Page 4 of Indigo Sky

It pissed me offso muchthat he could insult me without batting an eye and then proceed like nothing had happened. He knew how much it stung, he knew how much I hated it, and still, he had done it like I was nothing more than one of these other freakin' kids who hated both of us combined. Dammit, we were supposed to be a team. It was us against them, and then he, what? Broke his stupid arm and decided he wasn't my friend anymore?

"You're an asshole," I hissed, using a word I knew I wasn't supposed to say.

I grabbed my lunch box and stood from the table, turning my blind eye on him so I couldn't see if I'd hurt him or not. I didn't care. I figured he never really liked me, that he'd just been using me for my mom's food since his mom never seemed to have any.

But then he did something I never thought I'd ever see Nathan Manning do.

He apologized.

"Sorry," he grumbled, and I turned to face him, stunned. "Come on, Rev. Sit down."

So, I did, too shocked to argue.

"You think your life sucks so much because your dad hurt your eye," he muttered, still unable to look at me. "But it was an accident. He didn't hurt you on purpose. And he feels bad for it."

My gaze dropped to his arm, bound to his chest and held in a sling. He was saying something to me—I could feel it—but he wasn'tsaying it.

I understand why now, but at the time, I wished he wouldn't speak in riddles and make me figure out puzzles. He knew I wasn't good at them, and he was even worse.

"What do you mean?" I asked, feeling stupid.

"I mean"—he turned to me abruptly, his face in a permanent scowl—"sometimes, it's not an accident. God, are you freakin' stupid or something?"

First, I was Cyclops, and then I was stupid. But I wasn't hearing his insults anymore. I was more tuned into the confession while not completely comprehending what he was trying to say.

“What happened to your arm?” I asked again, my eye on the cast and the bruised tips of his fingers poking out from the end.

Nate didn’t say anything for a long time. Every few seconds, he looked like he would speak, and then he’d close his mouth, his bottom lip sticking out or wriggling. It scared me for some reason—that Nate could comethatclose to crying in the middle of the cafeteria when he’d made fun of other kids for the same thing. I guessed, in my mind, I always thought he was cooler than that. Stronger maybe.

Finally, he whispered, “I wish I lived with you. I wish … I wish your mom were my mom.”

And that was about as close as I’d get to a confession for a couple of decades, but it was enough of one for me to understand that Nate’s mom wasn’t very nice … and her boyfriend wasn’t either.

But they say that’s where this type of shit starts sometimes, right? At home. Because in Nate’s case, if he needed an excuse for why he’d turned out the way he did, his upbringing was as good as any.

My excuse? Well, in my case, I think I just cared too much for my friend because if I didn’t, who else would?

CHAPTER THREE

When I was eleven, I watched that Robin Williams movieHookwith my parents and Nate. I liked it a lot—I mean, who didn’t?—but for me, it was more about the pirates and less about the Lost Boys. Although, when you really think about it, the Lost Boys are kinda just kid pirates, aren’t they? And if I thought about it that way, maybe Nate and I were lost boys, and maybe that was why everything eventually went to hell.

But anyway, we watched that movie, and the thought of wearing an eyepatch all at once seemed cool. Up until that point, I’d just rocked the empty socket and scar with little pride and less confidence, inciting fear in everyone who dared to look at me.

But then I saw the pirates in their eyepatches, how cool they looked.

Nate turned to me, his finger pointing at the TV, and he said, "Dude, you should totally get an eyepatch. Nobody would mess with you then."

"They wouldn't," I said dreamily ‘cause nobody messed with a pirate.

"They'd be scared of you instead."

Mom huffed a disapproving sound from behind us. I looked over my shoulder as she asked, "Why would you want anybody to be afraid of you?"

Nate scoffed and rolled his eyes. "If they're scared of you, they don't hurt you."

"Well, it's not nice for people to hurt you—of course not—but scaring people isn't nice either. Two wrongs don't make a right, Nate."

It was an uncomfortable conversation. I thought about Nate's arm. I thought about his bruises and cuts and how hungry he always was, and I wanted to tell Mom she was wrong. If Nate's mom or the guy who lived with them or … whoever hurt him was scared of him, they wouldn't hurt him; they'd just run away instead. And that was better, right? It had to be.

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