Indigo Sky

CHAPTER TWO

I mentioned that Nate was always at my parents’ place. Well, he was. Every single day.

Shortly after we declared ourselves friends, he started walking over every chance he got. And at first, I was just happy to have someone else to hang out with, apart from my family's dog—a mangy old mutt named Ralphie that my dad had picked up from the pound one day as a surprise for me when I was a year old. He was the best damn dog in the world.

But anyway, like I was saying, I was thrilled to have someone else to pal around with. Having Nate by my side was a huge boost to my confidence at a time when I otherwise had none.

Then, after a while, I started to notice things. I thought my parents did too. Like how Nate never brought anything to eat at school, and sometimes, my mom would catch him stuffing food from our kitchen into his backpack. Or how he always seemed to be hurt in some way or another. You know, like bruises, cuts, split lips … that kinda thing.

One day, when we were ten, he didn't come over after school, the way he usually did. I had grown so accustomed to him being around that life as I knew it felt off that night. Dinner felt oddly quiet, and Mom had made too much food. Doing my homework alone was, well, lonely, and watching TV without him making his usual raucous commentary didn't feel worth the time at all.

I went to bed that night feeling like something critical had been missing from my day, and I asked Mom if I could call his house, just to make sure he was okay. She caved easily, even though it was already past my bedtime, and I sprang out of my bed to run down the stairs to the phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen.

Now, at this point, I had never dialed Nate’s number. I had only met his mom a small handful of times, maybe two or three, in the two years that we'd been friends. It'd just become normal for him to walk over by himself and back the same way, making sure to call when he got home, as per my mom's instructions.

"To make sure you get back safe," she’d always say.

But the irony was, Nate was always safer outside of that house he shared with his mom and her boyfriend. We just didn't know it yet.

The phone rang a few times without an answer, and Mom eyed me with pity and a sympathetic smile.

"They're probably sleeping, hon," she said, brushing my hair from my forehead. "You'll see him tomorrow."

"But what if he isn't okay?" I asked. Although I didn't have a single reason to believe that he wasn't. Still, I felt like I needed to ask.

Let’s just call it a hunch.

"He is, honey." Mom squeezed my shoulder and bent to kiss the scar Dad still couldn't look at. "Let's get you back to bed."

***

Nate wasn't in school the next day.

We didn't share a teacher or classroom that year, but we would always sit together at lunch and hang out on the playground. That day though, I ate my lunch alone and sat on the swings, kicking at the sand beneath my feet and wondering what had happened to my only friend.

That night, I tried calling his house, and once again, nobody answered.

I told my mom I was gonna go to his house if he didn't show up at school again, and she thought that was a good idea. But as luck would have it, I never had to walk two blocks over because he walked into the cafeteria instead.

There was a cast on his arm and a sling around his neck, and when I asked what had happened, he wouldn't let his gaze meet mine when he muttered, "Not everyone is as lucky as you, you freakin’ Cyclops."

The insult hurt worse than a hornet's stinger, and I reared my head back as if he'd punched me in the face. Nate said shit like that to other kids, but me? Nah. He would never, yet he had then.

"Take it back," I demanded through gritted teeth, determined not to cry in the middle of the lunchroom.

"No," he retorted, reaching over to snatch the wrapped sandwich Mom always put in my lunch box for him, just in case he didn't have anything to eat, knowing damn well he never did.

"I said, take it back!"

I moved to swipe the sandwich from him because why should he eat my mom's peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich when he could say something so fucked up to me, his best friend? But Nate was just a little faster, and he turned away, taking the sandwich with him.

"Revan Waters and Nathan Manning!" Mrs. Keen, the lunchroom monitor, shouted by way of warning. "Get away from each other if you can't be nice!"

The cafeteria filled with snickers and whispers as I stared angrily at Nate, watching with seething rage as he stuffed the sandwich into his mouth one-handed. He acted so cool, so fucking calm, and, man, it pissed me off.

It pissed me off so much that he could insult me without batting an eye and then proceed like nothing had happened. He knew how much it stung, he knew how much I hated it, and still, he had done it like I was nothing more than one of these other freakin' kids who hated both of us combined. Dammit, we were supposed to be a team. It was us against them, and then he, what? Broke his stupid arm and decided he wasn't my friend anymore?

"You're an asshole," I hissed, using a word I knew I wasn't supposed to say.

I grabbed my lunch box and stood from the table, turning my blind eye on him so I couldn't see if I'd hurt him or not. I didn't care. I figured he never really liked me, that he'd just been using me for my mom's food since his mom never seemed to have any.

But then he did something I never thought I'd ever see Nathan Manning do.

He apologized.

"Sorry," he grumbled, and I turned to face him, stunned. "Come on, Rev. Sit down."

So, I did, too shocked to argue.

"You think your life sucks so much because your dad hurt your eye," he muttered, still unable to look at me. "But it was an accident. He didn't hurt you on purpose. And he feels bad for it."

My gaze dropped to his arm, bound to his chest and held in a sling. He was saying something to me—I could feel it—but he wasn't saying it .

I understand why now, but at the time, I wished he wouldn't speak in riddles and make me figure out puzzles. He knew I wasn't good at them, and he was even worse.

"What do you mean?" I asked, feeling stupid.

"I mean"—he turned to me abruptly, his face in a permanent scowl—"sometimes, it's not an accident. God, are you freakin' stupid or something?"

First, I was Cyclops, and then I was stupid. But I wasn't hearing his insults anymore. I was more tuned into the confession while not completely comprehending what he was trying to say.

“What happened to your arm?” I asked again, my eye on the cast and the bruised tips of his fingers poking out from the end.

Nate didn’t say anything for a long time. Every few seconds, he looked like he would speak, and then he’d close his mouth, his bottom lip sticking out or wriggling. It scared me for some reason—that Nate could come that close to crying in the middle of the cafeteria when he’d made fun of other kids for the same thing. I guessed, in my mind, I always thought he was cooler than that. Stronger maybe.

Finally, he whispered, “I wish I lived with you. I wish … I wish your mom were my mom.”

And that was about as close as I’d get to a confession for a couple of decades, but it was enough of one for me to understand that Nate’s mom wasn’t very nice … and her boyfriend wasn’t either.

But they say that’s where this type of shit starts sometimes, right? At home. Because in Nate’s case, if he needed an excuse for why he’d turned out the way he did, his upbringing was as good as any.

My excuse? Well, in my case, I think I just cared too much for my friend because if I didn’t, who else would?