I run off back to my house through the early morning hours. Once inside, I quickly throw on Langston’s clothes.
His jeans and T-shirt fit pretty well since we are about the same size. Then I pull my hair up in a bun and shove it under my hat.
I look at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. Everything girly about me is gone. If I have to speak, this won’t work. But I have to try. I have to try to protect the boy who always protects me.
I run across the street as the sun begins to climb.
I glance back and don’t see Langston following me. He’s going to be pissed, but I don’t care. I have to do this for him, just like he would for me.
I take a deep breath when I reach the front door, trying to prepare myself. I’ve dealt with more pain than most eight-year-olds have. I know what it feels like to be hungry. To sleep alone. To fear someone will break in and hurt you at night.
But I’ve never been physically hurt before.
I push the hat down as low as I can over my eyes and push the door open loudly. I practically stomp inside, ensuring that anyone inside can hear me.
“I told you to be home an hour after the funeral,” Langston’s father says in a booming voice.
I don’t look up, but I see his boot covered feet in front of me.
“I had to stay up all night to get your shit packed because you ran off.”
He wasn’t worried where Langston was. Missing free labor and not being able to sit back and drink beer all night were his only concerns.
“Look at me, boy!”
I don’t.
That pushes him over the edge.
Slap.
I feel it hard across my cheek. My instinct is to run. Or, at the very least, try and fight back to protect myself.
I can’t. I have to endure this for Langston. Spending his final night with me shouldn’t get him beaten.
“You stupid fucking son of a bitch.”
A punch to my chest knocks me to the ground. I land hard on my ass. I’m going to have a bruise in both places.
I focus my energy on keeping my face pointed at the ground to hide my true identity from Mr. Pearce. From the smell of alcohol oozing off his breath, I doubt he’d look close enough to notice, though.
Kick.
My body flings from his boot in my back. I’m not much of a crier, but that does it. I can’t hold back my tears. For the first time, I realize why Langston is a crier. There is no other way to deal with this kind of pain except to cry.
I dissolve into my body as the pain wrecks me. My sensitive skin bruises while my ribs crunch as he kicks me over and over.
I’ve lost track of how many times he’s kicked me.
His curse words have all muffled together.
Without warning, he grabs my arm and forces me into a standing position.
“Get out of my sight. I can’t look at you. Clean yourself up and come back when you are presentable.” He releases my arm, and I stumble, trying to remain on my feet.
The world is spinning; tears stream down my cheeks, everything in my body hurts. But somehow I stay upright.
“Cynthia will be here at five to pick us up and take us to our new home. If you are one minute late, I’ll beat you until you’re dead. Understand, Langston?”