mad at him about something.” He ashes onto the dirt. “You should give it up, though. Whatever it is—go easy on him, okay?”
Anger flickers in my chest. Hotter than the air.
“And why should I do that? You don’t even know what it’s about.”
“No, I don’t,” Cooper admits, “but I know he’s a good guy.”
“Do you?” I mean to sound sarcastic, but the irony doesn’t come through. Instead, I sound sincere. As if I really want to know.
“Hell yeah,” Cooper says. “Ted’s always been good to me, ever since I was a kid. Giving me jobs around your house, letting me fix stuff. That’s probably why I’m so good at what I do now.”
Cooper’s definition of “kid” is very different from mine. He’s talking about when he was twenty, twenty-one, back when Ted would hire him to fix a bent gutter or unclog a sink. Even though Ted knew how I felt about Cooper. Even though he could see I cowered in my room whenever he was there.
“You know, I’ve done some things I’m not proud of,” Cooper adds. “Things I could’ve gotten in trouble for.” He chuckles. “Like, a lot of trouble. But when Ted caught me one time, making a whole mess of something I had no business trying to do in the first place, he didn’t turn me in. He’s a good guy, like I said.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumble. I don’t need to hear about Ted excusing things that are wrong.
“Uh-huh,” Cooper echoes. “You should be grateful, you know. It’s not easy being good.”
He sucks on his cigarette. Breathes out a puff of gray. This time, he doesn’t tilt his head to the side. The smoke erupts against my face.
“Well, sorry,” I say. Then I cough, my throat stinging with nicotine. “But you’re hardly the best judge of goodness.”
I regret the comment instantly. Even more so when Cooper’s voice turns sharp, when his eyes flash like embers.
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Sorry.”
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
He holds his cigarette limp at his side, exposing his tattoo. Those talon-sharp stingers. Those honeycomb holes in his skin. My jaw aches as my body remembers. The hairs on the back of my neck stick up.
“What’re you staring at?” he asks.
I flick my eyes up, but it’s too late. He knows.
He looks at his forearm. Flexes the muscle and cocks a grin.
“Still?” he asks.
Then he drops his cigarette. Stamps it out.
“Still what?”
His laughter is a growl. “You’re still afraid of this?”
I don’t get a chance to say no. Cooper leaps forward, grabs the back of my neck, holds his arm in front of my mouth. I try to jerk away, knees buckling, but his thumb pushes a pressure point below my ear, and he leans me backward, like he’s dipping me in a dance.
“What are you so scared of? Huh?”
Boys who use their bodies as weapons.
I want to run. Want to scream. But my legs and throat aren’t working. He’s stronger than he was the last time he did this, and I’m suspended beneath him, stiff in the hand that grasps me, staring at the arm that’s almost on my mouth. I watch him lower it, centimeter by centimeter, squeezing out the air that separates his skin from my lips. I open my mouth, even though I’m widening his target, and I try to squeak out a sound. Nothing comes, though. Not even breath.
“It’s just a picture,” he taunts. “What’s so scary about a picture?”
His arm this close—it smells like it always did. Like sweat and dirt. Like my childhood.
Boys who never become men.
Finally, my voice surges back. I scream as loud as I can. And as soon as I do, he pulls his arm away. Yanks me upright.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. He takes a step back. “What’re you screaming for? You’re an adult now. Grow up.”
I’m shaking all over, my lungs are burning, but I still gasp out the words: “Me grow up?”
Cooper rubs his arm, as if he’s wiping off my scream. “I was just having fun with you.”
“Fun?” My heart bangs against my ribs.
“Look, I’ll see you around,” he says, turning away from me. He takes a flashlight from his pocket, clomps back toward the woods. Even in the coming darkness, I can see the prints of his boots in the dirt.
“You can’t be so squeamish,” he adds. “Not when there’s things out there you should actually be afraid of.”
As he speaks, he doesn’t bother to look back. Doesn’t see that my mouth hangs open.