"The real wake up call came when my son killed himself."
This time Peter sets his fork down out of shock. Skip says it bluntly, but there is a faraway look in his eyes as he does, something Peter can only recall seeing on an adult's face once in his life: on Uncle Ben's, the night his parents died.
"It was a long time ago," says Skip, catching Peter's look, "but there are some things you just don't get past. And what I found unbearable was the fact that if I had just been looking closely, I could have stopped it." He sighs. "My son, he… he had a lot of problems. When he was about your age he started getting into trouble at school. Causing fights, skipping class. Eventually he got kicked out, and it was around that time that he started drinking, taking drugs, running with all of the wrong crowds. He was in trouble with the law more often than I could keep track, but because I was so self-absorbed, I dismissed all of it as stupid teenage rebellion. I was angry with him, in fact. I thought he was doing it to spite me, and I resented that his behavior was taking time away from my job.
"When he died… it was like waking up from a terrible dream. I realized that I had been the stupid one, that everything my son had done was the result of a horrible, unspeakable pain, and if I had even once opened myself up to what he was trying to communicate…"
Skip swallows dryly. There are tears in his eyes, but he blinks them away, and looks at Peter directly.
"The day of my son's funeral I quit my job. I had more than enough to retire, but I knew I couldn't spend my days sitting on some beach, letting all of the money I had earned while neglecting my family go to waste. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to make sure that what happened to my son never happened to another young man. I understood, finally, that the world was not separated into good and bad people, winners and losers, but rather into people who had been given chances and people who had not. My son didn't get his chance. But I swore I would make sure that other boys like him would get theirs any time I could help. To date, I've fostered six young men, all of whom were on the brink of jail or worse when I took them in. I've seen every last one of them off to college. I hope one day to say the same for you."
Skip reaches across the table. He takes Peter's hand.
If it's been an age since an adult praised him, it's been even longer since one touched him in a way that was not hitting or shoving or simply moving him out of the way. Even Karen was not allowed to touch the boys except to restrain them, and then only in emergencies. When Skip's big hand closes over Peter's he thinks immediately of Uncle Ben, of how casually he would offer a hug or ruffle Peter's hair, or pull him into his side while they were watching TV, and he has to blink away tears of his own.
Weirdly, though, he also has to suppress a little shudder. Maybe it's been so long he doesn't know how to react anymore, but as soon as Skip's hand squeezes, Peter doesn't know if he wants him to hold on forever or let go immediately.
Before he can decide, Skip goes on.
"I read your file, Peter," says Skip. "You've made some bad decisions. And I want to warn you now, that I don't accept that behavior in my home. I will work with you, I will listen to you—but my priority is safety, and that goes doubly in the last few years because I have the girls now. If I ever think their happiness or their wellbeing is compromised by your presence here, then you and I will say our goodbyes, do you understand?"
Peter nods.
"But just because you've made bad choices doesn't make you a bad person. I believe that with all my heart. And if you're willing to work with me, I think you and I can make some really great things happen. Do you agree?"
Peter feels tingly. The dreamy sensation of last night is back, but underneath there is a tiny light—a flame of something Peter thought he had lost the moment that mugger pulled the gun on Uncle Ben, so small and so foreign that it takes a second for Peter to recognize it as hope.
"Okay," he says.
Skip smiles and releases Peter's hand. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a StarkPhone, and hands it to Peter.
"That's a privilege," he says. "If I think you're misusing it in any way, I will take it back. But so long as you're responsible, I like you to have a way to communicate with me, all right?"
"Mr. Westcott—Skip—I really don't know what to—I mean, yes, of course. Thank you. Sir. Skip. Thank you."
Skip laughs and gets to his feet.
"It's a deal, then. Now, why don't you go back to bed? I have to get you set up at school, but that can wait until tomorrow, I think. And I need to make sure the girls aren't drenched in slime or something—and if that sounds like a weirdly specific fear, well, you'd be amazed what seven year olds can get up to." He claps Peter on the shoulder. "Welcome home son," he says. "I really am glad to have you here."
He disappears down the hallway.
Dazed, Peter finishes his waffle quickly and then stumbles back to the bedroom—his bedroom—trying to make sense of what has just happened. Twenty-four hours ago he was sitting at a tiny kitchen table in a house full of people who despised him, drenched in sweat and quaking with hunger, watching as Felipe stole a knife out of the kitchen sink. Now he is so full he is almost uncomfortable, heading to a room he doesn't share with anyone, clutching a cell phone that belongs just to him.
(You're letting your guard down, Parker. Why that shiver, earlier? Why did Skip's hand on your hand make you want to run?)
(Bad shit just happens, Pedro. You gotta look out for yourself.)
(What if I don't have to?)
The last thought is the one that scares him the most.
So Peter shakes the voices away.
He enters his room, closes the door, and unlocks the phone with his clumsy, swollen hand. The Gmail app is already installed. Peter opens it.
Ned, he types, slowly, you'll never believe where I am.