Chapter 65 Kyle

Chapter 65 Kyle

Kyle folded the birth certificate and placed it on the mantelpiece, next to the keys, next to the crayon box. The paper was white, the father's section blank. He looked at it for a while without touching it, then walked back and sat down, hands on his knees. The door was open, the street corner empty.

His phone lit up. A message from Seer: "He's asking if you're satisfied?"

Kyle looked at the screen, didn't reply, and put the phone down.

In the afternoon, Kyle went to pick up Amy. The school bus turned the corner, brakes screeching. The door opened and kids jumped out one by one. The last one—blonde hair, blue backpack—she wore a sweater with the sleeves rolled up three times, showing her forearms. She jumped down, saw him, and ran over.

"Kyle!" She grabbed his hand in her palm.

They walked back. She walked fast, didn't talk. At the front door, she stopped.

"Kyle, did anyone come today?"

"No."

She nodded, pushed the door open and ran inside. "Mom! Kyle says no one came today!"

Irene stood at the stove, spatula in hand. "Got it."

Amy climbed onto a chair and sat down. Kyle sat next to her. Irene brought out the food—potatoes, carrots, beef, same as before. Amy picked up her utensils and put a piece of beef in Kyle's bowl.

"Kyle, you eat."

He picked it up and put it in his mouth. Hot.

"How is it?"

"Not salty."

She smiled and ate. Took a bite, then stopped.

"Kyle, what's your name?"

Kyle's utensils paused.

"Kyle."

"That's fake." She looked at him. "Seer said so. You told him you're not called Kyle."

Kyle said nothing. She put down her utensils.

"What's your name?"

He looked at her. Her eyes were bright, blue, like glass beads washed in water.

"Raven."

"That's a code name, not a name."

"There is no name."

"Kyle, will you wear short sleeves tomorrow?"

"Yes."

She nodded, put her textbook on the table, climbed onto the chair and continued eating. Took a bite, stopped again.

"Kyle, from now on you'll be called Kyle."

"Why?"

"Because that's what everyone calls you."

He looked at her. She didn't look at him, put a piece of beef in her mouth, chewed slowly.

"Okay."

She nodded, finished the rice in her bowl, jumped down from the chair, and ran to the mantelpiece. The crayon box was still there, the keys and birth certificate next to it. She looked for a while, opened the crayon box, and took out the yellow one—the crayon was short, just a small stub left. She looked at it, put it back, closed the lid. She ran over and grabbed Kyle's hand.

"Kyle, will you take me to school tomorrow?"

"Yes."

She nodded, let go, and ran to the stairs. "I'm going up to draw." She stopped, looked back at the textbook on the table, looked for a while, then turned and went up.

Irene collected the bowls and put them in the sink. The faucet turned on, water loud. Dorothy picked up the sweater, turned it over to look, and continued knitting. Kyle picked up the textbook and opened it. On the title page was written "Amy Harper," and below it, in pencil, "Kyle"—the letters crooked but every stroke forceful, leaving indentations on the paper. He reached out, pressed his finger on those four letters, held it there for a while, then closed the textbook and put it back on the table. He walked to the door, pushed it open, and stood on the steps. The street corner was empty. The streetlight was on, shining on the empty asphalt road. Wind blew in from the corner. Cold. He stood for a while, turned and went inside. Didn't close the door. Walked back and sat down, put his hand in his pocket, felt the key—hard, cold. Held it for a while, let go.

His phone lit up. A message from Seer: "He's asking if you're satisfied?"

Kyle looked at the screen and typed: "Satisfied."

"He says—you're even now."

Kyle put down his phone. Irene came out of the kitchen, dried her hands, and sat across from him.

"Kyle, you're even now?"

"Even now."

She made a sound of acknowledgment. Kyle looked at the doorway—the door was open, the street corner empty. Even now. Klaus had nothing on him anymore, and he had nothing on Klaus. Nobody owed anybody, nobody feared anybody. He sat there. The textbook was on the table, the title page with "Kyle" written on it. Amy wrote it. She finished writing it. She gave him a name. He didn't need to wonder what his name was anymore. His name was Kyle, that's what everyone called him—not the fake identity Seer gave him, not the dead man's name Klaus found, not the code name Raven. It was what she wrote.