Whatever. by S. J. Goslee

Author:S. J. Goslee
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781626724006
Publisher: Roaring Brook Press

twelve.

Mike has nothing against Wallace’s younger brother, Serge. The kid’s pale and weird, and he wears a studded dog collar, but Mike’s best friend owns five different pairs of boat shoes, so Mike doesn’t have any room to talk.

Not only does he have nothing against Serge, he kind of feels sorry for him. It’s gotta be tough, living in your brother’s perfect shadow. Serge takes it like an emo kid, not a man, but he’s fourteen and a frosh. Allowances have to be made.

So Mike’s understandably concerned when he sees Serge in the hallway after lunch on Monday, sporting a fist-shaped red mark on his face and a split lower lip. Huh.

Wallace is standing next to him, frowning with worry, and Serge has a defensive tilt to his chin, even though his eyes look suspiciously wet.

Mike feels something clench in his rib cage.

They actually look a lot alike, even though Serge is shorter and thinner. There’s a resemblance when they’re apart, but standing together Mike can see how their noses match, and how many times the expressions on their faces mirror each other as they talk.

They’re both pissed off, just for two different reasons.

And then Mike realizes he’s staring and turns away.

* * *

Mike might be in an epic battle of wills with Wallace, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do anything when he spots a couple sophomores roughing Serge up on his way home from school later in the week.

“Pull over,” Mike tells Omar.

Omar arches an eyebrow, but obediently pulls onto the side of the road, leaving the van idling. He sits there while Mike pops open the passenger door.

“Well?” Mike says, looking back at him. “Aren’t you going to help?”

Omar sighs and twists off the engine. “You’re going to get your ass kicked.”

“No way, man, I’m a ninja,” Mike says, grinning. With Omar, it’ll be three against two—although, honestly, it looks like Serge won’t be much of a help, poor kid, he’s not doing a lot to defend himself—and Mike considers himself a pretty scrappy fighter.

Omar huffs a laugh and gets out of the van.

Serge has his book bag tucked protectively against his chest. He’s scowling, and there’s a smudge of fresh blood on the corner of his mouth. The older bruise on his face is dark purple, yellowing at the edges.

Mike’s just close enough to hear one of the assholes say “fucking emo fag,” and Serge’s face goes blank, just shuts down, even though his knuckles are white against the dark fabric of his bag.

Mike says, “Hey, douche bags,” hoping to draw them away from Serge.

The second their attention is diverted, Serge kicks one of them in the balls; Mike has seriously underestimated him.

Omar winces. “Ouch.”

The kid currently not rolling around on the ground crying looks pissed, but also like he wants to run away before Serge can get another lucky shot in.

Mike makes a c’mere gesture at Serge, and Serge tightens his jaw, but makes his way cautiously over. Mike says, “Get in. We’ll give you a ride.

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