Lost Boys (Slateview High 1)

I liked it.

Unlocking the door, I let them in. The lights were still on, and the TV in Mom’s room was still on, spilling sound out into the hallway. I looked down the hall with a measure of trepidation, but again, it was Bishop who took the lead and made sure things were taken care of.

“I’ll clean up back there for you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Misael and Kace can help with dinner. You definitely need it.”

And, to my shock, he actually smirked and winked at me.

I watched Bish stride down the hallway, my disbelief mounting as Kace and Misael headed into the kitchen without a moment’s hesitation. Was I in some kind of liminal space? Was I still at the hospital and just dreaming all of this? I couldn’t tell, but I wasn’t going to discount the possibility. I was tired. Mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. And there were three boys in my house that were… taking care of me.

Trailing into the kitchen behind Misael and Kace, I watched them dig through my pantry. A small stab of embarrassment tightened my stomach; there wasn’t really much in there to speak of that looked like it would make a decent meal.

But instead of judging or giving me shit for it, they hummed to themselves, seeming to expertly pull out ingredients as though they were chefs in a fancy restaurant and not wayward boys in a run-down kitchen, looking after a girl who should have been able to look after herself.

“Y’know, this is pretty good shit,” Misael said, surveying the ingredients they’d found. “How’s lasagna sound?”

“That’s the least Mexican thing you could suggest,” Kace teased.

That’s right. Teased. Kace, of all people, cracked a smile and made a joke.

The black-haired boy shrugged. “Hey, man, even across the border we won’t say no to some good pasta.”

I laughed. Misael looked over his shoulder and grinned at me.

“See. Princess thinks I’m funny.”

Kace grunted. “Only because she feels sorry for what a dumbass you are.”

They went back and forth like this as they maneuvered around each other, throwing together an improvised lasagna. It felt nice, relaxed. It was just what I needed, and I was positive that if I’d ended up coming home alone, there was no way I would’ve done anything but eaten cold cereal by the light of the television.

I sat and watched them—because every time I tried to help, they made me sit back down—and eventually, Bishop came out of the back and joined us. He settled down across from me at the little table, watching Kace and Misael work their magic. A serene look fell over his face, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Thanks for staying with me,” I murmured softly. “I really needed it, and I probably wouldn’t have ended up asking you guys to.”

Bishop chuckled.

“I know you wouldn’t have. You’re a stubborn little thing. I still haven’t figured out if it’s ’cause you’re rich, or just ’cause you’re you.”

“Well, I’m not exactly rich anymore, am I?”

“You know what I mean.” Bishop reached across the table, flicking me on the nose. “Don’t split hairs. Dinner’s almost done.”

I didn’t know what dinner being done had to do with splitting hairs, but I didn’t comment on it. He was right. Dinner was almost done, and I didn’t realize until a plateful of homemade lasagna was put in front of me just how terribly hungry I was. My stomach growled, and even as Kace and Misael grabbed their own plates and leaned against the kitchen counter near the table, I was already tucking in.

It should have been embarrassing, the way I shoveled my food into my mouth, but I wasn’t bothered with keeping up appearances. What did appearances matter anymore, anyway?

All that stuff—the careful attention to every move, every gesture, every word—was the currency of my old world. It was a made up game the wealthy played because at some point, it wasn’t enough just to have more money than others.

I didn’t have to play that game anymore. I didn’t have to worry about it.

There was a small beat of silence as I ate greedily, and then all three boys laughed. I looked up to find them all gazing at me, various degrees of amusement on their faces as I forked layers of pasta, sauce, and meat into my mouth.

“What?” I asked, holding a hand over my mouth.

None of them said anything, shaking their heads and turning to their own meals, still chuckling softly.

After dinner, Misael and I did the dishes. What started out as the two of us working peacefully side-by-side ended with me splashing water at him when he insinuated that I’d probably never washed a dish in my life—lies; I’d recently begun washing dishes, a fact I was stupidly proud of—and we ended up getting suds and water all over each other and the floor. It was an otherwise quick cleanup, and Misael had me laughing despite the gloom that had hung over me earlier.

When we were finished, we joined the other two, who were sprawled on the lumpy couch in the living room watching what looked like an old action movie. Misael and I took the floor in front of the couch, and we all settled into silence as we watched, occasionally yelling commentary or warnings at the screen.