“You will, but it’s not extensive,” Linus said. “We’re currently on a short summer holiday, so we have time to catch you up in case your schooling has been neglected.”
David made a face. “Is there enough food for everyone?”
“There is,” Arthur said. The reason for the question seemed clear, and he mourned that this child—or any other—would know food insecurity. “More than enough, though we try not to let anything go to waste, minus some eggs every now and then. Thankfully, we have Phee who likes to grow fruit trees, and Talia is considering planting vegetables in her garden.”
“Oh,” David said. “The sprite and gnome?”
Arthur nodded, waiting. David was obviously building himself up to something, but knowing children as well as he did, Arthur figured the yeti’s mind was a mess of discordant thoughts that swirled as if caught in a storm. He needed to get there on his own, or he might not listen to what they had to say.
Arthur didn’t have to wait long. David looked at the floor, shuffling his feet, his toe claws scraping against hardwood. “The other kids. I’ve … they’re…” He blew out a breath, the strands of hair hanging on his face billowing up as he twisted his body from side to side. “I’ve never had friends before. Well, Jason and B and maybe Helen because I’ve met her a few times, but not, like, you know. Kids.” He scowled. “I could have had friends. I’m not a loser. I even tried once.”
“Tried to make friends?” Arthur asked lightly.
David nodded. “Yeah. It…” He winced. “It didn’t go very well. They were playing monsters, and I wanted to play too. Stomp around on stuff and growl and eat pretend people.”
“Oh my,” Arthur said, hand going to his throat. “How many people would you eat?”
“At least ten,” David said, blowing on his knuckles and rubbing them against his chest. “My record is twenty-four, but I didn’t want to brag.”
“Of course not,” Linus said. “Confidence is silent. Insecurities are loud.”
“Does he always talk like that?” David whisper-shouted to Arthur.
“Yes,” Arthur said as Linus jabbed him with an elbow. “I happen to admire it when he does, but then I’m very partial when it comes to Linus Baker, including his pearls of wisdom.”
“I’m like an oyster,” Linus said proudly. “Might not look like much, but open me up and there’s hidden treasure within.” He frowned. “Is it me, or did that not sound as complimentary as I thought it would?”
“I would care for you even if you were an oyster,” Arthur promised him.
“Ew,” David said. “Anyway, I tried to play with them because if they wanted to be monsters, they could learn from someone who is an actual monster.”
Arthur didn’t want to interrupt, so he stored that particular nugget for later. He’d never heard a child use that word so freely to describe themself: “monster.” To Chauncey, it was an insult because he didn’t see himself that way, even if others might base their opinions upon appearance alone. But David seemed to like that word; it made him happy. Arthur had spent so long attempting to disabuse the other children of such an idea. How would David’s joy mix with what Arthur had been trying to teach them?
“What happened?” Linus asked after David fell quiet, Jason listening to each and every word.
David wouldn’t look at them when he said, “One of the boys said I wasn’t scary, I was gross and dirty and probably had fleas. I tried to tell him that I’ve never had fleas because I take good care of my hair.” He laughed hollowly. “I have to. It gets messy if I don’t. But then he started pulling on my hair, and I didn’t like it.”
“I don’t expect you would,” Arthur said. “No one should touch anyone else without express permission to do so. Your hair is part of you, and that’s unacceptable.”
“Whatever,” David muttered. “I growled at them and they screamed and ran away. Who needed them? I didn’t. And I don’t. I can do things just fine on my own.”
Arthur didn’t believe that for a moment. He could hear the confusion, the hurt. David’s story was just that, David’s, but in it, familiarity. The circumstances might have been different—the players, the setting, the event itself—but hadn’t all the children at one point or another experienced what David had? Decried, mocked, touched as if they were on display.
Arthur said, “I think you’ll find Marsyas is a bit different. If you want to eat pretend people while crushing a city of blocks or stone, then you will. And I have a feeling there might be a few other children who would be very happy to join you.”
“Really?” David asked, and Arthur’s heart ached at the hopefulness in his voice.
“Really.”
David gnawed on his bottom lip. “Have you ever … have you…”
“We’re listening, David,” Arthur said. “Take all the time you need.”
David’s eyes flashed angrily. “Have you ever hit a kid?”
“No,” Arthur said.
“Put their fingers in a drawer and then closed it so hard, it … it…”
“Never,” Arthur said.
David looked at him with cold eyes. “Your trousers are too short.” Mean, meant to lash out, to hurt, but Arthur took it in stride. David was in the process of opening up to them, but he was still wary. Arthur couldn’t fault him for that; they were strangers, after all.
He said, “Yes, I do seem to have that problem quite often. Do you like my socks?” Today, Arthur wore sky-blue socks with silver snowflakes of varying shapes and sizes printed on them.
David scowled. “Did you wear those because of me? That won’t make me like you.”
“David,” Jason said, the warning clear in his voice.
He shrugged before muttering an apology, picking up the doll’s head off the floor.
“I’ve never heard of anyone liking someone else just because of their socks,” Arthur said. “I think it takes a little more than that. But rest easy, David. These socks are not for you. They’re for me. They help to illustrate what I like to think of as the sock problem.”
“What’s that?” David asked, trying to act uninterested but failing spectacularly.
“It’s quite the conundrum. These days, socks aren’t like what we wore at your age. Many of them have little designs, but our trousers are far too long to show them off.”
“And removing your shoes without invitation is quite rude,” Linus added.
