Chapter 67 Humming bird

Chapter 67 Humming bird
I close our apartment door behind me, the lock clicking into place with a soft thud. The sound separates me from the dark hallway and the quiet apartment next door. I stand in the small entryway for a moment, waiting for my hands to stop feeling the heat radiating from Raph’s bruised ribs. I walk over to the kitchen sink, turn the cold tap on full, and hold my hands under the stream. The smell of menthol and wintergreen washes down the drain, replaced by the scent of dish soap.

"Is he taken care of?" my mother asks from the dining table.

She is lifting a stack of chipped ceramic plates from the lower cabinet, setting them down on the faded plastic tablecloth.

"Yes," I say, wiping my hands on a tea towel. "He took the soup. I applied the cream and put the compression wrap on him."

"Did he say anything about his father?"

"Just that he's still stuck at the conference until tomorrow night," I reply. I walk over to the cupboard to get the silverware. My fingers feel light as I count out three forks and three knives. The constant, tight knot that has been sitting in the center of my stomach for the last four days is gone.

Raph is cleared from school for five full days. Tomorrow morning, I will walk through the front gates of Oakwood Academy alone. I won't have to look over my shoulder at the bike racks. I won't have to navigate the crowded lunchroom with his eyes tracking me from the senior table. For five days, I have room to breathe.

I start to lay the forks next to the plates, my movements quick. Without realizing it, a tune starts to slip past my lips. It is a song from an old television drama my grandmother used to watch, a simple, repetitive melody. I hum it softly, the sound bouncing off the small kitchen tiles.

My mother stops mid-motion, a stack of paper napkins in her hand. She looks up at me, her expression shifting from her usual tired frown into a surprised smile.

"Listen to you," she says, her voice softening as she sets the napkins down. "I haven't heard you humming since we packed up the old house. I knew it, Maya. I knew if you just spent some real time with Raph, you'd see what a decent boy he is. He’s just intense because he cares about your safety in this new neighborhood."

I keep my eyes fixed on the silverware, adjusting a knife so it sits perfectly parallel to the plate. I don't correct her. I don't tell her that my good mood has nothing to do with Raph’s character and everything to do with the fact that he is immobilized on a corduroy couch next door, unable to take a deep breath without gasping. I just let her believe the lie. It is easier that way.

"He's just resting now," I say flatly, continuing to hum the low tune as I walk back to the stove to fetch the pot of rice.

The front door opens with a rattle, and the familiar smell of grease and exhaust fumes enters the apartment. Leo steps inside. He looks exhausted. His grey mechanic's shirt is dark with sweat around the collar, and there are black smudges of motor oil tracking up his forearms. He leans heavily on his aluminum crutches, his right leg stiff as he maneuvers himself over the threshold.

"Smells good," Leo grunts, his voice thick with fatigue. He shifts his weight, propping his crutches against the refrigerator door before dropping onto his chair with a low groan. He immediately reaches down to rub the top of his right knee, where the surgical scars are still dark and puckered.

"You're home early," my mother says, carrying a bowl of steamed vegetables to the table. "I thought the shop owner wanted you to finish the double shift on the tire line."

"He did," Leo says, leaning his head back against the wall. "But the lift on bay three blew a hydraulic seal around seven. We couldn't raise any more trucks, so he sent the hourly guys home early. I'm not complaining. My knee feels like it's full of broken glass from standing on that concrete all day."

I scoop a large portion of rice onto Leo’s plate, then hand him his fork. I sit down in my own chair, the small radio on the counter playing a quiet evening news report in the background. The food is hot, and for the first time in a week, I actually have an appetite. I pick up a piece of chicken and start to eat, the low melody still caught in the back of my throat as I move my feet under the table.

Leo sits still, his hands resting flat on the plastic tablecloth. The black grease beneath his fingernails stands out against the white pattern of the plastic. He watches me. His eyes are narrowed, tracking the way I move my shoulders, the way I am sitting upright instead of slouching over my food.

"What's got you so happy, Maya?" Leo asks. His voice is quiet, but it has investigative edge that makes my fork stop halfway to my mouth.

"Nothing," I say, setting the fork down. "The food is just good."

"You're humming," Leo says, leaning his upper body forward, his elbows resting heavily on the table. "You've been looking like you were waiting for a firing squad every morning this week. You haven't said three words during dinner since Monday. Now you're sitting there singing to yourself."

"She’s just in a good mood because she helped out next door, Leo," my mother interjects, pouring water into three glasses. "Don't start interrogating your sister the second you get home from work."

Leo eyes stay locked onto my face. "I'm not interrogating. I'm just curious about the timing."

"The timing of what?" I ask, keeping my voice as flat and unbothered as possible.

"The timing of your little concert," Leo says. He reaches for his water glass, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with a deliberate click. "A guy came into the shop around five o'clock today. Drove a black SUV with an Oakwood Academy parking permit stuck to the windshield. He had a younger kid in the passenger seat wearing the school’s green varsity hockey jacket."

I feel a small prickle of heat at the back of my neck, but I don't look away from him.

"The dad needed a quick rotation on his front tires before they drove up to the state tournament tomorrow," Leo continues. "While I was pulling the lugs off the front wheel, the kid in the jacket was sitting on the bench in the bay, talking to one of the older mechanics, Marcus. Marcus’s younger brother plays for the district public league, so they started talking about high school sports."

My mother stops eating, looking between the two of us.

"The kid was laughing," Leo says, his eyes boring into mine. "He was showing Marcus a video on his phone. He said it happened during the senior physical education block this afternoon. He said Jackson Thorne skated forty yards across open ice just to level some new transfer kid who didn't look up fast enough. He said the sound of the kid hitting the plexiglass boards echoed through the arena."

The kitchen goes quiet, save for the low drone of the radio announcer on the counter.

"The kid in the shop didn't know who I was," Leo says, his voice dropping into a whisper that doesn't carry past the table. "But I saw the screen when he held it up for Marcus. The transfer kid on the ice, the one who got carried off with cracked ribs and a medical excuse for the week? It was Raph Mason. I'd recognize that stupid haircut anywhere."

I pick up my glass of water, taking a sip to clear the sudden dryness in my throat. "It's a rough school, Leo. People get hurt in sports all the time."

"Don't lie to me, Maya," Leo says, his jaw tightening as he looks down at my hands. His eyes drop to my left sleeve, where the white athletic tape around my wrist is just barely visible beneath the grey cuff of my cardigan. "That kid in the shop said everyone on the ice knew it wasn't a standard play. He said Thorne targeted him from the moment the whistle blew. He said Thorne didn't even look at the puck—he just looked at Raph, took him out, and then looked straight at the student benches."

My mother sets her fork down, her face turning pale. "Leo, what are you saying? Is Raph worse off than they told me?"

"Raph is fine, Mom," Leo says, his eyes never leaving my face. "He’s just broken enough to be stuck in his bed for the next five days. Which brings me back to my question."

He leans in closer across the table, his voice sharp.

"You've been terrified of that boy since the day he moved in next door. You look at him like he’s a ghost every time he steps into our kitchen. But the exact afternoon Jackson Thorne breaks his ribs and removes him from your sight for a week, you come home and start humming tunes over your dinner plate." Leo taps his thumb against the table. "You’re happy because he’s broken, Maya. Why is Jackson Thorne fighting your battles for you?"