《Noah》 Chapter 1 - Or how everything went to shit Chapter 1 Or how everything went to shit ?Hey, Noah? Alex''s voice brings me back down to earth. I turn to my favorite person: their gaze lost in the crowd streaming past us, too absorbed in their own everyday life to notice someone out of the ordinary. Yet, in the end, we''ve grown used to it. ?Shall we play ¡°guess who¡±??, they hand me the cigarette. ¡°Guess who¡± is our favorite game to play. You basically create a character on the spot using whoever passes by. Usually, it involves absurd stories: just the other day I made a man in a suit and tie into a Swedish spy with a morbid passion for rubber ducks and furry carpets. I¡¯m pretty sure he was just your average Joe, but even if, who am I to judge? ?Sure, you start?, I scan the crowd in search of our first target. Alex nudges me, nodding towards a woman on the phone. Our new protagonist smiles as she listens to the voice on the other side, she stands still in front of the fountain right outside the Temple, and looks around from time to time. ?That woman on the phone... she''s not from around here. The jeans and long-sleeved shirt she''s wearing make me think of a warm country. She''s originally from... no, even better! That woman doesn''t feel temperature. That poor lady suffers from...?, they pause for a second in their narrative to take out the old and battered cell phone, miraculously still working after this winter''s storms, ?congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis?. ?Really?? ?What? Too far fetched?? ?Can you even say it without reading?? ?Who would dress like that in a ninety degree weather? And I see no sweat, do you?? ?No, I don¡¯t? ?No, you don¡¯t? ?¡¯Cause, of course, she suffers from an extremely rare genetic disease?. ?You can bet your ass she does. Give me that?, I hand out the cigarette. ?We should quit smoking, you know? It''s not good for our health?, they say taking a drag. ?You know what else isn¡¯t good for our health? Being homeless?. ?I mean, is it really? Loads of fresh air, sun exposure, and I know how much you care about your vitamine D intake?. ?Of course I do, I¡¯m still growing, I need to.. take it all...?, I can¡¯t even finish the sentence, ?And besides, it¡¯s not like we''re heavy smokers...?, I take a deep and long puff. Whatever, we¡¯re all going to die, in the end. My eyes land on a child, about four years old, gazing at the sky. Not far away, a couple keep an eye on him, talking dully. They must be his parents. ?That kid over there. That kid is the apple of his parents'' eye, a bourgeois family so normal it''s nauseating. All three live in one of those townhouses on Greater Avenue, or Whatever Street. They even have a dog, Lucky, a Corgi, maybe a Pomeranian, one of those small dogs that bark like a squeaky toy, you know? Their life is so boring that the only interesting moment is when the little star pees on them while they change his diaper. And that hasn¡¯t happened in years, okay? The perfect family?, I pause for another drag, ?and then, once in high school, little Johnny realizes he loves hanging out in the locker rooms with his teammates, and wants something more than friendship with one of ¡®em. When he tells Richard and Karol, their world falls apart, I¡¯m talking about ugly crying, shouting, plates smashed against the wall, all of it. So Mommy and Daddy throw him out of the house, and they tell relatives, neighbors, and acquaintances that he¡¯s abroad to study economics or some straight shit like that. Because they have the perfect family, and it must remain so?. The child runs to his parents, and tugs at his mother¡¯s pants to get her attention. We remain silent for a few minutes, watching life pass us by. ?Well, that was depressing. Can we head back, now?? ?Yeah, let''s go. I''m starving?, I flick the cigarette butt to the ground and stomp on it. ?7-Eleven?? I nod. As I pass by the statue of Joseph and Emma Smith, I give old Joe a pat on the buttock, as tradition dictates, just to attract a bit of luck and maybe a disapproving glance or two. From Temple Square to our destination is a half-hour stroll, but I don''t mind walking. The sky peeks through the buildings, stealing the show, opening up before us. We stop at the corner. ?All right, what do we need?? I think for a moment, taking inventory of our supplies, ?We''re running low on toothpaste and soap. And when I say running low, I mean I had to squeeze that tube like a cop with anger management issues. Let''s also get some toilet paper if we can; we''re down to one roll?. I lead Alex to the door. ?The usual, alright?? I whisper as they pass by. It''s a hot summer afternoon, and like all hot summer afternoons here, in this part of the world forgotten by God and his friend Joseph Smith, the poor souls in the vicinity seek refuge in a highlighter-colored Slurpee to drown their troubles. I''ve never tried it, but Alex told me once you can really taste the color. After that, I lost any curiosity in it. The store kind of reminds me of the Kwik-E-Mart from The Simpsons. It has a flat, cartoonish appearance it doesn''t even try to shake off. Alex heads to the canned goods section, while I go straight to the hygiene products. And there it is, the toothpaste I''ve been longing for this morning. I look around, making sure I''m not being watched, and I nonchalantly open the package, grab the tube, and slip it into a pocket I sewed inside my pants. I put the box back in its place and move on. A flat bar of soap? Perfect for slipping under my shirt. I turn the corner and meet Alex, who''s holding a bottle of juice. I grab a pack of toilet paper, and we head to the check out counter. We place what we have in hand on the counter. Alex leans over to ask for a Slurpee. What comes out of the machine is condensed blue ink; there''s no other way to explan it. I wrinkle my nose as the cashier hands it to Alex, who pays the bottle of juice and toilet paper. I give my favorite person a disapproving look. ?July 11th, free Slurpee day?. Before we can turn and head towards the exit, the cashier grabs me by the sleeve. ?What''s that?? he points down on my shirt. A stain, right where the toothpaste should be. Too busy judging Alex for their choice, I didn''t notice the tube must have been squeezed. But the cashier did. I snap my head up, and I free myself with a tug. We make a run for the exit, the Slurpee spills its guts on the floor. We split up at the intersection; Alex goes straight, and I slow down a bit to act as bait. The poor cashier stands indecisive for a moment. Who to follow? As planned, he chooses me. I run for my life, glancing back once in a while to make sure I''m still being chased. I run across lawns, leap over fences, dodge guard dogs and bored cats. It''s not my first chase, my body is used to it. The hideout I choose is a small church, one of those that goes unnoticed if you don''t already know it¡¯s there, because from the outside it looks like a house. I can''t say I''m a church-lover, but in times of need I''m not picky. I close the door behind me and take refuge under the window, hoping the cashier won''t put two and two together. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Should I scream "sanctuary" or would it be too late-fifteen hundreds northern France? I''m not sure it even applies to evangelical churches. I cling to the window sill to peek outside, trying not to stick my head out too much: the guy is standing in the middle of the street, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath. He spins around, stops someone, raises a hand to his nose level. The man he stopped shakes his head and continues on his way. Dejected, the cashier heads back. ?What a strange way to pray, yours?, I turn abruptly. A man in a black shirt and white collar smiles at me from the middle of the pews. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he smirks. I hate people that fake complicity. ?I''m no one to judge the ways in which one communicates with the Lord?, the pastor adds with his low voice, ?but what do you say if we try a more comfortable approach?? He points to the empty seat next to him. Cautiously, I get up from the ground and accept his offer; I search his peaceful smile for any movement, any twitch that might betray him. There''s none. ?Thank you?, I say, taking the seat. ?God''s house is always open to those who seek refuge?. ?And what if I''m not seeking refuge?? The pastor''s smile doesn''t falter. ?Then you might find something you need. Napkin?? I refuse his offer, and try to hide the stain on my shirt. The pastor looks me up and down, holding his peaceful aura. ?Are they still out there?? he asks. I continue to stare at him, and he keeps smiling. Even sitting down, he towers over me. ?You know, at your age, I ran away more than once. Angry people, angry dogs, bullies. You name it, I picked a fight and then run?. There it is, the speech: what adults say to troubled kids to lead them on the "right path," thinking they have all the solutions to our problems. They don''t. They knew what it was like, but they forgot. When you reach round numbers, you forget what you felt the day before. He, for sure, doesn''t have the solution to my problems. And I swear I''ll get up and leave if he even suggests... ?But then, I encountered the word of the Lord, which illuminated the way and showed me my mistakes?. The tale of a petty criminal saved by faith and turned into a pastor. What a clich¨¦. I¡¯m a man of my word, I clear my throat and get up. ?Thanks... but no, thanks?, I say, approaching the door. ?The Lord cares for all his children, he welcomes everyone with open arms...? I chuckle sarcastically. ?Yeah, right. Everyone, uh-uh... Listen pastor, I don¡¯t wanna be the kill joke, but I sort of have beef with the Almighty. It''s kind of his fault that I''m in this situation. So, thanks, but I''ll decline the offer?. I open the door, stopping on the steps. ?Anyway, have a nice day... and thanks for not blowing my cover?. I don''t wait for a response. I head straight home, checking in the window panes to make sure I''m not being followed. I don¡¯t know if that cashier is still around, it''s been about five, ten minutes. I can¡¯t get caught. I just can¡¯t. I have to make sure Alex made it. The plan dictates that in case of escape, we regroup at home as soon as possible, and if more than an hour passes from the moment we split up, we scrap what money we have and prepare to bail the other out. The stain on my shirt has dried, leaving a faint mark. I enter the gate and go to the duck pond, our meeting point. Exactly, the duck pond. It''s easy to get lost in eighty acres, like those in Liberty Park, so we need a reference point to find each other quickly. I mean, it''s still the second largest park in Salt Lake City. We have everything here: a restroom, a place to eat, a pool, several tennis courts, basketball courts, and even bocce, for when you feel old. Living in Liberty Park is a bit like living in one of those ultra-luxury estates in California. The only difference is that our house is public, so it''s not exactly legal to sleep in it... but we have a Ferris wheel, can Bill Gates say the same? I don''t think so. Point for us. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see Alex waiting for me on the pond. ?Everything alright?? They nod, watching a basketball game taking place on the nearby court. ?The record store was open, I hid behind a vinyl racket. Did you know the new Imagine Dragons record is already out?? ?Why do you look at vinyls? We can¡¯t afford ¡®em, we don¡¯t even have a player?. ?Vinyl records aren''t just made to be listened to. Okay, that also, but mainly to be admired. There''s something mystical about holding a vinyl in your hand, as if you could touch the music and the effort the artist put into it?, they say, their eyes lost in contemplation of an imaginary record between their hands. ?I told you smoking that much weed would have long lasting effects?. ?Oh, thank God I subscribed to the GFY insurance plan? ?The what?? ?Go fuck yourself? ?You¡¯re such a lovely company?. ?A distinguished gentleman?. ?Let''s go to the restroom; I smell like a melted mint Popsicle. It¡¯s disgusting?. We quickly grab our backpacks, hidden by the Ferris wheel. The public bathrooms aren''t the cleanest, or the most functioning, but we have to make do. Alex closes the door and leans their back against it to block the entrance while I change. ?Why did it take you so long to come back??, they comment, watching me wash the shirt in the sink. ?That guy was relentless?. ?We need to be more careful next time. Did you know there were cameras?? ?Are you sure?? ?They must have everything on film. Even our faces? There, they''re starting to panic. I squeeze the shirt. ?They might recognize us, Noah. We''re doomed, we''ll end up in jail. And they''ll call social services and send us to another foster home, and we''ll all be back to square one?, their voice rises an octave. I put down the shirt and look at myself in the mirror. ?Even if they have our faces, they can''t recognize us, we''re not in the database. Not in Salt Lake City''s, at least. Everything will be fine, it won''t happen again, okay?? I say reassuringly, shifting my gaze to their face. ?What if they check Riverton''s?? ?Why would they? Everything will be fine. Trust me, calm down?, I go back to wash the shirt; silence falls between us. I didn''t see the cameras; I should have been more careful. I hate stealing, and hiding, and putting others in trouble. Most of all, I hate putting Alex in danger. They''re only fifteen. I''m the grown up here; if something happens, it''s my fault. I have to be more careful, more attentive. I have to think. I don''t want them back in foster homes. I won''t allow it. I''m brought back from my thoughts by a comment from Alex: ?They''re opening a new homeless shelter?. ?I thought you didn''t want to go to a shelter anymore, not after we risked being reported to social services?. ?This is different. It''s a shelter for the LGBTQ homeless youth?, they pronounce the acronym with the ease that only habit can give. I wring the shirt to remove the water residue. ?Maybe, if we explained our situation, they might be able to help us...? I turn around and lean against the sink, folding the damp shirt haphazardly. ?I don''t know, Alex... I''d rather keep a low profile for a couple of days, just as a precaution. I''d like to avoid spreading our names around, you understand?? Alex doesn''t argue, staring at me imploringly. ?When will the shelter open??, a smile. ?Tomorrow, on Milton Avenue?. A moment of suspense before the verdict. Alex opens their arms impatient, gesturing for me to decide. ?Okay, we''ll check it out... it¡¯s not a definitive yes, understood?? ?I knew you''d make the right decision. Come on, let''s get out of here. No one in their right mind should spend more than five minutes in a public restroom, I can feel the e-coli bacteria climbing up my legs?. ?Last one there buys a slurpee??, they propose. ?I don''t want a slurpee? ?Who said you''d win?? They give me a shove and start running to the Ferris Wheel. Chapter two - Repercussions Chapter 2 Repercussions A ball gets thrown in the air. It flies for nine, ten feet. A metallic hit. It¡¯s a miss. Sitting on a staircase, I bask in the morning sunlight, watching a basketball game. Five boys wear white shirts, five others wear nothing but shorts. It¡¯s too hot to do anything. Among the clouds, there¡¯s a slice of clear blue sky. It¡¯s a funny feeling, when you focus on the sky, and project yourself up there, beyond the clouds, become part of the air, you might even lose yourself, lose your past, your present, your future exists no more, you lose yourself to become part of the whole. Suddenly, I feel a deep longing for the sky, which I have never explored and I never will. And I feel jealous of those birds that take the liberty to cross it whenever they want, while I am anchored to the ground in a body that has decided not to fly. I wish I could leave it behind and join them, but I am stuck here on these steps, and all I can do is cling to that feeling, before it¡¯s gone once again. I don''t like reality. A shadow covers the sunlight. ?Comfortable?? It takes me a while to adjust to the change of light, but eventually, I manage to make out the figure of a man in a short-sleeved polo shirt, a badge displayed around the neck, and two patches of sweat under the armpits. ?Very. What''s up, Jared??, he sits beside me, nudging me with a knee. ?Why don¡¯t you join them?? ?I don¡¯t like Basketball?. ?Why are you here, then?? One of the boys shoots from under the basket, he lifts his shirt to wipe off the sweat, revealing his waist. ?You have visits?, he adds, trying to hide a twinkle behind his eyes. He never smiles, but his eyes are always telling. Reluctantly, I cast one last glance at the game before getting up. Drops of sweat cast the ball into the air. A three-point shot. We enter the pastel-colored building, which is not cheerful at all. I follow Jared silently; I don''t ask, and he doesn''t tell. We stop in front of the door to the common room. He takes his keys, pulling at the cord attached to the belt, and unlocks the door. I stand in my place. I won''t take a step until he tells me what''s going on. ?Don''t worry, he won¡¯t bite?, he opens the door even wider. The orange of the room amplifies the sunlight entering from the wide, tall, barred window, giving the effect of those mirrors used at the beach for tanning. Someone sits at a round plastic table. I''m not entirely sure if I know the guy. He''s familiar, but not enough to spark a name. A man in his thirties, with enough wrinkles to look like an adult, but he still seems to retain that naivety, ¡°I can save the world¡±. He looks like he wants to make a difference. He waves his hand, and points to the chair in front of him. ?Hello, Noah, I''m-? Oh. Right. ?The owner of the shelter?. Now that I see him up close, memories start coming back to me. Not a name. Fuck if I remember his name - or any name, for what it¡¯s worth. He nods, offering a hand to shake: ?Joshua Winterfield. You can call me Josh, if you like. Please, have a seat?. I stare at him. ?Physical contact is forbidden?. His hand hesitate. I won¡¯t shake it, doesn¡¯t matter if Jared gives me his blessing. ?Why are you here??, he never visited. Why now? Winterfield rests his clasped hands on the table, a finger nervously scratches the space between the knuckles, leaving white trails on the skin. ?We spoke with the social worker handling your case. She''s been trying to get you out of here for almost a week. You refuse to go to any foster family or group home, why is that??, he maintains a cordial tone. His knuckles are now red. ?Aren''t you tired of juvie?? I can hear shouts out of the window. Jared''s walkie-talkie crackles to life, ordering him to join the courtyard. A colleague of his will take over. He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. Winterfield bends down to get a beige folder from a shoulder bag. He places it on the table and opens it. I catch a glimpse of a photo: it¡¯s me, it¡¯s my mugshot. And that¡¯s my social services file. Frankly, I don''t know how he got hold of it, considering I''m a minor, and he, until proven otherwise, has no legal rights. As he reads, his expression changes, growing serious: ?Not much is known about you, from what I see?. I try to distance myself from him, but this chair won¡¯t move. Who gave him permission to read my file? I want to snatch it from his hand and throw it away. These windows only open a crack, though. ?Found on the streets of Riverton in 2021, you went from one foster family to another for a few months, settling with the Bennets, who already housed Alexandra Tanner, Alex that is, until March 2022. From what I read, on the night between March 22nd and 23rd last year, you and Alex ran away, taking some of the lady''s jewelry and the husband''s watch with you. The family car keys disappeared, but the next morning, the car was still in the driveway. You were fifteen at the time. The family then filed a report for your disappearance, and a few days later Mr. Bennet received the keys in the mailbox, accompanied by a printed letter asking to abandon the searching. So, the case was closed as a runaway, and there has been no news of you two... until two months ago, when you were arrested for theft and trespassing, two days after we met. Did I miss anything?? He looks up at me. ?You sent the police to my place?. ?As Emma has already explained, it wasn''t her intention to have you arrested. I mean, you two were living in a park, we were concerned. If you had told us...? This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. Here I interrupt: ?If I had told you... what? That just the day before, we had stolen from a shop? That it''s not my first felony? I don''t go around telling strangers my life story. If people learned to mind their own business, for once...?, Winterfield talks over me. ?We were worried. We met two kids sleeping on the street, defenseless and penniless, we had to do something!? ?I told Alex it wasn''t a good idea, but they didn''t listen to me. Do you think I like living in juvie, with no freedom, not being able to see my best friend? But at least I have a roof over my head, I''m getting an education, people know me, and hardly anyone causes me trouble...? ?Noah, please, enough. We''re on your side, we want to help you. Meet us halfway?, his voice is subtle, weary, desperate. Alex always speaks highly of him; by now, they''ve been living in that shelter for almost two months. From what I understand, their social worker gave the green light for this arrangement. But social workers give the green light for almost any situation; in the end, what matters is that our file is tucked away in a corner of the desk, away from prying eyes, forgotten by men and gods. It doesn''t matter if the house is welcoming. It doesn''t even matter if the house is safe, as long as we have a roof over our heads. Another minor away from the dangers of the world. ?Noah, are you still with me?? I shift my gaze to the window, away from here, back to the sky. I miss it more and more as each minute passes. My sentence will be up soon. I have to admit I got lucky: two months for theft and trespassing, considering that my lawyer wasn''t even the best among the worst. Perhaps average among the worst, but I wouldn''t bet my life on it. I think the judge took pity on me. After my release, who knows where I''ll end up. I don''t want to be placed in another trap. Surely, another Bennet wouldn''t be ideal, definitely not. Why does everything have to be so difficult? Why can''t it go back to how it was before? I was fine, we were fine. Yes, we got caught in a few rainfalls, stole something to eat now and then, but we were fine. We didn''t need anyone. And now everything has changed... all because I listen to Alex. One might think I learn from my mistakes, but no, not me. I have to go my own way. And if I have to bang my head against the wall ten times to learn the lesson, I''ll bang it ten times, and once more to be sure. Alex is my wall. They get carried away in the heat of the moment, don''t think about repercussions. And it¡¯s so stupid of me to follow them, when I know so well they¡¯re trouble. I deserve it. Except I was hoping they were right this time. I had hope, for once. I truly had. Whatever. I can¡¯t change what happened, and there¡¯s no time for self-pity. I have to work with what I have, I have to get us both out and back to safety, away from adults before things go south, away from here, where nobody knows who we are. I have to get us out of the system. ?They won¡¯t budge, will they??, it¡¯s a question I pose to myself, Winterfield just happens to be there. ?Alex? No. They¡¯re pretty set on staying at the shelter until you two are back together?. They won¡¯t leave until we¡¯re back together, uh? I place my hands on the table, trying to look like I know what I¡¯m doing. ?Let''s say I accept your offer. What happens next?? ?When you get released, you''ll come to the shelter, and then we''ll see?. I gesture for him to continue. Winterfield puffs out his cheeks and taps the table with his fingers. ?We don''t have many options, in your case. You don''t want to go to any foster home or group home, and we can''t find your parents. To be honest, I''m starting to suspect you gave us false names?. I may be dumb, but only to a certain extent. There''s a reason why I managed to be on the road undisturbed for over a year. ?What can I say? It¡¯s not my fault if social workers can''t do their job?. It¡¯s not very convincing, he¡¯s not convinced at all. ?So, I can¡¯t stay at the shelter long term, right?? ?That''s not what I said...? ?No, you implied it?. Winterfield covers his eyes with his hands. ?Please, Noah. Don''t twist my words?. I raise a hand in apology. ?The shelter... it''s not a stable situation. We can''t keep an eye on all the kids coming and going. Sure, it''s safer than the streets, but it''s not a real home. And we''re not a family?. I wait for him to finish speaking. ?We can accommodate you for as long as you want, that''s clear. But you need something more. So does Alex?. ?Okay, I''m in. I accept?. Winterfield''s jaw drops, caught in the act of formulating a sentence. ?Really?? ?Isn''t that what you wanted?? ?I mean, yes, but... I didn''t think you would accept, that¡¯s all. Last time you met with Emma you were so set on refusing, from what I understand?. I raise the corner of my mouth: ?Better not to assume anything, right?? ?Well, since you''ll be living at the shelter, can you tell me more about yourself?? I glance at the clock behind him. It''s been about fifteen minutes since I entered the room. ?What do you want to know? You read the file?. ?It says next to nothing. I''d like to have some additional information from you?. ?Okay. My name is Noah, I''m sixteen years old, I¡¯m a Virgo, I love dogs and long walks on the beach...? ?How did you end up in the foster care system?? I look at him in silence. ?It just happened. Life got in the way?, I find the table suddenly interesting. Particularly a stain on the table, which I try to rub off with my thumb. ?Life, huh? From personal experience, life alone doesn''t throw you on the streets?. ?Sometimes it does?. ?What about your parents?? ?What about them?? ?Are they still alive?? A shrug. ?Did they kick you out? Did you run away? ? I bite my cheek. Winterfield lets the silence fall between us. ?I guess Joseph Smith was more important than me?. ?Mormon family? Were you erased from the family photo?? I shrug again. ?I¡¯m sorry?. ?It doesn¡¯t matter?. Winterfield reopens my file: ?The Bennets were Mormons too, right?? ?Uh-uh?. ?Is that why you ran away when I told you I was Mormon?? I stare at him in silence for a few seconds, unable to retort or utter a word, however much it''s worth. ?Noah, you don''t have to be afraid of-? I stand up. ?You better go, it¡¯s getting late?. I approach the window; the conversation is over. His footsteps get further and further. ?I¡¯ll see you in a few days, then?, he murmurs. The door closes as I stand still looking at the sky, at that sliver of blue between the clouds, and I once again let it fill me with nostalgia. Chapter 3 - Or how I ended up living in a madhouse Chapter 3 Or how I ended up living in a madhouse The drawing snaps off the wall with a pop. I lay it inside the notebook I use to sketch, then peel off another one. ?You leaving today??, it¡¯s Steve, my roommate. He¡¯s a decent guy, silent as a cat, though. He¡¯s scared me more than once. He¡¯s hiding something behind his back. ?Whatcha got there, Stevie?? ?A knife?. I stop in my tracks. ?Oh, you do??, the tension builds up in that last question. I¡¯m not the greatest at hiding my feelings. He approaches with a smile. Not a sneaky one, nor psychopathic, as you would expect in a situation of this sort, but a warm-hearted smile. I still jump back when he moves his arm. A letter. ?If I¡¯d wanted to cut you, you¡¯d already be dead twice?. I really do not understand his sense of humour, but I still accept the envelope. I manage to read ''two months'' and ''attached'' before he snatches it back and tosses it onto the drawings. ?Nuh-uh, not now. Read it when you''re out of here. Alone?, he emphasizes the last part. I suppress a smile. ?You could have just kissed me?. ?Yeah, keep dreaming, fag?. ?I know you love me?. ?No, I don¡¯t?. ?You wrote me a letter?. ?That¡¯s not love, that¡¯s...? I grab the back of his neck and squeeze twice. It has to be twice, or it means you¡¯re about to strike, he once said. ?I¡¯ll miss you too, Stevie?. ?Don¡¯t make me regret not having brought the knife?. Here in juvie, everyone acts tough, ready to punch at the first threat, but we''re just kids trying to survive the world. Steve hands me the last drawings, the last photos, the last notes I had pinned to the wall, helping me pack them into a box with the rest of my personal items. He lifts it, and we head into the hallway, where Jared awaits. ?Don''t forget about the promise, okay??, he whispers as we''re still out of earshot. ?What promise??, his face crumbles, betrayed. I can¡¯t stand it, ?I won¡¯t, I swear. Freak Ink. You¡¯ll put your signature on hundreds of people¡¯s ass cheeks, you have my word?. ?Eh, we¡¯ll talk about that name later on?, he winkles his nose, like he smelled something outrageous. ?We¡¯re freaks, we ink, that name¡¯s got everything? ?It¡¯s a shit name?. ?You¡¯re a shit face?, he really is not, he¡¯s actually kind of handsome. ?Fuck, you¡¯re annoying. I won¡¯t miss you?, and yet, I can still feel his shoulder against mine, while we wait for Jared to open the door to the yard, beyond which Steve can''t pass. He should be in class, but Jared did us a favor, considering how close we''ve become. ?Don''t disappear, okay?? He sways from side to side. With a final wave, I leave the building, the door closing behind me. Winterfield waits for me leaning against a white Toyota. He''s kept his word. He had to, I suppose, considering yesterday my social worker, whose name I have no intention of learning, assured me all the paperwork had been signed. It''s official now: for the next two years, I''ll be living at the shelter, unless I can convince Alex to get the fuck out of there. ?Happy to be a free man?? I can''t bring myself to answer. Jared is munching at my ear with the usual speech: "Be careful, don''t come back here, don''t make reckless moves, follow the rules, listen to your mentors", and so on and so on. And there I am, nodding, reassuring, yes I''ll behave, no I won¡¯t commit crimes, yes I¡¯ll be a good boy, just wanting him to stop and bid an appropriate farewell. But no, I have to endure the whole tirade and play the diligent kid who listens without interrupting. After five minutes of "if I see you back here, I''ll relegate you to cleaning the toilets" and other charming threats, he grants me permission to get into the car. I watch the windows of the juvenile facility pass by, behind which I catch glimpses of the figures who have accompanied me during these months. One in particular, in the second-floor window, the one from the math class, seems to wave goodbye. After a few futile attempts by Winterfield to start a conversation, the journey continues in silence, the radio brings little to no comfort in this awkward situation. We navigate through the city streets, the residential houses with their little gardens and identical trees watch and judge us. Winterfield pulls up in one of those driveways, which looks like all the others but differs by one very important element. Sitting on the patio there¡¯s Alex. They jump up as soon as soon as we open the door. Two arms wrap around me at chest height and curly hair tickle my cheek. I pat Alex on the back. ?Hey to you too? I manage, his grip is too tight. ?Hey? Are you serious? We haven''t seen each other in like... ages, and all you can say is ''hey''?? ?You visited just last week?. ?Shut up and hug me?. We sway back and forth, right and left. ?I missed you?, they whisper against my shoulder. ?I would''ve missed me too if I were you?, a slap on my back, ?Okay, I deserved that?. ?You can bet your ass you did. Couldn''t wait to get out of there to annoy me, huh, you rude boy?? ?Rude?? ?Forget it, it''s a quote you wouldn''t understand. I was referring to this interview I saw...?, that¡¯s when they start telling me about this British band they¡¯re obsessed with and that, I get the feeling, they''ll bring up multiple times, take out their phone, and show me the interview in question. All the while, I grab the box from the trunk, and we enter the house. This place is huge, at least compared to what I¡¯m used, and everything has this warm, mahogany-like tone, or something expensive like that. I hate dark wood. I used to love it, but not anymore. The last house we were placed had a mahogany table, with a clean, sharp edge. Tables usually have a round edge, to not cut people if they hit it. My head knows very damn well it was sharp. I won¡¯t forget that table. I hate dark wood. Winterfield leads me to a staircase leading upstairs, where I presume the rooms are. The corridor seems endless. Our footsteps are drowned out by angry shouting, hysterical even. Winterfield takes the box from my hands, and gestures for Alex to take my stuff to the last door on the right. I''m about to follow my favorite person, but the man stops me. He knocks on the open door where the commotion is coming from, drawing the attention of the two parties involved. ?What''s the problem, now?? The two try to explain the situation, but they don''t have the patience to listen to each other. Raising a hand, Winterfield stops them. ?One at a time, if you don''t mind. Audrie, what''s going on??, he addresses a girl wearing an orange floral dress that complements her dark skin. She brushes aside her braided hair with the grace of a diva, then crosses her arms and shoots a killing glance at her counterpart. ?Sair can''t keep his hands off my stuff? ?I didn''t take your diary, I couldn''t care less about it!?, his voice raises an octave. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. As Audrie is about to retort, Winterfield intervenes. ?As soon as I''m done with Noah, I expect to see you two and everybody else in the living room. I''ll call an emergency meeting?. Audrie looks puzzled for a moment. ?Who''s Noah?? She didn''t seen me. Can''t blame her, Winterfield''s bulk almost entirely covers me. Sure, I''m not a giant, but I still have some growing to do. The man points at me with his thumb, and the two guys lean sideways to look at me. ?See you downstairs in five minutes, let the others know?. ?Inshallah?, Sair replies nonchalantly. ?Don¡¯t Inshallah me, Sair. It''s an order?. ?You don''t even know what it means...? ?I''ve heard it often enough to understand the meaning of it. No discussion, you''ll do as I said. Now, go downstairs and call everyone?. Winterfield turns on his heels and nudges me to move. We enter the room where Alex is already hanging up my drawings. ?Noah, I found a letter in the box. Do you have anything to tell me?? ?We''re about to have an emergency meeting, could you go downstairs, please? We''ll join you in a moment, I''ll just explain the house rules to Noah?. Winterfield intervenes, holding the door open to let Alex out. I gesture for them to go, and Alex, still confused, obeys. The man closes the door and leans against the desk. ?Sorry for the commotion, I would love to say it¡¯s uncommon, but... Well, anyway. I¡¯ll be short, I¡¯ll just explain the basic rules, I assume you want to catch up with your friend today. This will be your room for the next two years, you''ll share it with Alex. As you may have noticed, the other rooms are shared by three or more kids, while this one is reserved for just the two of you...? I actually hadn''t noticed at all. ?As you know, it''s not possible to place a foster care kid with a shelter. Shelters aren''t group homes, and this one is only minimally subsidized by the city, despite being officially and legally recognized as a shelter for homeless minors. My wife and I opened it privately, and as such, we manage it, along with a few of our friends. We live off donations, so each of our guests has the responsibility to maintain the facility. This means: cleaning, washing, tidying up, cooking for yourself and the others, in general, trying not to break anything and keep a clean and safe environment for everyone. Do you understand??, I nod. ?You and Alex are not just guests of the shelter: you are under my and my wife''s guardianship. The two of us are your foster parents. And as much as you may not like it...? he adds, noticing my displeased expression, ?...this is the best solution your social workers could come up with, given your resistance?. I bite the inside of my cheek until I can taste the iron. ?Why just the two of us and not all the rest of your ¡°guests¡±??, I mimic the quotation marks. ?Alex can be very convincing when they want to be. Now, if you don''t mind, we should go downstairs. You can settle in after the meeting, okay?? I want to shout that this wasn''t part of the accord, that I¡¯ve never agreed to be placed under their care, but only asked for a place to sleep and a roof over my head without necessarily being tied to a place, free and able to pack up and leave whenever I please. I want to punch him in the face, I want to see him bleed for deceiving me. But I can¡¯t. Not now, at least. I have to do things right, this time. I can¡¯t afford another mistake. More than anything, we have to get out of here. Bunch of liars, no better than the last, I bet. I wonder how long it will take him to... There¡¯s no lock on the door, but there¡¯s a chair, a good chair, made of sturdy dark wood. It will do. I nod through gritted teeth and, with one last look at my things and the letter I so desperately want to read, I follow him downstairs. Sitting on sofas, armchairs, and scattered cushions on the floor are about fifteen people, both teenagers and adults, I guess the ¡°friends¡± Winterfield mentioned earlier. Alex gestures for me to get beside them. I walk in between a couple of kids seizing me up and down, and sit on the very edge of a green sofa. Winterfield goes straight to the fireplace and leans against it to look at everyone from above. Apparently, the man doesn''t like to sit down. With a single gesture of his hand, the room falls silent. I am definitely blocking the door tonight. ?You must be wondering what this emergency meeting is about. Audrie''s diary has disappeared, someone took it?. He looks the teenagers straight in the eye, scanning each one of them. Audrie raises her hand. ?The diary hasn''t disappeared?. Winterfield looks at her perplexed. ?I don''t understand. If it hasn''t disappeared, then what''s the problem?? The girl stands up. ?I found my diary on the bedside table, but I''m certain I left it on the desk before going downstairs for lunch. Someone took it and read it. And I''m absolutely sure it was you, Sair. You were the only one in the room before lunch!? Sair jumps to his feet, pointing a finger at her. ?Boos tizi, Audrie! I told you it wasn''t me, what do I gain from reading it? It''s just a waste of time, you''re not even blackmail material?. Before the situation escalates, a girl who can''t be more than fourteen, as slender as a twig, wearing glasses bigger than her face, steps in between them. ?Calm down, or I swear on my still-alive mother''s grave that I''ll beat you both stupid. I''m not kidding. Sit down?. In the room, once again, silence falls. ?Thank you very much, Heather. Next time, let''s try not to use strong words or tones. And let''s not swear on the grave of living people. Let''s try not to swear on people''s graves in general, okay?? The girl nods, sits down, and calmly resumes speaking. ?It wasn¡¯t Sair. It was me. I moved your diary, I thought it was mine. To be fair I told you five times to write your name on the cover. But I didn''t read it, I swear?. Audrie looks at her for a moment. ?Don''t worry, Heather, it''s fine. It just bothered me that someone touched my things. Next time, be careful?, I wouldn¡¯t have crossed her either, to be fair. That one, Heather, I bet she¡¯s got something going on. Something wrong in her head, you know? Audrie sits down as if nothing happened, and crosses her legs. ?I''d say the case is closed. Audrie, don''t you think you owe Sair an apology?? She quickly turns to the victim of her slander and utters some brief and superficial apologies, accepted by the boy more for the sake of ending the whole affair than satisfaction. ?Moving on to the next item on the agenda, our new arrival: Noah?. The eyes of the entire room turn to me. And I sink into the sofa, wanting it to swallow me whole. ?Noah will be a stable addition to our family, just like Alex?. I thought it wasn¡¯t a family, why is he behaving like the perfect next-door father? ?Noah, these are Corbin, Patrick, and Anne, those who made the opening of the center possible?, he adds, pointing at the three adults I spotted from the stairs. ?And these are our residents. Guys, please introduce yourselves?. And off they go with names and greetings. When the murmur has quieted down, Winterfield claps his hands. ?Well, I think we''ve addressed all the issues. Does anyone have anything to add?? No one volunteers. ?So the meeting is adjourned, you can go to your rooms. Audrie, Jeremy, you''re on kitchen duty alongside with Corbin. You''d better join him, it''s getting late. I remind everyone that dinner will be ready by six-thirty, so...? he pauses to look at the clock, ?...in an hour. Be punctual?. The mass of hormones rises and disperses, Alex pulls me by the sleeve towards our room. Chatting about this and that, we spend our hour of freedom arranging what I brought from juvie. To my pleasure, I notice that there are clothes hanging and folded in the wardrobe, almost all of my size, some a bit larger. Alex informs me that the Winterfields, after receiving confirmation for my custody, armed themselves with vague indications about size, taste, and lots of goodwill, and went shopping. The wardrobe seems to have been raided by a lumberjack: I find about a dozen flannel shirts, all in different colors, except for two identical red ones that are always a classic. Black suit, blue jeans, tracksuits, nothing is missing. And t-shirts, at least twenty, neatly folded and stored in the drawers. I''m still wearing the one I was arrested in. ?Why don''t you change?? I run my thumb over the toothpaste stain. I couldn''t get it off. ?I like this one better?. I close the wardrobe and lie down on the bed to rest, the mattress doesn''t bounce, it doesn''t make noise, it barely bends. Under my back, I feel a rustle of paper, Steve''s letter. I completely forgot about it. I spread it out as best as I can and start reading it. Noticing my smile, Alex approaches. ?Steve as... your cellmate Steve, right?? He tilts his head close to mine to read better. Instinctively, I pull back the letter, hiding its contents. Alex moves even closer, sitting on my bed. ?Is he your boyfriend?? My face feels warm. ?No, he''s not my boyfriend. He''s just my cellmate?. ?And they were cellmates...?. They jump up and run, singing loudly through the corridors about Steve and I K-I-S-S-I-N-G, and I chase after them, once again abandoning the letter on the bed. "Dear Noah, You know what I think about humanity, and you know I don¡¯t like getting close to people and give them the power to make me sad, so how dare you enter my life and steal my affection? Good thing we are already in juvie, or I should have locked you up myself. But since I love you like a brother, I will forgive you this one time. Don¡¯t get advantage of my weakness on your part. And still, I have to thank you. I never had a shoulder to cry on, I never had anyone listening to me. Even if I read all of the books in the library, or the dictionary you stole for me - I wonder if they¡¯ve noticed -, I still wouldn''t have enough words to thank you properly. I really hope you won''t forget about your brother. I''m counting on your visits, call me as soon as you can, so I can jot down the number I can reach you at. You won''t get rid of me that easily, it''s a promise and a threat. We need to talk about the tattoo shop, I really count on that job. I want to see your designs go viral, so I can say that I knew that artist when he was a kid afraid of the dark and closed spaces. I want to see you shine, become someone, do good. I believe in you, you''re not just a statistic. You''re Noah, never forget that. I Love you, kid. Steve. P.S. Next time, choose a better fake name than Winchester. If you really want your own last name, come up with one yourself."