You were wrong, Uncle Ben.
It's maybe the millionth time he's thought it since he came here, but he can't seem to stop. Like he has mental Tourette's, the thought just bursts out of his brain, five, ten, fifty times a day. While he's scrubbing dishes. While he's bouncing the half-deflated basketball off the back wall with Felipe. While he's clicking aimlessly through homeschool courses in the musty attic, where Ms. Charlise keeps the computer.
He thinks it now, staring at the snapped cross-support on the bunk above his and half-hoping the whole thing will just collapse on top of him.
It probably wouldn't kill him, though.
Springs creak. The support groans, but holds. Felipe's face looms out of the darkness over the side of the top bunk.
"Hey, ese," he whispers, "you awake?"
Peter props himself up on his elbows.
"I'm always awake, man. What's up?"
Felipe jerks his head at the other bed. Across the minuscule space of the bedroom, a second set of bunk beds holds just one occupant. Peter gropes for his glasses and sees that said occupant is curled on his side, facing the wall and shaking with silent tears.
He sighs, looks at Felipe. Felipe shrugs.
"You got the golden touch, my man," he says, "I'll just make things worse."
"Yeah, I got it."
Peter gets out of bed. Crouches next to the other one and whispers, "Hey. Hey, new kid. You okay?"
The new kid rolls over, tears shining in the moonlight filtering through the window, which has no curtain. He startles when he sees Peter and tries to press himself against the wall. Peter holds his hands up.
"Woah," he says, "hey, it's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you. I just wanna make sure you're alright. Are you alright, kid?"
Felipe drops to the floor behind Peter. The new kid's wide eyes flicker toward him, reflecting fear, but Peter holds his own gaze steady until the kid meets it and shakes his head.
"I don't know," he whispers.
The new kid arrived after dinner, dropped off by his CPS worker and a cop right as the other boys, Peter included, were getting ready for bed.
Just like Peter was six weeks ago.
"Yeah, that's how most people feel on their first night. You got a name?"
"Arnold."
Felipe whistles dubiously, but silences himself at Peter's glare.
"Hey Arnold, I'm Peter." Peter offers a hand and Arnold takes it nervously. "This is Felipe. He's not as much of a dick as he seems."
"Hey, I take offense at that, Pedro. I'm hung."
"He is disgusting, though." Peter rolls his eyes and turns back to Arnold. "How old are you?"
"Eleven," Arnold says, voice so small it's almost inaudible.
"Yikes." Felipe crouches next to Peter on the floor. "Eleven years old and practically in the big house? What'd you do to get here, Arnoldo?"
"It's um, it's Arnold."
"Nah, I'm pretty sure it's Arnoldo."
"That's just Felipe, Arnold, ignore him."
Felipe holds his hands out, innocent.
"Hey," he says, "if I gotta spend the rest of my life getting called Phillip by gringos, some of your gringos are gonna go by your Spanish names, comprende?"
"Believe it or not, that means he likes you."
Felipe grins at Peter, then looks back at Arnold.
"So, Arnoldo, what'd you do? Knife a guy?"
Arnold shrugs and looks at his hands.
"No need to be modest, my man. You wanna hear how we got slapped with this sentence? See, I'm a victim of an unjust system" —Peter snorts— "but Pedro here? He's a mad dog. Real crazy. He should probably be in supermax, but he turned those big brown eyes of his on the officer that arrested him and instead they sent him here to put the rest of us in the line of fire, can you believe that?"
Arnold looks at Peter, shrinking back again but at the same time looking doubtfully at Peter's narrow shoulders, his mussy, too-long hair, and his pallid skin. Peter rolls his eyes again.
"He's lying, Arnold."
"I sure as hell ain't," says Felipe. "Mad Dog Pedro pushed an old lady down some stairs, Arnoldo. Just 'cuz he fuckin' felt like it."
"There were no stairs."
"That's what the police report said, though. I keep tellin' you, my man, you gotta own it. Mark your territory. Older kids aren't gonna fuck with you if they think you kill old ladies for fun."
"And yet somehow I don't want that to be my reputation," says Peter. "If marking territory is so important, why have you never told us what you did, Felipe?"
Felipe whistles again, lowly.
"Like I said," he says. "Victim of the system."
"Um," says Arnold.
They both turn to look at him.
"Is the food good here?" he asks. "I'm… they didn't give me dinner. At the station, I mean. And when I got here…"
Peter glances at Felipe just as his bunkmate's expression goes dark.
"You stick with us, Arnold," says Peter, "and you're gonna be just fine. You should get some sleep, okay?"
Peter gets to his feet. Felipe looks like he'd like to say something else, but Peter shakes his head and Felipe closes his mouth and climbs back into the upper bunk, scowling.