the Units – ” and I gave her my hall, my room number, and my cell number, and then my own dorm phone number, which I never use.

“Thank you, Jeremy,” she breathed, at the end of it all. “Thank you, very, very much. Thank you.”

It was amazing, the depth of feeling she put into those few words.

“Please call me, in the morning, when Trevor wakes up?”

“Yes, ma’am. I promise.” I hesitated, for just another moment, and went on, gently. “Mrs. McCarthy, ma’am . . . are you going to be all right? I mean, – are you going to be safe?”

I felt ridiculously melodramatic, even kind of intrusive, asking it. But I also remembered Trevor’s battered face, in the harsh fluorescent light.

“The question is, will my husband be safe from me?” A short, sharp, bitter laugh. “But, thank you, Jeremy. My brother is already on his way here. I’ll be fine. I will be much safer than Trevor was, today, while I was out enjoying myself.”

*  *  *

By morning, Trevor’s bruises had really bloomed.

They’d gotten darker, of course, shading from purple to near black, in places, and his left eye was swollen almost shut.

It almost hurt to look at him; but weirdly, in that way with bruises, it was reassuring. To me, anyway. It wasn’t getting any worse-looking, and the colors meant he was actually starting to heal.

Which didn’t make it any easier on Trev, as we headed back to my room from the shower.

“I feel like such a freak,” he muttered, head down, as we flip-flopped along.

He was wearing my spare bathrobe, of course; the one that Cole used. The one I sometimes took out and sniffed, just to get a whiff of Cole, when we couldn’t get together for some reason.

“Relax. Nobody’s looking,” I told him.

Trevor’s mood was better. A little.

This morning, as soon as he’d opened the door to my room, waking me up, I could tell. He was quiet, still; and kind of grim. Still light-years from the Trevor I’d come to know.

But not shattered; not devastated, not exhausted, not crying, not saying crazy things. Not the defenseless boy from last night.

Grim beats devastated, any day.

“Want to have breakfast with me, before you go home – ?” I started.

Trevor glanced up at me, quick, with his good eye. “Okay,” he went. Then, “Thanks.”

He wasn’t looking forward to going home.

When he’d come out of my room – me still on the living room floor, wrapped up in my blankets, absurdly embarrassed at being naked underneath them – he’d told me, he’d already talked to his mom. On my dorm phone.

‘She wants me home,’ he’d told me. ‘She says my dad’s gone.’

The way he’d said, ‘gone’, made me suspect the truth. But I didn’t press it.

Still. It was a bad scene; it would be a bad scene, and I could tell Trevor was glad to postpone it. Even just for an hour, or so.

“Cool,” I said. “We could go to the Crossroads, if you want to try some Authentic Dorm Food, or we could go – ”

And at that moment, that second, Rajiv turned the corner; right in front of us. A few yards ahead. In full greeting-and-narcing mode.

Okay; so that’s unfair. He’s a Resident Advisor, and it’s his job to greet and be visible, at the start of the semester. And maybe even to narc around.

But right then, Rajiv was stopping dead in his tracks, fixing me with his coldest narc-look, at the picture of me and Trevor, still a little wet and in our bathrobes –

“ – or we could get some coffee and muffins at Strada?” I went on. Not missing a beat.

And whatever look I gave back to Rajiv, right at that moment, whatever was in my face, right then, made Rajiv blink, and look away, and then we were past him, and I didn’t bother looking back.

“Not Strada,” Trevor went. Firmly.

“Okay. Let’s do the Crossroads, then, it’s easy.”

Realizing, with one part of my mind, that Trevor wouldn’t want to go anyplace where he might see someone he knew. Not with his face like that.

And realizing, with a bigger part of my mind, that I was over Rajiv, in almost every possible way. Tired of him; sick of his attitude, sick of his narcing, the way he watched Cole and me like a hawk, the way he made sure I knew the power he held over us. Realizing, I’d outgrown him.

Oh, I’d still be careful around Rajiv. Cole and I would both be careful around him, until April, until I moved out.

But I wouldn’t be afraid of him. I wouldn’t be impressed by him.

And the sad thing was, it’d taken what happened to Trevor, to put things into perspective for me. It was all because of Trevor; and it was a high price to pay.

*

After breakfast, a quiet breakfast that Trevor wolfed down with intensity – after breakfast, and after I called Cole – I walked Trevor home.

Mostly I walked him home because I thought he needed it. And partly, because when I made the offer, he didn’t say no.

So we walked down the gentle slope from the dorms to his house, cutting south and east block by block, pretty much in silence.

Except once. When Trevor quietly pointed Cole’s house out to me.

I stopped, blinking.

“There?”

He motioned with his chin, again. “Yeah.”

I looked at it, for a second; a kind of bungalow, really, stucco siding, a little porch, and some flowering bushes in front. A small, low house. Cole’s house.

It was the first time I’d ever seen it. And I was only seeing it now, I knew, because Cole and his mom were both away.

“Thanks,” I said to Trevor. And then, we were gone.

Down another block; over, another block, in the part of Berkeley that was small houses mixed with Sixties-era apartment buildings, huge and sterile. Then around one last corner –

Trevor stopped dead.

“That’s my dad’s truck,” he said. Flatly. Totally without emotion.

There, in front of a blue-painted duplex, was a battered red pickup, parked badly.

“Your mom said he was . . . gone,” I went. Stupidly. “Didn’t she – ?”

“That’s my dad’s truck,” he said, again. His voice dead-sounding.

I could see the good side of his face, the right side. He looked grim; so, so grim. Haunted.

And for once in my life, I was sure of what to do. To say.

“Hey,” I went, and touched his arm; and he turned that grim look on me. “If he’s there – you’re not staying. Okay? If he’s there, you’re coming back with me, and we’ll wait for Cole and his mom to get home. Or you can stay with me again tonight, it doesn’t matter. But we’re leaving. Okay?”

He just looked at me.

“Okay?” I said it a little more sharply. “No matter what anybody – ” meaning, we both knew, his mom – “no matter what anybody says. If he’s there, you’re not staying. I mean it.”

And I did. And I think my face showed it.

“Okay,” he said, at last.

Still looking grim; but maybe just a little less hopeless. Just a little.

My heart rate starting pounding up, and up, as I turned back to his house. “Come on . . . ”

I deliberately went ahead of him, up the brick steps, and then I rang the doorbell.

And as Trevor came up next to me, I stood tall, as tall as I could, and I made myself wide, and my heart rate went up some more, and I was full of conflicting emotions –

I’m not a fighter. Not like Derrick, he’s TOUGH when he’s pushed to it, and he’s been pushed into fights before.

I’m not a fighter, and I hate losing my temper.

But I’d spent a night and a morning dealing with Trev’s wounds, physical and emotional; and if his dad came to the door, if his dad went to push him, or get physical on him –

Well. I was all prepared to pull Trevor back, out of the way, if that happened. That came first.

But if it came to more than that . . . if he went after Trev, or me . . .

I could feel that dark thing in me stirring; and I could feel anger, and I could feel my hold on that anger ready to slip. In a way that had only happened to me, a few times in my life.

And then, all at once, the door was open; the doorway filled by a large-ish, middle-aged man, unsmiling, tense, with hair the color and texture of Trevor’s, and I totally stiffened up . . .

“Uncle Dennis?” went Trevor, uncertainly.

And in that second, the door was yanked out of the man’s hand, and a female version of him – smaller, with more of Trevor’s smaller bone structure – came barreling out, and then Trevor was wrapped in her arms, tight, and she was wrapped in his, and she was crying – it’s always amazing, how upsetting it is, to see an adult cry – and of course, that set off Trevor, too, crying quietly, his face pressed against her cheek.

“Sorry,” said the man, looking at his sister and nephew, sideways. A little awkwardly. “Sorry for the reception.” He looked away from the pair of them, as Trevor’s mom held him away a little, to look at his face. “I thought Michael – that’s Trevor’s dad – might have decided to come back, and try to talk to Connie.”

Michael. It figured.

“He’s not here, then? Trevor said that’s his truck, outside . . . ”

“No, it’s Connie’s, she bought it for him.” His face was a mix of emotions, embarrassment and anger, and shame. Family business brought public. “She made him leave it, when she threw him out last night.”

“Oh.” Beside us, Trev and his mom were beginning to say things to each other, private things in broken, emotion-laden voices that I really didn’t have any right hearing. “He’s really gone, then?”

I needed to be sure.

“Yeah,” said Uncle Dennis, glancing over at his sister. Unhappily. “Yeah. For good. Finally.” He looked away, and made a face. “We had all the locks changed this morning; he won’t be coming back. Thank God.”

I wondered just how much he’d known, about the situation with Trevor and his dad. What else there was, in the family, that he wasn’t saying.

I felt a strong hand on my arm.

“You’re Jeremy?” I turned to look at Trev’s mom’s tear-streaked face; a face etched with fine lines.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

Her arm looped around my neck, and I was pulled – quick, and hard – into a three way hug, her, me and Trevor, squeezing tight. And then the pressure let up, and I felt a brush of lips against my cheek.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for taking care of my son.”

*  *  *

After, for all the rest of that day, I tried getting back to that bliss, that level contentment, I’d been feeling yesterday.

I really did try, as the day wore on; and I read, and relaxed, and wandered around the beautiful campus. I told myself Trevor’d be all right, he’d be better than ever, and safe, especially with his uncle there.

But of course, I was still upset by the whole experience; still feeling the reverberations, the echoes. Wondering, that I could be so lucky with my own parents – it’s one thing to know how bad a family experience can be, it’s another to SEE it, up close and with three-d blood . . .

No; it wasn’t a day for contentment. Even if things had worked out well. As well as they had.

Mostly, I missed Cole.

I’d talked to him, of course; before taking Trevor home, then after, to let him know what happened.

I’d expected him to be happy, ecstatic, that Trevor’s father was out of the picture. The Asshole, he’d called him; or The Asswipe. A physically abusive Asswipe, we knew now.

Instead, Cole’d been subdued. Glad; of course. But subdued.

I remembered what he’d said – and what he hadn’t said – about his own parents’ divorce. And that I really didn’t know what it was like, going through the experience.

I figured, maybe, I’d get the chance to talk it over with him, that night; after he came over. His mom was picking him up at the airport at four; he told me to expect his call around six.

So, when my cell bleeped its text-message tone at me around six, I smiled at my computer screen, and pulled open my phone; expecting to see some kind of message like, meet me at the wall, or I’m downstairs, where are you?, or some kind of ironic, iconic Cole-brattiness.

But it wasn’t. Instead, it was the final catastrophe; the ultimate collapse, of everything, all our plans, all our hopes, our potential future together . . . everything.

It was a short message.

she nos

*  *  *  *  *

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