Page 3 of Lost Boy
“Didn’t wanna bother you,” I mumble, continuing to pick at this shitty nail polish I found at the dollar store.
Uncle Joel came around the first two years after Dad died, but I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen.
A giant, calloused hand stops my fidgeting, and my eyes automatically dart up, startled by the touch.
“You’re never a bother.Ever.We’re family, Fallon. And I shouldn’t have let three years pass without checking on you in person.” The sincerity in his tone is jolting.
He stands, slinging the giant, overstuffed army duffle bag over his shoulder. I found it at the thrift store down the street from our trailer park and could fit my entire wardrobe in there. It’s pretty heavy.
Uncle Joel’s voice softens even more. “I can see I’m overwhelming you, so we don’t need to get into anything more. Instead, I thought we could stop and get a bite to eat before we headed to the airport. We have time. IHOP maybe? You still like pancakes, right?”
He’s remembering the phase I went through when I was eight. Mom and Dad entertained it, letting me eat pancakes for one meal a day for over a month, as long as I had a fruit on top and a vegetable on the side.
“Yeah,” I murmur in response instead of telling him it’s been years since I’ve even had a pancake. Mom stopped cooking, and we never went out.
“Brunch it is,” he says, smiling in that teasing, younger brother way he always did with Dad. I have to fight the surge offeelingsattempting to well up and burst out like a geyser that’s been dormant for years.
It won’t.
I finally stand and slip my ratty old backpack over my shoulder, following Uncle Joel. I ignore the probing eyes of half a dozen social workers hiding and judging from behind their cubicle walls like cardboard fortresses.
* * *
Hunched over the table, I take another huge bite of pancakes, swallowing after a couple of chews. Then I shove a whole piece of bacon into my mouth, flicking my eyes up to catch my uncle staring at me with concern. Or maybe confusion?
Whatever. I’m hungry.
I ignore that he’s not eating his own food, just watching me, and take a big gulp of orange juice. Those assholes at the group home kept fucking with my food. And there was never much beyond peanut butter and jelly at home with Mom. Cereal and milk on the good weeks.
Like I just said, I’m fucking hungry.
“Fallon. . .”
He needs to stop saying my name like that. . . like hepitiesme.
I don’t need it.
I ignore Uncle Joel and polish off my bacon and sausage before returning to the pancakes.
By the time I’m done, he hasn’t even finished half his food.
“Bathroom,” I mumble and slip out of the red vinyl booth toward the back. I take a side exit instead, leaving the door cracked so I don’t get locked out, and pull the tiny stash box from my front pocket.
I grab my last joint and light it up before chucking my lighter and little metal tin into the dumpster next to me. I’m about to fly from Philadelphia to California. Can’t keep this shit. I need to smoke it and toss it.
I lean against the rough brick exterior and rest my head back, closing my eyes. I inhale deeply and hold it, letting the smoke work its way through my system and do its job. Numb me.
Just as I release my last hit and stub the cherry out with my boot, the side door creaks open, and Uncle Joel sticks his head out, immediately spotting me.
“Fallon. You okay?”
“Fresh air,” I say, lying. It smells like sewer and garbage and exhaust out here.
“Well, I just paid the check if you’re ready. I’m excited to get you settled in. I think you’ll like it. I’ll tell you more on the flight.” Uncle Joel props the door open with his thick forearm and nods toward the restaurant, indicating for me to get back inside.
I duck my head and slip past him, thankful he didn’t catch me getting high. Hopefully, the already shitty fumes out here hide the smell of weed on me.
CHAPTERTWO
