"Gay?"

"That's sort of...you know, important to having...something...happen." I don't even know what I'm trying to say. My tongue is in knots and my words aren't translating between my brain and my mouth correctly.

"To be honest, I don't think Adam classifies things like that. He likes you. He trusts you."

As much as I want to delve deeper into the subject of Adam liking and/or trusting me, I don't say a word. I can't. I've never been involved with anyone. I mean, I've kissed one guy at a party with Corey (or should I say, he kissed me), but that was years ago and nothing ever came of it. Nothing good, anyway. Nothing beyond getting shoved into a dumpster after school, or having my head held underwater during gym swim lessons.

"I have to go," I mutter.

"Vincent, don't be like that."

But I am. So I say goodnight and hang up.

CHAPTER 16

Adam emails me an apology later: sorry about mom. I don't respond because my feelings are still hurt, and it's probably stupid, but I can't help but feel betrayed. He's eighteen. His mom doesn't have a right to order him around anymore.

Then again, I didn't listen much to anyone growing up. I didn't listen to my older foster siblings, not to my foster parents, not to teachers at school. That isn't to say I was some kind of rebel who purposely broke the rules, but if the rules were something I really didn't want to do...

Like oral reports. Who the hell thought it was a great idea to take a kid who all the other kids hate, put him at the front of the class, and expect him to give a presentation without breaking down into tears? I tried it once, in middle school. Never again. That would account for part of my miserable grades.

"Vincent has potential, but he does not get along well when working in groups or participating in class."

There's a difference between not participating and working well in groups, and knowing it's smarter not to because the other kids will torment you. I've been thrown into so many lockers and garbage cans, chased home, had my lunch stolen, and my shoes yanked off my feet—laces tied together and tossed over power lines—to last me a lifetime.

So who cares if I didn't want to make an idiot out of myself in front of my classes? Who cares if I wanted to draw rabbits and people in art, instead of a bowl of fruit? Who cares if I can't sleep and want to go for a walk at two in the morning?

But I never hurt anyone—unless they hurt me first, physically or emotionally. Even then I wasn't much of a fighter so I doubt I did any real damage. I wasn't intentionally mean to anyone. I tried to focus in class, even if I didn't get it, or I was too distracted with the thoughts in my own head.