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Chapter 7 |
The snap of a towel against Sandburg's ass and his weak cry break my paralysis. Keane, standing clear of the water, grabs his hair and forces the bottle between his lips. Sandburg sputters and chokes, tries to pull away from the bottle but Keane's forcing it deeper into his mouth. I see red, feel the ever-simmering rage boiling. Johnston and his cronies are too drunk to recognize the danger they're in. 'Christ, Ellison, we're just having a little fun,' Johnston slurs. 'Sandburg here is helping us celebrate. Isn't that right, princess?' He flicks the towel against Sandburg's back and a red welt appears immediately. Keane and his buddy are almost too drunk to stand, so when I tap them, they go down hard. 'Get the fuck out,' I say in a low voice, afraid of fury I can't control. 'Get out before I kill you.' Hands up in surrender, Keane and the other guy stagger backwards till they hit the lockers, then I hear their footsteps up the stairs. I save the best for Johnston, savoring the crunch of his nose and the sheen of his blood. Holding a towel to his face, he collapses in a corner and passes out. A couple of deep breaths. Focus. I shut off the ice-cold water streaming over Sandburg. Up close his skin is blue but he's not shivering. That's bad, got to be. I try not to look at him, but the vision of his body is etched on my eyelids. He's slender but more wiry than I thought. Dark tufts of hair under his arms, a soft mat on his chest, a dark nest between his thighs. His smooth back flexed because of the way his arms are bound. His ass. Round and soft and smooth, splotchy red welts where they hit him. I hate myself for even thinking of his body at a time like this, so I snatch a couple of towels and drape one over his shoulders. He flinches but his eyes don't open. Wet flannel is nearly impossible to untangle, but finally I free his hands by tearing the fabric. I awkwardly hold him up and try to wrap a towel around his waist. For a moment, he comes alive, flailing his arms and gasping, 'no, no!' He catches me in the jaw but the hit's too slow and too soft to do any damage. I want to believe he fought them, want to know that he hurt them, too. 'Sandburg! Blair! It's me. It's Jim. You're all right, now, you're safe.' I feel foolish saying that but it seems to work. All the fight goes out of him. I half-drag, half-carry him out to a dimly lit corner of the locker room and just hold him. I'm uncomfortable and graceless. I don't know how to hold anyone close, don't know what to say. Icy rivulets from his hair drip down both of us, so I try to pull the towel closer around his shoulders. For a long while we sit there, him half in my lap, head under my chin, arms wrapped tightly around his ribs. I think he's passed out; a little alcohol would probably put him under and I have no idea how much they made him drink. Alternately believing I'm as brave as Sandburg and as sleazy as a pervert, I slide my hand up under his wet hair and stroke his neck gently. But it's not perversion, not about sex; it's about friendship, about acceptance, about comfort. Things I never get from, nor give to, girls. Or anyone else, if I'm honest. Maybe some long-repressed memory of my mother prompts me to rock him a little, croon some meaningless words like a lullaby. Overhead, the party rumbles on. The countdown begins, then a huge raucous cheer: the new year has begun. I half-doze off, so exhausted after the game, then this. Sandburg is warming up. He's been a solid, unmoving weight against me, so when he finally starts shivering, it startles me. I rub circles on his back, tuck his feet under my thigh. An alien feeling -- happiness, I think -- shoots through me: I'm touching him and I'm not freaking out. For all the times he's helped me, I think, I'm finally helping Sandburg back. A much more familiar voice echoes in my head: 'If it weren't for you, he wouldn't be here at all. You screw up everything. Freak.' I pull Sandburg closer, try to regain that fleeting sense of happiness. 'Faggot.' I close my eyes, knowing that's what I deserve. 'Jim?' OK, now I'm freaking out. Sandburg knows I'm holding him. My throat closes up tight. 'Jim? Why?' Sandburg pushes away, struggles to get up but his coordination's off. His teeth are chattering from a mixture of fear, anger and cold. 'I got nothing and you guys' -- he shakes his head -- 'those guys have everything. Everything. A home, family, a car, friends, even a dog.' He's softly slurring his words like he's talking to himself, but I can hear every one. 'They got all that and they come after me? I got what? A mother who half the time I don't know where she is, a father I've never seen, no home. Nothing. 'Why did they do this to me, Jim?' he says raggedly, on the edge of tears, still shivering, still a little spacey. I can't answer that, so I move away, finding only one flannel shirt, shredded, of course. His torn jeans are in the corner of the shower and the scent tells me they've been pissed on. Jesus. Gingerly I search his pockets and come up with a thin, multi-colored wallet and a little Swiss Army knife. I toss the jeans and the shirt. 'Come over here, Sandburg,' I coax him, 'let's get you dressed.' He looks fragile and cold and so young. His balance is off and I can see the tremors run through him. Hope he's not in shock or anything, his lucidity seems to come and go. He stands obediently while I pull one of my old tee-shirts over his head. I rummage around in my locker and unearth a clean pair of boxers. Too big for him but better than nothing. 'I want to go home,' he hiccups and I wonder where he's thinking of. His dorm room? The shelter? On a trek to find his mother? I'm no good at this, I don't know what to say. Suddenly the door slams open and light floods down the stairs. Sandburg jumps like he's been shot. Someone shouts, 'Anyone down there? Come on up, man, cops are on their way. We gotta clean up.' 'Jim?' If Sandburg were standing any closer, he'd be on the other side of me. 'Jim,' he whispers. 'I can't be here like this.' He gestures vaguely. 'I'll lose my scholarships.' A sob. 'I've got nowhere else to go except school. Help me.' Every superhero feeling I ever had chooses that moment to kick in. 'I'll take care of you, Sandburg. Nothing bad will happen.' I cringe even as I say that, given what's happened to him tonight. He just nods, still gripping my shirt tight in one fist. Sandburg assiduously avoids looking at the showers as we head up the stairs. The scene in the living room is chaotic. Bongs being emptied and stashed, air freshener sprayed everywhere, junior sorority girls hustled out the door. It gives us cover to make our way up the back stairs. I shove Sandburg into my dark room. 'Wait here,' I whisper, 'I'll be back for you.' He nods and I head back down into the madness.
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