He isn’t even an old friend.

Jax is my brother.

KY

Age Fifteen

I was sitting out on the roof again while mayhem ensued in my house. I’d been in bed for over an hour before finally throwing the covers off and accepting that sleep would be impossible. Holding my arm close to my chest—I maneuvered my bedroom window open and climbed out onto the roof, ignoring the sudden outbreak of goose bumps pricking my skin. I wondered for a moment if he’d managed to dislocate my shoulder this time, or just separate it. Yeah, I’d done enough research online to know there’s a difference. Tonight’s reason for my beating—Dad was drunk. That was it. There were also people over again. Him, combined with alcohol and an audience, always made for a good time for everyone.

Everyone but me.

Even though I was big for my age, I was no competition for him. Give it a year—it might have been a different story. Even if I could have taken him, I sure as shit wouldn’t try. It’d make me just as bad as him, and the last thing I ever wanted to be was him.

Sitting down slowly, I rested my arms on my bent knees and looked up at the stars.

“I wish I may, I wish I might,” I whispered. Then I laughed. “Fuck your wish.”

“Ky!” My eyes snapped to the sound.

Jackson was half hanging out his window, his hand waving from side to side.

“What’s up?” I said, not lifting my head. I didn’t want him to see the freshly swelled bruises around my eyes. Or the cut on my jaw. Or the fact I was a pussy and hiding out from my dad.

From the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth a few times, probably unsure about what to say—or ask—especially since he most likely knew the answers. Finally, he yelled, “You, uh...want to come over? I got the new Halo on Xbox.”

I didn’t respond with words, but I slowly came to a stand, dusting off my jeans that were at least three sizes too big. He told me to meet him at his back door, and a minute later I was there, hands shoved in my pockets as I tried to settle my uncontrollable shivers. He led me up to his room and handed me a hoodie that was way too big for him. I eyed it suspiciously. That made him laugh. “It’s an NYU sweatshirt—my dad’s way of pushing me to go there. It won’t fit me for years.” I pulled it over my head, and then sat in front of his TV—my eyes cast downwards the entire time. He sat down next to me, handed me a controller, and finally said, “You played before?”

I shook my head—my gaze fixed on the controller in my hand. And then I chuckled, the sound surprising to my own ears. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these before.”

We spent the entire night playing Halo until the sun started to come up. In that room, in that one night, we became the most unlikely of friends. Not because he was some kid trying to save me, or because I was a kid that needed saving...or the other way around. We became friends because in between the few words spoken, the few laughs we shared, and the few times we lost control of those laughs, we saw each other for what we were; just boys that liked to laugh and shoot the shit out of our enemies in an overdramatic video game.

I named his character Captain Victory.

He laughed and named mine Captain Combative.

After that night, I spent most nights sleeping on his bedroom floor. He offered me his bed, but I refused every time. Sleeping on the hardwood floor was a shit ton better than what I’d been used to.

Most nights, I’d wait for all the lights to switch off in his house, then I’d throw a rock at his window. There weren’t any rocks around our house so we’d started collecting them on the way home and piling them up on his side of the fence. Some nights, he wouldn’t respond. I knew he was just doing it to fuck with me because after a while of me waiting for him, I’d eventually throw a handful, and each time I’d hear his loud-ass giggle from inside his room.

Punk.

A few months later, I came over and there was a bunk bed in his room. I asked him where he got the money. He told me he’d taken up beating on scrawny defenseless kids and taking their lunch money as a hobby.

By then, I’d met his parents a few times. Mostly when we hung out at his house after school and his mom was home.

They’d wait until his dad, Jeff, got home from work to settle down for dinner. His mom, Christine, would ask me to stay and have a meal with them. I’d always politely decline, feeling too out of place with Jackson and his picture-perfect family. At night, I’d be in and out of their house while Jeff and Christine were asleep, or at least we all pretended it was that way. But every night I’d come over and he’d pull out a plate of food from the fridge and heat it up. “Leftovers,” he’d tell me.

Then, one night, everything changed.

The night of my sixteenth birthday.

I skipped the throwing of the rocks on his window and did everything physically possible just to make it to his back door.

I’d never asked for help—but I needed it.

Because that night, I needed to get the fuck away from my dad. If I didn’t—I was positive he would’ve killed me.

I didn’t even think about how it would affect them.

I should have.

I made a fist and pounded on their back door. “Jackson!” I tried to scream, but the knot in my throat prevented it. I looked over my shoulder, watching, waiting for my dad to appear from the darkness.

This time, Jackson’s parents didn’t fake ignoring it. Heated words were exchanged over the thudding of footsteps down their stairs. Relief washed through me, but it wouldn’t have shown. I was too far-gone—too physically hurt to do anything but use the door to support my weight.