Page 52 of Icarus

“A lot,” Icarus said, vaguely. “But storage and supplies cost almost as much. I . . . work for myself now though. I pay for anything I need and get a percentage of whatever I work on . . .”

Luca rubbed his temples and walked out of the room. “This is so much more complex than I thought. I thought he was just beating your ass or something. I was going to call CPS.”

“Please don’t do that, Luca,” Icarus begged gravely. “I only have a couple more months left under this roof.” Less if he got his gold anytime soon.

Luca whirled around. “You shouldn’t have to have any more months—” he shouted. Then stopped. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. This is just a lot to take in.”

“Promise me you won’t tell,” Icarus whispered.

Luca stormed back into the room with his arms wide, ready to pull Icarus into them, but Icarus flinched.

“I’m sorry, but please don’t touch me. I can’t handle it right now. It’s too much.” Icarus wrapped his arms around himself tight.

Celestina closed the storage room door.

“Icarus. We won’t tell anybody, but you need to promise that you’ll talk about this with someone. With . . . us now, I guess. I’ll make time for you; we’ll figure something out. You don’t have to be by yourself anymore.”

Luca looked devastated. “I’ll tell Akeem that you have everything handled. That you have a getaway plan or something.”

Then he shook his head and laughed mirthlessly. “God. If you knew what we were all planning to do if you eventually asked for help. I mean I know now that it would have been a disaster, but we were going to go nuclear for you.”

Icarus covered his eyes so he wouldn’t cry. He barely even knew Akeem. Why did they care? Why did they care so much? “Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck.” Celestina echoed. “It will be okay, though. You’ll be okay. We’ve got this.”

Filth

Icarus scrubbed the dishes, dried them, and put them away. He got on his hands and knees and scrubbed the evidence of their footprints from the wood floor.

Wiped down the stairs all the way to the front steps, wiped them away from this house.

Then he rushed back upstairs and baked an apple brown Betty, with brown sugar, bourbon, and caramelized butter. Went two flights down, crossed his fingers, and knocked.

After a moment he knocked again.

Scrub

“God, what is it?” a woman answered. She had a toddler in her arms and his older brother clinging to her leg. Her hair was a mess and she had bags under her eyes.

“Hi, I’m from the third floor. I wanted to apologize for the noise last night—”

“Some people are trying to sleep. You need to be more considerate,” she scolded, then started to close the door.

“Wait!” Icarus cried. “Wait, I made this for you. It’s like an apple pie sort of thing. I . . . don’t know how to make a lot of desserts, but I’m really sorry. You can keep the pan.”

The woman looked at the pan, then over at her son, taking up all the real estate in her arms.

“Come put it on the table,” she said, ushering him in.

Their house was messy with toys and smelled a bit like milky throw-up. Icarus followed her through the din to their kitchen at the back of the house.

“It’s got bourbon in it. And brown butter,” Icarus continued.

“You don’t look old enough to drink.” His neighbor glared at him.

“I . . . figured you would be, though. My dad . . . doesn’t let me have . . . friends. Things got a bit out of hand, but I promise they won’t again. Ever.”

The woman looked concerned. She put her baby in his high chair and peeled the tin foil off the tray to glance at what Icarus brought.