The Great Divide

20. Return to the Group Home

As soon as our grandfather clock chimed, there was a knock at the door. It could only be one person, because in all the years I had known him, he had never once been late. 

Swinging open the door, James stood in the dim hallway, his hands held tensely at his sides; however, they were no match for the strained look engraved into his face. Every inch of him was taught.

"Hi," I said. "Did someone touch you inappropriately in the stairwell?"

It was a joke, but James's face somehow further grew tighter. "What? No." He shuffled in place. "Are you parents home?"

Ahhh. Now I understood the reason behind his un-James-like conduct. He was nervous for the impending wrath from my parents. Part of me – a rather large part – wanted to expend upon his discomfort and pretend like they were hiding behind a corner ready to attack, but it would be hard to keep the ruse up in this apartment. It was too small, and James looked downright miserable. He had ventured up the stairwell with the full notion he would have to face my parents, and that counted for something.

"They're not here – Mom's grocery shopping and Dad's working late."

"What about your sisters?"

"They're at a friend's house for the night." I tucked a dark strand a hair behind my ear. "Just me."

James let his gaze ease over me. He then swayed in place again and brought a hand up to mess with his own hair.

"Do you want to come in?"

James shook his head. "No. We should get going – if you're ready."

"Please," I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulders. "I was born ready."

James grunted. "Right."

The five blocks passed rather quickly. Neither James nor I were well-versed in the art of small talk, and we kept to ourselves the majority of the way to the group home. The only exception had been when I shouted, "hang on!" and ducked into a tiny convenience store. Once inside, I scavenged the area and found my favorite snack, Yan Yan, and paid at the counter.

James eyed the container suspiciously.

"I'm starving. I haven't had anything since lunch."

And," – James craned his neck to get a better look at the packaging – "some cookies with frosting is going to do the job, is it?"

I tore open the top cover and stuck my fingers inside. "It's a biscuit and cream." James arched a brow. "And don't be so judgmental. Have you ever had one?"

"Can't say that I have."

I slammed the container into his chest just as we started walking. James furrowed his brow, and, though I thought I was going to have to force feed him one, he eventually decided to grab a biscuit.

"Don't forget to get some cream!"

James gingerly scooped a pathetic amount of chocolate cream onto his biscuit. More for me later. He then took an even more pathetic bite of the cookie, and -- with eyes still squinted -- slowly chewed until he swallowed. Sneaking a glance at me from his peripherals, he then shoved the remainder of the cookie into his mouth.

"Want another?" I asked.

James quickly sunk his fingers inside the container, and this time, the biscuit emerged with a healthy dose of chocolate cream. I tried to ignore the pleasure the scene brought me.