Chapter 4

St. Clarence's school for boys, January 1932

Bobby had been lying down on his bed, pretending to stare at the ceiling, for a good half hour now. In truth, he'd abandoned studying for his English lessons and had been sneaking glances in Bill's direction where the other boy was sitting on his own bed, back against the wall and doing some reading.

Bill had been there for a few months, now, and even after all that time, Bobby felt like he had yet to learn the more important things about the boy. He knew which state he was from and that he was an only child, that his dad had dropped him off one day out of the blue, and Bill hadn't wanted to elaborate on that either.

Now, Bobby's eyes were trained on the thin, paler line that ran across Bill's right cheek, from under his cheekbone down to his chin. He hadn't noticed it on that first day, more preoccupied by the other boy's bruises and possible concussion – he'd turned out fine in the end, thanks to Miss Elliot's patient and thorough care – but since he'd noticed the scar, his mind had conjured a thousand theories as to what could have put it there.

Bill was frowning a little at the pages of his book, as if scrunching up his face meant he could absorb the information faster. Granted, he was quite impressive with how much knowledge his brain could ingest in very little time, and how much he could contain overall. Bobby had already once been witness to Bill going on an hour-long explanation about bones, and never got bored once. How could he, when that was the only time he'd seen such a spark in the younger boy's eyes, as if his excitement was bigger than him and would burst out of his body any second?

"What's your scar from?" Bobby asked at last, the words making it out of his mouth unprompted.

"Hmm?"

Bill's tone left no doubt that he hadn't got a clue what Bobby had just said.

"Bill."

"Yes?"

"Your scar?"

Finally, Bill lowered his book into his lap, keeping an index in between the pages and frowning at Bobby now.

"What?"

"What's your scar from?" Bobby asked again, pointing at his own cheek and seeing Bill mirror his movement, his free hand jumping to his face and tracing the line where the skin had lost pigmentation.

"Oh… I don't remember it, but I was told it was a dog who tried to bite me when I was a baby."

Bobby pushed himself up on his elbows and sat cross-legged to face the other boy. He leaned forward, not daring to get close enough and see the jagged edges of the scar properly.

"Must have been a big dog," he mused, wondering why anyone would want to attack a defenseless baby.

Bill shrugged. "Is it ugly?" he threw the question in the air off-handedly, but Bobby could hear the underlying meaning underneath.

"No, it looks… cool. A little bit mysterious."

Bill lowered his head, failing to hide a sheepish smile, and Bobby, fourteen years old and clueless about love as he was, had in fact loved that very much.

"Alright then," Bill concluded, and that was the end of that conversation.

"Is it true you're a Jew?"

Bobby hadn't quite been prepared for the question, after a month of sharing a room with Bill and him never asking.

Bill was at their desk, facing away from him. How odd that Bobby had to answer such a life-changing question while speaking to his shoulders.

"Yes."

Bill shifted on the uncomfortable wooden chair, and Bobby could only see the way he was twirling his pencil in between two fingers.

"Why do you ask?" Bobby said, nervousness rising inside him and pushing his heart to beat faster.

If it came to that, he knew Bill was smaller and, for now, weaker than him. Bobby could win a fight, but the mere idea that he could already lose what tentative friendship had been forming between them cracked a line at the surface of his heart.

"Heard the other boys say things about you," Bill shrugged.

"Like what?"

Bill's head dipped with what Bobby hoped was shame.

"Don't want to repeat it."

Anger flared hot in Bobby's throat. Or maybe it was bile.

"If it bothers you, you're welcome to go back to the dorm with the assholes who beat you up."

At last, Bill's head snapped to the side and their eyes met. Bill's forehead was wrinkled, two long lines pulling his eyebrows together.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would it bother me?"

It was Bobby's turn to be confused.

"Depends how much you believe of what the others said."

Slowly, as if Bobby was seeing him on a cinema screen in black and white, Bill got up from the chair and made his way to his bed, stiffly sitting in the middle of his mattress. He scowled at his knees and stuttered:

"They… a lot of the things they said were the same that my dad used to say. And he's a…" he stopped himself as if the old man could still hear him, stealing a panicked glance at the door. His eyes unfocused for a second and if they'd been talking about anything else, Bobby would have offered him a hug.

As it was, knowing the way he often got treated by the other students, staff, the extra amount his father had had to pay for him to be able to enroll and the memory of his mother taking away his David's star necklace before his first day… He would keep his arms by his own side, just in case.

"What does it mean?" Bill asked, shifting his attention back to Bobby, who raised an eyebrow.

"What does what mean?"

"To be a Jew?"

Bobby laughed.

"Do you really want to know?"

Bill's gaze was as determined as all the other times he'd been keen to learn something. A knot relaxed under Bobby's scapulae, leaving him to breathe more easily. He scooted back on his bed, leaning against the wall with his knees against his chest.

Then, under his new friend's scrutiny, he began talking. Exposing the softest part of him, hoping that Bill wouldn't take advantage of it to hurt him harder.

When he was done talking about holidays, prayers, the history of his family and their long journey to America, the sun had long set and Bill was quiet, nodding to himself.

Silence spread out, pushing out the walls of their small bedroom until Bill seemed tiny on the horizon. Bobby rubbed at his tired eyes and the illusion blurred away.

"So," Bill began, "it's nothing like they say."

"Probably not," Bobby let out a nervous chuckle.

"You don't have a Jewish name," Bill pointed out.

"My dad's not Jewish."

"Oh. Is that possible?"

Bobby waved a hand at himself, hoping to dissipate his own awkwardness by putting on a silly show. Now wasn't the time to get into the horror surrounding his parents' wedding, or the way their marriage had ended – with a lonely woman raising two kids in poverty while Mr Bachelor fucked off back to the UK.

"Apparently."

"Alright," Bill exhaled.

He stretched out to grab a book off his nightstand and opened it to the last dog-eared page.

"Is that all you're gonna say?" Bobby squawked in disbelief.

Bill looked up with a pout.

"Did I not understand something?"

"No, you…" Bobby stammered. "Yeah, it's okay. As long as you're okay."

"Are you okay with me being okay?" Bill asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Bobby grabbed his pillow and threw it across the room, missing dramatically but pulling laughter from the both of them.

"Yeah, we're okay."

"Good," Bill nodded and went back to his book.

"Good," Bobby whispered to himself.