my blood. I just need him. I need to be his protector. The one thing I vowed to be, for most of his life, is also the same thing I’ve been failing at so miserably.
I’d spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to Ryder. I may not have been dealt the same cards as his, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t live a better life than I’ve had. I refuse to let him go down the same path I went.
I raise my fist, ignoring the ruckus on the other end of the looming door, and rap my knuckles against the wood. I’m honestly surprised anyone hears the knock over the sounds inside. It’s like expecting to hear a whisper in an amphitheater, while a rock band is playing. Fucking impossible.
A few seconds tick by, the sound of something else dropping, then the door swings open. Ms. Wallace stands there, wild-eyed, cheeks flushed, probably from yelling at kids all day. Her hair is in one of those messy buns at the top of her head, and she’s dressed in a sweat suit. Every time I look at this woman, I can’t seem to tamp down the amount of loathing I have for her. The feeling of disgust. She truly reminds me of Miss Trunchbull from Matilda. I’d bet my left nut their personalities aren’t far off either.
“Oh,” she grunts, looking me up and down disapprovingly. “It’s you. You’re supposed to call and make an appointment with me if you want to visit.”
I shrug, trying not to let it show how much I despise her. I’ve tried doing things by the rules with her, and it got me nowhere. Just calls that were never returned and two whole weeks without seeing my little brother. Like I’d ever give her forewarning before coming, so she can pretend the life he lives here is any better than the one we had previously. “I was in the area and wanted to stop by and see him.”
She rolls her eyes, easily seeing through my lie. She beckons me in, with a nod of her head, and walks down the hall. She cups a hand around her mouth and shouts for all of the goddamn neighborhood to hear, “Ryder, your brother is here!”
I dodge random kids running through the house, trying my damnedest, not to curl my nose in disgust at the pigsty that is this house. Without fail, I don’t understand how this woman passes exams and house tours. Her house is quite possibly the most disgusting place on earth.
Ryder is quick to walk out of the room he shares with two of the other boys here. The second he sees me, his eyes light up, and that feeling I get in my chest? The tightness that makes it hard to breathe? It intensifies. When he’s in reaching distance, I pull him into my arms, and I squeeze my little brother.
“Missed you, Bud,” I whisper.
He squeezes back. “Me too.”
When we pull away, I seek out Ms. Wallace’s eyes, and I jerk my chin toward the door. I’m not asking for permission; I’m way past that. I’m telling her I’m taking him for a while.
“Be back before dinner,” she yells after us, trying to maintain some semblance of authority.
Without a word or even a nod of acquiescence, I guide Ryder out of the shithole and to the car. I don’t take the Camaro out much. I usually keep it back at George’s Garage, since I have the Chevelle I’m reconditioning in my own garage at home. As a motorcycle is deemed inappropriate when caring for a child, I bought an old Camaro a while ago, and I’ve spent all my free time fixing it up. If I’m not visiting Ryder, I’m either working at the garage or working at home on the car.
“Man, it’s nice.” Ryder whistles, when he gets closer to the car. Unable to help himself, he takes it in from all angles, his bright eyes looking young and carefree. I grin, enjoying the boyish gleam in his eyes, as he stares at the vehicle.
“She’s yours. Once you learn to drive, that is, you can have her.”
He stops in his tracks, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “What? No way?”
I chuckle, nodding my head, as I climb into the driver’s seat. Ryder mirrors me, falling into the passenger side.
We chat easily, me just checking on him and seeing how he’s doing with school. He’ll be in eighth grade next