like the other kids today?” I ask, putting the sandwiches together while Lisa sets a big frying pan on a burner. When the boy doesn’t answer, I turn to look at him. His head is down. “Thomas?”
“I got in trouble this morning.” His voice is barely audible.
“Oh, no. What happened?”
His eyes dart to Lisa’s back and then return to me. “Called Ezrah a bad word.”
Lisa catches my eye and lifts an eyebrow before turning back to the mountain of vegetables she’s chopping. She must already know about it.
“That’s never a good idea.”
“Mr. Trunk said I can’t say the n-word no more.”
Yikes.
“That’s not a good word, Thomas. Calling someone names is never a good idea.”
“I know,” he whispers, his head down.
I feel for the kid. I know he’s been indoctrinated into thinking a certain way and must be confused as all get out with the mixed messages he’s getting from grown-ups. I imagine it’ll be hard for him to trust anyone. I really hope they’re able to find the parents or at least family for these boys. People who can love them and help them recover, although I’m sure for some of them too much damage may have been done already. Thomas is still young, though, so there’s hope for him.
I wish I had more experience with children, but other than my nephews on occasion, I haven’t had much exposure.
When the grilled cheese sandwiches are done, I slide one in front of Thomas and lightly ruffle his blond hair.
“Want something to drink, kiddo?”
“Milk, please,” he says in that soft voice. His eyes stare up at me slightly bewildered, and I wonder how much affection he’s been shown in his life.
“You’ve got it.”
“This is good,” Lisa mumbles around a bite.
“Right?”
I end up making half a dozen more when a few of the guys come wandering in. Including Brick, who walks in carrying a sleepy Kiara on his arm. I notice a few looks Lisa is shooting in his direction when he sits down with Kiara slumped on his lap, coaxing her to eat something.
Brick, Tse, the two kids, and I are still sitting at the kitchen table—chatting with Lisa who is busy at the stove—when Yuma comes looking for me half an hour later. He walks straight to my chair and I have to lean my head back to look at him, which he takes as an opportunity to kiss me soundly. Kiara starts giggling as Tse makes loud gagging noises, and Brick complains we should get a room. When Yuma lets me up for air and smacks the back of Tse’s head, I glance over at Thomas, who looks on with some curiosity. Again I wonder about what he has missed out on in his young life. He’s clearly not familiar, or particularly comfortable, with displays of tenderness.
“Nosh wanted me to come get you. He needs your opinion on something.” Yuma’s statement is paired with a meaningful look I guess is in warning. So instead of asking any questions, I grab on to his offered hand and let him pull me up.
“Later, guys. See you, Thomas.” I pull my hand from Yuma’s and ruffle the boy’s hair again.
“What was that all about?” Yuma asks when we walk outside.
“I don’t think he’s had much love in his life.”
“Safe to say he hasn’t had any. At least not while in the care—and I use that term loosely—of Hinckle and the ANL.”
“Have either of the boys talked about how they ended up there?”
“Not much, as far as I know. Only revealing thing Thomas mentioned was that comment to Kiara that mothers end up in the ground.”
The thought any of those boys were exposed to such cruelty turns my stomach.
“That’s just wrong.”
“Everything about it is wrong, baby.”
Yuma
“I like that one.”
Lissie points at the octagonal slate tile and Wapi looks triumphant.
We all agreed on an engineered hardwood for the living areas and the bedrooms, both for durability and clean look, but we apparently had very different ideas about tiling for the bathrooms.
The slate had been Wapi’s choice. I’d picked a woodgrain tile and Nosh chose a plain white square. It took Lissie all of one second to pick her favorite.
“Go pick them up,” Nosh signs.
“Now?” I get a raised eyebrow in response. “I’ll pick them up tomorrow morning. Don’t feel like going out again.”
He harrumphs and dismisses me with an irritated wave of his hand.
“What’s wrong?” Lissie asks quietly.
“My dad’s way of stomping his foot. He wants me to go back to the store for the