Читать книгу Backfire - Metsy Hingle - Страница 8

The branches of the big oak tree swayed under the rush of wind. Chase McAllister pressed his hand against the window, feeling the cold December air seep through the glass and chill his fingertips. He looked at the little white lights that the brothers at St. Mark’s Home for Boys had strung through the tree’s branches for Christmas.

One. Two. Three. Four. He began counting the lights. Counting the lights was more fun than watching the other kids getting all mushy with their families. He didn’t want to see them climb into the cars and drive away to spend the Christmas holidays with their moms or dads or grandparents. He didn’t want to think about how there wasn’t anyone coming for him.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Chase’s gaze drifted to the big white car that Billy Taylor was getting into. The woman inside pulled Billy to her and hugged him to her chest. Chase looked away. He rubbed at his eyes, feeling that sting behind them again. He wasn’t going to cry, Chase told himself. Crying was for babies. And he wasn’t a baby anymore. He was eight years old. A “little man.” That’s what his mother had called him. And men didn’t cry.

“Poor little tyke. Guess he’ll have to stay here at the big house for Christmas.”

Catching the reflections of the housekeeper and her new assistant in the window, Chase swiped at his eyes again. Go away, he ordered silently, willing them to leave. He didn’t want to talk to them. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

“But I thought you said all the boys got to go home for Christmas,” the new housekeeper said. “How come he don’t?”

“’Cause he ain’t got no place to go. His momma killed herself, and he ain’t got no daddy—at least none that claims him. Surely you heard the story,” the older woman said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Ignoring the two women, Chase watched the car with Billy in it drive off down the street. He swallowed. He wasn’t going to cry, he reminded himself, feeling that achiness in his chest again. He was never, ever going to cry again.

Fingering the scar along his chin, he went back to counting the lights.

Nine. Ten. Eleven…