Bright-Eyes and Sundance Kid

   “Hey, you,” Sarah greeted, coming up to stand beside Finch and kissing him on the cheek quickly. Finch grinned and turned to face her.

 “Hey, yourself,” he greeted, putting his last paper back in his bag. “Done with work already?” Sarah always stopped by to say hi to Finch (and the rest of the boys) either on her way to or back from work, because his selling spot was on the way. Truthfully, it made Finch’s day every day, and he was always pleasantly surprised to see her, even though it had become routine. Sarah nodded, and yawned.

 “It was a slow day. And now I’m going home to sleep. Or start dinner, if my parents aren’t home yet,” she said, reaching out to take the paper from Finch’s bag, and scanning the front page.

“You didn’t get much sleep either,” Finch sighed. Sarah looked up to meet his eyes.

 “Either? Hey,” she said softly, setting the paper back in his bag and taking his hand instead. “Were you having nightmares again?” Even though most of the boys knew Finch occasionally had nightmares about his dad, Finch was still glad that Sarah lowered her voice when she asked him about it.

 “I haven’t been, until just last night,” he said solemnly. “I tried to get back to sleep, but….” He didn’t want to say that everytime he closed his eyes, he could still clearly see the look on his dad’s face when he started coming at Matty that last night. The night Finch had decided enough was enough. That night, Finch had stepped between Matty and his father and had taken a hit to the eye, giving Matty and Teddy a chance to escape to their room. In the dream, though, Finch was always stuck in his same spot. He couldn’t make himself move, and was powerless to help his little brother. He always woke up right before his father’s fist struck little Matty’s face. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he could make himself go back to sleep after he slowed his breathing and heart rate, but last night wasn’t one of those nights.

 Finch looked down at his shoes after trailing off, then back up at Sarah quickly. She reached out and took his other hand in her own, so she was holding both.

 “Finch, I’m so sorry,” was all she could say. Finch looked into her eyes, which really did look sorry. Sorrowful, in fact. So sorrowful that Finch felt bad for making Sarah upset about him.

 “Hey, it’s over now,” he said comfortingly, meaning not only the dream, but also having to deal with the alcoholic, abusive, and just plain awful man that didn’t deserve to be called a father, much less Dad. No, Finch was much happier using that word for Jack Higgins, who was the best dad he could have ever dreamed for.

Sarah nodded, and dropped his hands so she could hug him instead. He squeezed her back, and he instantly felt much better. “Let’s not talk about this anymore,” he said, pushing it even further from his mind. “How was work?” he asked, leaning back slightly so he could look at Sarah’s face.

 “Same old, same old,” she said, dejectedly. Then her face lightened up. “Actually, no! I have a funny story to tell you!” She pulled him over to sit on the sidewalk, where she told him, in bits and pieces (because she kept  laughing), about the mean old woman she worked with who had accidentally dyed all of the clothes she was washing, and her own hands, pink. By the end of the story, Finch was laughing, as much from Sarah’s inability to stop laughing as he was at the story itself.

 “You’re the best,” he declared, after they finally stopped laughing.

 “How come?” she asked, turning to look at Finch, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. He shrugged.

 “You just are,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You’re really great at making me feel better, and you’re funny, and you’re pretty, and you’re smart...and your laugh is pretty too.” Sarah was blushing slightly by now, but she didn’t look away.