The Boy You Starved for Him novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Nobody Speaks for Me

Quinn refuses his parents' cash and their offer to take him home, sets his first term, brings in the diner owner who fed him, and watches his brother walk in with flowers.

By morning the tube was gone from my nose, and my parents were sitting on opposite sides of my bed.

They had not said a word to each other since the night before.

Mom had a paper bag from the hospital cafeteria on her knees.

Dad was holding an envelope.

"How are you feeling?" Mom asked.

"Tired."

"We're going to fix this," she said. "Whatever happened, we're going to fix it."

I looked at the ceiling.

"What happened to my money, Mom?"

She flinched, and her eyes went to Dad.

"There was a mix-up with the account numbers," she said. "Dexter is looking into it."

"Dexter carried the forms to both banks," I said.

"He's very upset. He wanted to drive down last night, but I told him to stay home."

Dad held out the envelope.

"There's five hundred dollars in there. I went to the machine at four this morning. It's a start."

I did not take it.

"Put it in the account that ends in 9208," I said.

"Quinn, just take the money."

"If I take cash from you, then it's a gift," I said. "I want it to be what you owe."

Dad lowered the envelope.

His jaw worked. For a second, I thought he would say something cold.

"Fine," he said. "I'll transfer it now."

"Both of you," I said.

Mom drew a breath. "Quinn, honey, we've been up all night."

"Mom, I called you in September with screenshots of my balance."

She did not answer.

"You said I Photoshopped them."

"I thought they were fake."

"I know what you thought," I said. "When the doctor asked you what was wrong with me last night, you told him I exaggerate. You answered for me."

The room went quiet.

"So here's what I want," I said. "From now on, nobody speaks for me. If you want to know something, you ask me."

"That's fair," Dad said.

"I'm not finished."

I had never talked to either of them like that.

My hands shook under the blanket.

"I'm not going home," I said.

Mom's face crumpled. "Of course you are. You're our son."

"I was your son in September, too."

"Quinn."

"The doctor says I can't be discharged alone," I said. "I need a responsible adult for the first week. I asked the nurse who she'd pick."

"We are your parents," Dad said.

"She said that's usually the parents."

My mother started to cry.

It was the first time I had seen her cry since the day the lawyers finished.

I looked away, because if I looked at her I would give in.

There was a knock on the door frame.

A big man stood there in a stained canvas jacket and a faded fire department cap, holding a steel thermos in both hands.

His eyes were red from the road.

"Norman?" I said.

"Hendry's is closed for the holiday," he said. "So I drove."

"It's five hours."

"Four and a half. Don't tell me the speed." He looked at Mom and Dad, and then at the bag, and the envelope. "I made soup. Chicken and rice, plain. Your doctor's going to say yes to it."

"Who is this?" Mom asked.

"He's my boss."

Norman put the thermos on the tray table and unscrewed the lid.

The steam smelled like onions and salt, and I was so hungry that my eyes watered.

"He's also the one who lent me the bus fare," I said.

Dad turned his head slowly toward Norman.

"You lent him the fare?"

"A hundred and twenty-five," Norman said. "He asked for seventy-five."

"We should pay you back," Dad said.

"You can pay him back, Mr. Lasker, by feeding him," Norman said. "I'll take it from there."

He did not raise his voice.

He did not have to.

Nobody said anything while I ate my first real mouthful of soup in weeks.

I had to stop after four spoonfuls. My stomach cramped.

Norman held the cup out of my reach, gently.

"Slowly, kid."

"Quinn," Mom said. "Please. Come home with us. We'll take you to the good doctor in town."

"What I need is a bed and a stove," I said. "Norman has a spare room upstairs."

Mom opened her mouth.

Then a new voice came from the doorway.

"Quinn! Oh my God, Quinn."

Dexter walked in with a bouquet of yellow flowers in one hand and a balloon in the other.

His eyes were wet.

He went straight for the bed.

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