Stay Where I Can See You

Not Around My Son

Henry's backpack thuds against his back, the rhythm of his steps unhurried, looping his sneaker soles through cracks in the sidewalk. His head tilts your way; there's a little smile he's trying not to show, like this walk home is a shared secret and he enjoys being in on something. You catch him in the corner of your eye and think, Not a kid anymore, and he senses it, too, even if he's not sure what to do with the feeling.

The afternoon haze isn't hot so much as it is syrupy. The two of you walk in an easy silence, one that would be unthinkable with Regina Mills, Henry's mother and gravitational center. She'd have filled every footstep with pointed questions: 'What did you eat for lunch, Henry?' 'Did you remember your project, Henry?' 'Did anyone bother you today, Henry?' It's not that she's unloving. It's that she loves in excess—her attention doesn't smother, exactly, but it does choke out every weed, every wild patch, until only what she's planted is allowed to grow.

Henry seems to know what you're thinking. He grins sidelong and shrugs his backpack higher. "You don't have to walk me, you know. I'm, like, almost in high school."

"Middle school is basically the same thing," you say. "But if you want me to stop, just say the word."

He makes a face. "You say that, but Mom would probably file a missing person's report if I showed up alone." He says it like a joke, but you can see the truth slip under the words.

You nudge him with your shoulder. "She'd probably send a gang of thugs to beat me up for letting her precious baby walk alone."

Henry laughs, genuine and warm, the way only thirteen-year-olds who haven't had their hearts properly broken can manage. "She'd probably be in the gang of thugs," he says, "her and my aunt."

He's right, and you both know it. You thought she would when she found out you showed him how to hack the parental controls on his tablet. You also showed him how to tell when someone's lying by the way they smile. You are the person Regina Mills hires to keep her son safe, and the person Henry trusts to help him rebel. It's a paradox, but most of your life with them is.

You let the silence stretch for half a block. Then Henry says, "So, uh. How much longer do you think I'll need a babysitter?" He doesn't look at you when he says it, but there's a real question in the way he draws out the word.

You take your time. "I guess that's up to your mom."

"I think it's up to her ego," he says, surprising you with the bite in it. "She acts like she's gonna combust if I'm alone for ten minutes."

"That's not true," you say. "She knows you'd wait at least twelve minutes."

Henry's laugh is quieter this time, almost embarrassed. "I just... it's weird, you know? All my friends go home alone. Or they go to each other's houses. I'm the only one who has to, like, report in." He scuffs his toe. "No offense. I like when you're around."

You smile. "You're allowed to want to grow up, Henry."

"Can we tell her that? Like, together?" His eyes cut to you, tentative. "She listens to you sometimes. More than anyone else, I think."

You don't know how to say that Regina's listening is a knife edge, that she only gives when it suits her, that you've seen her bend rules but never break them. You nod anyway. "We can try. Maybe it'll be easier if we do it as a team."

Henry nods, determination settling into his jaw. He tugs his backpack tighter and picks up the pace, like he's bracing for the coming battle.

The Mills house is perched at the end of a short, tree-lined lane, the sort of place where all the neighbors know each other's Wi-Fi passwords and whose dogs belong to whom. There's no car in the driveway, so Regina must still be at the office—only Robin's truck is parked in its usual spot, sunbleached and battered, mud caked on the tires from some forest preserve or another.