He grabs my hand again and starts us walking. His hand in mine is looser now, not exactly slack but almost. And…I don’t think he’s going to answer.
“You don’t have to,” I say. “Tell me.”
“My dad’s elbow. He tripped and went backwards while I was helping him up the stairs. He’s a drunk.”
I blink at the track in front of us, blindsided.
“Listen, I’m just trading secrets. He started drinking when I was in sixth grade. He went to detox, and I think that’s where he got introduced to tranquilizers. He’s got a pill habit, but it’s not like how it sounds. Most nights he just passes out. He’s harmless. Old man is old and out of shape.”
His mouth moves like maybe he’s trying to smirk, but his lips flat-line. “Anyway,” he says after we walk a few more steps, “it doesn’t matter.”
Yes it does. My hand squeezes his. He squeezes back before his fingers disentwine from mine.
“Secrets, right?” He’s asking—like he isn’t sure I’ll keep his.
“Secrets,” I promise.
The bell peels from the loudspeakers at the corner of the school’s roof, and we both jump.
And that’s how it all starts.