Page 17 of Second Story

The other half of his mouth smiles when he reaches my open window. “A dealer didn’t do this. This is actually what happens if you get in the way of a rocket launcher.”

Lenny is back to shy in an instant, all wide eyes and silence until hero worship gets the better of him. His bony knees put my nuts in danger again to lean out of the window even further, scanning this car park as if expecting to see soldiers or tanks with cannons. My brother pulls back just as swiftly, and yeah, he’s quiet, but I think both this man and I see the worry on his surface.

“Not here.” He touches his scarred cheek. “This happened to me far away in another country. Cornwall is much, much safer.”

It is, but my brother is still worried enough to find his voice, even if this is almost subvocal. “What about the giants?”

“Did you say giants?” This guy is good at reading kids. He offers an ear for Lenny to whisper into, as if kids keeping their voices this low is normal, and Lenny repeats the story I told him on the way here, adding way too much detail about me downing Red Bull after Red Bull after a long night’s drive and him ending his picnic lunch with chocolate.

At least this man doesn’t judge me like Joe no doubt would have. “You had two whole Kit Kats? That sounds much tastier than gravel.”He rubs his belly, and I notice the black and white of a dog collar peek above his sweatshirt collar. “Hugo Heppel-Eavis. Head of pastoral care,” he tells me.“You’re here for a final-stage interview?”

I nod, my mouth dry at what kind of impression I must be making.

“Wonderful.” He extends a hand. “Welcome back. I missed the first interviews. It’s good to meet you?—”

“Isaac. Isaac Webber, Reverend. And this is Lenny.”

“The children call me Padre.”

His grip is firm, his gaze much softer when it lands on Lenny, who is busy dragging a finger from the corner of his own eye to the edge of his mouth, tugging like this man’s scar does his eyelid. The padre half smiles again and meets my eyes.

“I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting any of the teaching candidates to bring a student of their own. This is your…” His gaze drifts to Lenny again, and I assume he’s noting differences that are only skin-deep. If he saw us at the same age, he’d know that Lenny could be my photocopy, only with more of his dad’s ink in the printer.That’s another example of irony right thereconsidering that dickhead turned invisible the moment Mum got pregnant.

I snap what really matters. “He’s my brother.” So much for making a good impression. I can’t help snaking an arm around flesh and blood I promised to keep safe. “I’m his legal guardian. I’m not late, am I?”

I will be if I sit in the van for much longer, but my chance was probably already blown by snapping and by my brother revealing that he knows more about the drug business than any kid should. Plus, this car park is close to bursting, which only makes me worry that more candidates must already be inside, wowing this school’s headmaster.

I bet none of them brought a surprise sibling with them.

“Late?” The padre shakes his head. “You have plenty of time. The teaching interviews aren’t until later this afternoon.”

“No. I’m here for the librarian spot. In the library.”

If my brother wasn’t on my lap, I’d bang my head against the steering wheel at stating the obvious like that. I bet my skull would sound completely hollow—of course librarians work in libraries. I could fit all the books in my mobile version onto the shelves of this school’s beautiful brand-new one a hundred times over and then some. More than that, I could stop losing sleep about Lenny becoming the statistic Joe promised the same day he issued his challenge.

Help him to beat those odds.

Joe didn’t stick around to help with that, like he also promised, so I start over by naming the man who has the power to help me stop those odds from stacking. “Luke Lawson wanted me to tell a second story?—”

Lenny interrupts, bony knees threatening my nuts all over again as he leans out to point at fluttering triangles of colourful fabric strung between school buildings, then he grabs for my phone on the dashboard holder.

“You want to take a picture for Mum? Go ahead.”

Lenny finds his voice for another poorly timed question. “Will her new prison let her see it?”

I don’t want to see this school padre’s reaction. I’ve seen plenty of other people come to an instant judgement, especially when they hear our mother didn’t make bail, like she’s some kind of danger to the public. I also can’t let my brother worry. “We can print it out. Take it with us on our next visit. The wardens will decide, Len. Mum won’t mind waiting.”

I make myself face the padre, expecting more judgement.

I don’t know how to name what I actually witness.

All I know is that I’m so tired of sailing my family’s sinking ship when I never expected to be its captain, and perhaps he sees so. He’s gruff, but kindly.“I find that mothers can be extraordinarily patient. Just ask our boarding students.”

He waits a beat as if giving me time to add why our mum is absent, or our fathers, but he’ll have to wait until hell freezes over. Yes, I do need to impress, but I’m not about to ruin any remaining chance by hanging out the rest of my family’s dirty laundry. I reach instead for the storybook I’ll need for my interview just as Lenny wriggles again.

The padre moves fast to stop my brother from falling headfirst and helps him out of the van window. He swings him around, then sets him safely on his feet and tells him, “The school is decorated because we’ve been celebrating.”

He tells Lenny why as I grab the book, and I get out of the van in time to hear him say, “For a time capsule.” Lenny hasn’t let go of this padre’s hand, that scar-induced hero worship of his trumping quietness.

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