Chapter 6

Sky blue?

No. Too blue.

Cornflower?

No…closer, but no.

Cadet blue?

No, too gray.

I makeit halfway through our math lesson—the first lesson of the day—before I'm racing for the bathroom in the corner of our classroom to throw up.

Kids snicker before Mrs. Bloom, our teacher, hushes them, but it's too late. I heard them.

My belly's on fire.

Mommy picks me up from the nurse's office. We leave through a side door so none of the other kids see us. She gets me buckled up in my booster, shuts the door, and rounds the front of our minivan to climb into the driver's seat. The car rumbles to life, and with it, the radio comes on. She immediately turns it down to low hum, but doesn't immediately start driving.

"Bad morning?" she asks gently, twisting around so she can look at me between the seats.

I shrug, twisting my lips together, not sure what to say.

It wasn't all the way bad.

But I don't tell her that, because then I'd have to tell her what happened by the swings, though I'm pretty sure Principal Gibson or the nurse told her when they called her. By now, Mommy's aware kids are bein' mean to me. She didn't know last year, but that's 'cause I kept it secret. Izzy knew, and she handled it like she handles everything…

Well, she thought she did.

Clay and his sidekicks know better now than to do it when she or Waylon or even teachers are around. Today's the first time since Izzy punched Clay in the nose last year, that they got caught in the act…

She didn't hurt him or make him bleed or anything when she did that. But she got in a lot of trouble, 'specially since I made her promise not to tell anyone why she punched him. She lied and said he pulled her hair, when the truth is he pulled mine. And called me a little fag boy.

I still don't know what that means.

I don't think I wanna.

Whatever it is, can't be good. Words that get spit out like that never are.

In the car, Mommy sighs deeply, her lips thinning into a flat smile. She nods. "Okay. Okay."

Ducking my head, I stare at my dirty jeans, and squeeze my hands together between my knees. I have a cut on my hand from where a piece of mulch dug into me. It burns.

My feet kick dully against the back of the passenger seat. Mommy turns to face front, pulling on her seatbelt, and gets the car moving, pulling it away from the curb and onto the street.

This is already the third time since school started last week that she had to come pick me up early because I was throwing up. I keep waiting for her to yell at me, but she never does. She just sighs, like maybe she's just tired of it. Tired of me.

I think she thought it would get better this year—that I wouldn't be so sick now that I see Mary Ann.

But it's only getting worse.

I overheard my parents the other night talking about how maybe holding me back was the wrong decision. I hoped maybe that meant they'd call the school. But then I heard them say things like "too young" and "maybe he just wasn't ready." Which doesn't make sense, since Izzy's the same age as me and she was ready…

She can't even read that good either.

I also heard them talking about medicine. Mommy says it might be good for me—that it could help. Daddy was against it, said he doesn't want to start pumping chemicals into me at such a young age.

"Let's just give it some time. Mary Ann said he will likely grow out of this. Meds should be the last resort."

"Well, it's too early for ice cream," Mommy says, pulling me from my head, "so how about we get a late breakfast at Chickie's? We'll get Linda to whip up whatever you want."

The heavy feeling in my chest goes away, and my mouth stretches into a smile. "Cinnamon Toast pancakes?"

"You got it." She winks back at me through the mirror.

She reaches for the radio, hitting play on the CD player. It's The Goo Goo Dolls, her favorite band. I like them too. Izzy doesn't, but that's okay, this is just for us.

Mommy starts humming along, then singing. She can't sing that good—she says her talent's all in her fingers. Just like my sister. Even my dad, though he plays guitar, not piano. He can sing okay though. Izzy makes my ears hurt when she tries.

I don't think I can sing—though I never really tried. But I did try piano. It was really hard and it didn't sound like how it does when my mom plays. Izzy didn't care how bad she was though—she never cares about that stuff—so she kept up with it, and by the third class, she was already able to play, like, a whole bunch of songs, and was asking for even harder stuff. Stuff like Mommy plays on our piano at home and in the videos Izzy likes to watch.

Daddy said she had a gift for it. And something called persistence. I clearly didn't get either, so I asked if I could do something else.

So, they tried me with guitar.

They took me to a music store my dad's friend, Tim, owns, where they have smaller instruments for kids to learn on. It was a little easier, until they started teaching me something called chords and I had to make my fingers stretch and do all these things they couldn't do. Just like on the piano.

It made me feel all shaky and sick when I couldn't get that right either. I felt like Tim and my dad were getting annoyed with me. And Mom seemed sad, and I hate making her sad.

So when Daddy brought Izzy along one day, and I saw how excited she was to try a guitar—just like with piano, she didn't even care she couldn't make her fingers work the way they needed to—I grabbed my backpack, pulled out my drawing pad, and started drawing guitars instead.

All while Izzy practiced, and the grown-ups helped her, smiling and laughing and having fun, I sat in front of the pretty red guitar hanging up on the wall and copied it onto paper. It wasn't perfect, but there was no one around to tell me how to do it, so I didn't care. I had an eraser and lots of blank paper to get it right.

Drawing is more fun anyway. Instruments are confusing and boring.

When Mommy found me later on, and asked if she could see, I handed over my best one. She asked if she could keep it, and I said no. It was mine. She laughed at that, nodded, and said she understood.

She then ruffled my hair and said it's okay to not want to play an instrument if it doesn't make me happy.

"I like drawing," I told her.

She smiled, nodded, and said, "Then drawing it is. You're very good. We can see about classes if you want, so you can learn and get even better?"

But I shook my head at that, blond hair falling around my face, and held my drawings to my chest. I didn't know how to explain it, but she just smiled, and dropped a kiss to my head. "Got it. Yours." And she never brought it up again.

Mine, all mine.

In the car, I twist my head to look out the window, watching as the school grows smaller the further away we get, before disappearing behind the trees, leaves kicking up around the street from where they'd fallen.

I hit the button on the door, lowering the window as far as it'll go, which is only about halfway.

Chilly air blows in, and I wait for Mommy to tell me to close it, but she doesn't. She just opens the other windows and turns the song up.

Biting my lip, I glance down, my eyes drifting to where my backpack rests against the lip of my booster.

"I love that one! Captain America is my favorite." At the echo of that boy's words, I find myself hunchin' in my booster, knees squeezed together, fingers folding into my palms.

I want to draw what happened, just like something you'd see in a comic book.

I can picture each square—one with me kneeling in the mulch; big scary bullies standing over me. They're hidden by shadows, because they're bad, while I'm in the light because I'm good.

That boy would then appear in the next square, hovering over them like Superman—no, like Captain America, with his shield raised. And with his free hand, he'd be shoving the bullies away from me with big letters and exclamation tops over their heads to show how mad he is.

His face appears in my head. He looked so mad, his cheeks red. He had the lightest blue eyes I've ever seen, and long lashes that matched his fluffy light brown hair.

Bringing fingers up to mine, I twist the long, gold strands.

Little girl.

It wasn't the first time I got called that. I get called other things too. Sissy, pretty boy, princess…

Those aren't mean words, but they're always said so meanly that it feels like they are.

And of course there's that other word, whatever it means.

At least they never touch me…normally. They usually just kick my bag, shove books out of my hands, or blow spitballs at my head before laughing and walking away.

Today was the first time they actually cornered me.

Pushed me.

Somethin' tells me it's gonna keep getting worse.

"Mommy," I say loudly to be heard over the music and whooshing coming from outside.

"Yes, sweet boy?"

"Can we cut my hair?"

Her eyes dart to mine in the mirror. She blinks. "If that's what you want." She says it in a way that feels important.

Just before school started, we went for trims, and the lady asked if I wanted to cut it all off. It made me nervous at the time, so I said no. It's a lot longer than it was last year, I realize now, reaching my shoulders.

"I look like a girl," I tell her, and in my head, I see the boy who came and got rid of the bullies. His was short on the sides. Curly on top. Boy. No doubt about it.

Other boys with hair down to their shoulders like me don't get bullied about it, or told they look like a girl. But for some reason I do, so maybe this will help keep them away. Maybe it'll make them finally stop.

Mommy's face tightens, and she looks back at the road. So I look back out the window, hoping she's not mad at me, since I already had my chance to cut it a couple weeks ago.

She clears her throat. "Yeah, bubs, we can cut your hair. I'll take you after breakfast." She pauses, flicking the blinker, and turns onto the next street. "But just know that hair, long or short, is okay and has nothing to do with you being a boy. You can wear and be anything you want, and that doesn't change who you are inside. Okay?"

Twisting my lips together, I nod.

"People are mean sometimes because they're not happy with their own lives. It has nothing to do with you."

Again, I nod, though I don't think I believe her.

I wish I was braver…

Tougher.

I should be able to scare them away.

In my head, I picture drawing in another square, but this time it's with lightning bolts around me, and I'm floating in the air with a cape, hands raised toward the bad guys—the bullies.

And on the ground, there's that boy with the pale blue eyes, grinning up at me rather than scowling like he did when he told me not to apologize. He looked so mad at me for telling Principal Gibson I was sorry.

"You did nothing wrong."

Sucking my cheeks in, I try not to smile at the memory, but it's hard. I wish I was able to stick out the rest of the day, just so I could find out if we share lunch or gym class together. Probably not, though, unless he's in the special classes like Clay and Ethan. I already know he's not in transition like me. There's only one class for that, and I'm in it.

Unless he showed up after going to the principal's office…

I was already gone by then.

I rub my finger over the lip of the window, the rush of air blowing in tickling my skin.

Maybe he's the best friend I was hopin' for.

He obviously likes comic books after all. We don't have the same favorites—mine is Spider-Man—but that's okay, because Captain America is so cool. He's the first Avenger. No one messes with Captain America.

"Principal Gibson said there was a boy this morning by the swings," Mommy says when there's a guitar break in the song. "Said he was really nice to you and helped you collect your things."

"Yeah," I say quietly, probably too quietly for her to hear.

She lowers the music. "Did you get his name? Maybe you can be friends."

I swear Mommy has superpowers too, just like Izzy. How did she know I was thinking that?

I shrug and fiddle with my seatbelt. "Don't remember. He's new." My cheeks feel all warm, and I quickly look away, trying not to feel bad for lying.

She nods, humming. "Well, it was nice of him to stand up for you."

My throat feels weird and I nod, staring out the window at the passing buildings.

The music grows louder once more, and I see Chickie's appear up ahead.

I slide my finger lower, drawing letters across the glass, seeing them in my head as if I was using a pencil on paper.

A picture for me and me only.

Mason.

His name is Mason.