longer before he takes my invitation and steps into the room. I close the door behind us before moving to my desk, but he stays near the exit.
“Again, I’m so sorry about what happened with those other boys. I can’t help but feel responsible, and I wanted you to know how truly awful I feel.”
He digs his fists deeper into his pockets, as if trying to restrain himself. “He told Lee he thinks he broke one boy’s nose.”
I tip my head at him. “He did.”
He nods slowly, his expression some odd combination of pride and condemnation.
“Why didn’t he tell you that?”
“What do you mean?” he says, visibly stiffening.
“I mean, you said he told Lee. Does he talk to you? Because, honestly, I’ve never seen him utter a single word to you.” I do a pretty good job of keeping the nerves out of my voice.
Anger flares in his eyes, but he can’t hide the pain that’s obviously the fuel for that anger. “He’s still adjusting.”
“It’s been a month and a half. He’s opening up here at school, making friends, talking to people. He talks to your sister. So why is he struggling to open up to you, specifically?”
“What happens in our family is none of your business,” he growls through a tight jaw.
I wrangle up every ounce of courage I have. “Why is your father in jail?”
“Did Sherm tell you that?”
“He did. He said he went away to jail, but he didn’t know why. You told me he was dead.”
Rob steps closer, his fists tight at his sides. “I want you to leave him alone. You have no right to grill him about things that don’t concern you.”
“I didn’t grill him,” I say, trying to keep the defensiveness out of my tone, because I did, a little.
His expression turns cynical. “So he just told you that, out of the blue.”
“He talks to me, Rob. I sit and listen and he talks. He trusts me.”
His face pales slightly. “What else has he told you?”
“That he misses his house and his old friends. That he wishes he could have brought his Legos when you left home.”
“And . . . ?” he says, taking a step closer, holding me in his paralyzing gaze.
It takes me a second to find my train of thought. “He says the part he likes most about Port St. Mary is the sharks and that he can swim in the ocean, but he wishes the road near your house was paved so he could skateboard.”
He tips his head at me. “Nothing else about . . . me?”
I take a deep breath and hold it for a second, trying to decide how hard to push. “I know something scared him badly, and I think it might have something to do with you.”
“You think I hurt my brother?” he asks, circling closer, like a panther stalking his prey.
I stand my ground. “No. I don’t think you hurt him. But I think something you did scared him.”
“Why would you think that? What, exactly, did he say?”
“It’s more what he doesn’t say. He tells me what Lee made for breakfast, or that Grant and Ulie fought over what to watch on TV, but anytime I mention your name, he stops talking. I think, whatever happened, you told him not to speak of it. He’s scared to say anything either to you or about you.”
He stalks closer and stops just a foot away. He looks like he’s holding on to control by a thread, and it occurs to me I probably should have done this outside in the open, with witnesses. “So, Sherlock, what do you deduce this terrible thing is?”
I shake my head, refusing to be intimidated. “I don’t know, but whatever it is, I think it scared the crap out of both of you.”
He goes still, his eyes narrowing just a trace. “There isn’t much that scares me anymore.” His voice is deadly calm.
I hold his gaze. “Which means it must have been truly horrible. You’re traumatized, just like Sherm. It just manifests differently with you. Whereas Sherm withdraws into himself and internalizes his fear, you’re always on the attack. You never let your guard down and you see a threat in everyone. You barely talk, and when you do, you manage to give nothing away. No one can break through the armor you’ve constructed around yourself. Even Sherm. It’s classic post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Not Sherlock,” he says, arching an eyebrow at me and rubbing his chin. “Freud.”