Chapter 66 Silent Retaliation

Chapter 66 Silent Retaliation
The walk from the public bus stop to our apartment building is the quietest thirty minutes I have had in two days. Raph isn't walking beside me. He isn't holding my wrist or keeping his arm locked around my shoulders. After Jackson hit him at the ice rink, the school nurse called a private cab to take Raph straight to the clinic uptown. For the first time since Monday, I am alone on the sidewalk.

I take a deep breath of the damp air and pull my gray cardigan tighter around my chest and walk up the concrete steps into our building.

When I open the door to our apartment, the smell of chicken broth and onions hits me immediately. My mother is standing at the stove, a metal spoon in her hand as she stirs a boiling pot. She still wears her blue grocery store uniform apron, meaning she hasn't even changed since finishing her shift.

"Maya, you're home," she says, turning her head as the door clicks shut behind me. "Drop your bags. I need you to take this pot next door."

I stop in the middle of the small living room, my backpack sliding down to my elbow. "Next door? Why?"

"Raph’s father called me from his business trip twenty minutes ago," my mother says, setting the spoon down on a small ceramic plate. Her face is full of worry, lines wrinkling her forehead. "He was frantic. He said Raph got into an accident at school during gym class. Some boy from the wealthy families targeted him on the ice and broke his ribs."

"They aren't broken," I say, my voice flat as I set my backpack on the floor by the couch. "They're just bruised. The coach said it was a clean hit."

My mother stops what she is doing and looks at me, her expression turning hard. "A clean hit? He was in the clinic getting x-rays, Maya. His father is stuck three states away until tomorrow night. Raph is going to be alone in that apartment tonight, unable to even lift a cup of water because of the pain. The school gave him a medical exemption to stay home for the next five days."

I look at the boiling pot of soup. Five days. That means Raph won't be in the hallways at Oakwood Academy. He won't be standing at my locker at 3:00 PM. He won't be sitting next to me in the advanced chemistry lab. A wave of relief washes through my chest, so sudden that I have to place my hand against the wall to steady myself.

"I bought this at the pharmacy on my way home," my mother continues, walking over to the kitchen counter. She picks up a thick white tube of extra-strength medicated cream and a rolled-up tan elastic compression bandage. "The doctor told his father that Raph needs to keep his torso tightly wrapped so the ribs don't move when he breathes. I need you to go over there, give him this soup, and help him put the cream and the wrap on his chest."

"Can't Leo do it?" I ask quickly, my voice rising. "Leo is a guy. He knows about sports injuries. It makes more sense for him to help."

"Leo is at the garage working a double shift to make up for the hours he missed for his knee check-up," my mother says, her tone leaving no room for argument. "And even if he were here, he can't stand on his crutches long enough to wrap a bandage around a grown man's torso. Maya, Ralph's family has been good to us. Raph is setting up an appointment for your brother with the top orthopedic surgeon in the state. The least you can do is show some gratitude when the boy is hurt."

She pours the hot chicken soup into a plastic container, seals the lid tightly, and places it on a small wooden tray alongside a spoon and a glass of water. She sets the white tube of pain cream and the elastic bandage right next to the bowl.

"Go," she says, pushing the tray into my hands. "Don't come back until he is taken care of."

The wooden tray feels heavy in my grip. I look down at the white athletic tape still wound around my left wrist, hidden beneath my sleeve. I think about the purple finger marks underneath that tape. I think about the way Raph locked me in our bathroom yesterday and threatened to make my brother a cripple for life.

"Okay," I say quietly. "I'll go."

I turn around, carry the tray out of our apartment, and cross the narrow, carpeted hallway. The distance between our doors is less than ten feet. I stand in front of Raph's apartment door, my heart thumping against my ribs. I reach down and twist the brass handle and find it unlocked.

I push the door open with my shoulder and step inside.

The apartment is dark. The blinds are drawn shut, blocking out the remaining gray afternoon light. The only illumination comes from a television screen in the corner of the living room, which is playing a muted news broadcast. The air smells strongly of old takeaway food and copper.

Raph is sitting on the edge of the fabric sofa. He has removed his Oakwood senior blazer and his uniform shirt. He is wearing only a thin, sleeveless white undershirt. His skin looks pale under the blue glow of the television screen. Along the right side of his rib cage, a dark purple and red bruise is already forming, swelling up against his skin where Jackson's shoulder made impact.

He looks up when the door clicks shut. His face is twisted into a grimace, his eyes bloodshot and full of anger.

"What do you want?" he rasps, his voice rough. Every syllable he speaks makes his chest flinch, his hand flying to his side to brace his ribs.

"My mom made you soup," I say, walking into the living room and setting the tray down on the coffee table in front of him. "And your dad called her. He asked us to bring over the compression wrap and the pain cream."

Raph looks at the tray, then looks up at me. He lets out a cough that makes him double over, his face turning bright red as he groans into his knees. He stays frozen in that position for ten seconds, waiting for the spasm of pain to pass.

"That bastard," Raph mutters, his teeth clenched as he slowly straightens his spine back against the sofa cushions. He is breathing in short, shallow gasps. "Thorne thinks he won. He thinks because he plays dirty on the ice, he can scare me away. He has no idea what's coming to him."

I don't answer. I pick up the white tube of medicated cream and twist off the blue plastic cap. The medical scent of menthol and camphor fills the small space between us.

"My dad is already talking to Arthur Thorne," Raph says, his voice dripping with venom as he watches me squeeze a large dollop of the thick white cream onto my palms. "I told him exactly what happened. I told him Thorne targeted me after the whistle. By tomorrow morning, Jackson’s father is going to make his life hell. He’s going to lose his captaincy. Just watch."

"Sit up straight, Raph," I say. "I need to put the cream on the bruise."

Raph lets out an angry chuckle, but he shifts forward, his chest expanding slightly as he braces himself. "Go ahead. Make it quick. It hurts to sit like this."

I step closer, standing directly over him as he sits on the low couch. I look down at the swollen bruise on his ribs. This is the spot where Jackson broke through his defenses. This is the injury that is keeping him out of my school for five days.

I place my hands flat against his right side. The skin is hot and tight from the swelling.

"Rub it in," Raph orders, his eyes closed as he leans his head back against the sofa. "The doctor said the muscle needs to absorb it so the swelling goes down."

"Okay," I whisper.

I position my thumbs directly over the center of the dark purple discoloration, right over the eighth and ninth ribs where the impact was most severe. I lock my elbows, lean my weight forward, and press my thumbs straight down into his injured flesh.

Raph’s eyes snap wide open.

A loud, choked gasp leaves his throat as his body tenses. His face turns white as he tries to pull away from my hands, but the sudden movement sends another wave of sharp pain through his thoracic cage, freezing him in place.

"What the hell are you doing?" he chokes out, his voice thin and high-pitched as he struggles to draw air into his lungs. "Stop! Pull back!"

I don't pull back. I keep my thumbs planted firmly against the center of his bruise, grinding the white cream deep into the swollen tissue with deliberate pressure.

Raph reaches up with his right hand, his fingers clamping around my left wrist to tear my hand away from his side. But his shoulder is weak from the impact against the plexiglass boards, and the simple act of lifting his arm makes his side seize up again. I look down at his hand on my wrist. His grip is loose, shaking, and powerless compared to how he held me in the kitchen yesterday.

I lean down until my face is less than six inches from his ear. The sharp smell of the menthol cream burns my nose, but I don't blink.

"I'm just rubbing it in, Raph," I whisper in a small voice, a cold smile touching the corners of my mouth as I watch a bead of sweat roll down his forehead. "My mom explicitly told me to make sure it rubs in. We have to be good neighbors, remember? We have to show our gratitude."

Raph stares at me, his pupils dilated with pain and shock.

"Let's put the bandage on now," I say, lifting my hands away from his skin.

He slumps sideways against the armrest of the couch, his chest heaving as he takes small breaths, his forehead resting against the fabric. He is shivering.

I pick up the tan elastic compression wrap from the tray. I unroll the first twelve inches. "Sit up, Raph. If you don't let me wrap it, I'll go tell my mom you refused to let us help you."

He doesn't move for a long moment. Then, with a slow effort, he pulls his torso upright again, his eyes fixed on my hands.

I circle behind the couch, reaching my arms around his waist to pass the bandage from one hand to the other. As I wind the elastic cotton around his ribs, I pull it to maximum. I stretch the fabric until it is as tight as a leather corset, overlapping the layers directly over his swollen side.

"Too... too tight," Raph gasps, his hands hovering over the bandage. "I can't... expand my chest."

"The doctor said it needs to be tight to prevent movement, Raph," I say, pulling the final layer across his chest and securing the small metal clips into the fabric with a firm press. "You don't want the ribs to shift, do you?"

I step away from the couch and walk back to the front of the coffee table. Raph sits there, his torso bound so tightly in the elastic that his shoulders are hunched forward, his breathing restricted to shallow, rapid ticks. He looks smaller than he did this morning.

I pick up the empty tube of cream and wipe my greasy palms on a paper napkin from the tray.

"The soup is on the table," I say, looking down at him one last time. "Don't forget to eat it before it gets cold. I'll see you in five days, Raph."

I turn around and walk toward the exit.