BOOK THREE

I

Shall I twist the knife a little, before I go on? You might like to know a few more things about me, about Valentine and Peter, about some of us who have or are soon to "age out" of the foster care system. Eighteen is the final buzzer in my state. They call it emancipation, like they're setting us free or something. But really, they're just letting us go, and depending on the height of the cliff we're hanging from at the time, it can be exhilarating or downright terrifying. Regardless, once eighteen happens, we have nothing left to do but walk our tightrope lives without a safety net.

It usually makes more sense to drop out of school and focus on survival. But I had a brother, and I knew I had to be there for him, to give him a path to follow. So, even after I turned eighteen and they dropped me off at the homeless shelter with a trash bag full of everything I owned, I stayed in school. I used all my free time to study. When I found out Peter was struggling in his math and science classes, I poured my energy into helping him. When I met Valentine, I used every resource I had to give him a decent life. All these things, if you can believe it, I did for Gene. I thought if my little brother could see what I was capable of accomplishing, he might fight for himself, too, instead of just giving up.

Now I think I probably should have done it all for Valentine.

We discovered each other, Valentine and I, because he used the eaves of my home for shelter one night. My home, which I am fast approaching with my hands shoved so deep in my pockets it's as if I were willing them to disappear, is a local church. That's right. I live with the Holy Father, the Blessed Virgin, and her angelic child. And they're the most dysfunctional family in the world. They don't even talk to each other, honestly. They never talk to me, that's for sure, though I sometimes think they talk to Valentine. It's the way he looks at them, like he's listening intently to something only he can hear. I'm not trying to make him sound crazy, but he seems to take a comfort in these iconic statues that I can only try to understand. I hate them. I feel like they're watching me, judging me without even telling me what their judgments are.

It's all nonsense, I know, and I never used to be a religious person. But living in a church this beautiful does something to you. You suddenly want to believe in its purpose, in the purpose of the people kind enough to let you stay. You want to fight for the sanctity of the only home you have.

It's night, but I can still see the tagging on the outer walls of my church. Certain groups want to own the place, so they mark it like dogs. It's close enough to the school to be a target, it has enough vegetation on its grounds to provide privacy for those who don't want to be seen, and it's usually pretty quiet. I love it here. Aside from the occasional miscreant, it's a paradise to me. I mean, who could ask for a better house? It has beautiful stained glass windows, priceless artwork on the walls, and all the amenities a person needs to be comfortable. As long as I make myself scarce every Sunday and Wednesday, I can stay. In fact, they want me to stay. I act as a sentinel, calling the police whenever there's a disturbance on the grounds. I keep the place clean, and they pay me for it. There are good people here, and I owe them—Valentine and I both do.

I pass by the grand entrance, the one for guests and worshipers, and follow the walls around toward the back. There's a small door for those of us who work behind the scenes. I shiver, turn my key, and enter. It's cold inside, but it always is and I usually like it that way. The chill keeps me awake while I study. Tonight, though, I wish it were warm. I wish I could wrap myself in the arms of the church and feel safe for once. I wish the Virgin Mary didn't stare at me with those stony eyes that keep asking for Valentine: "Where is he, Claude? You promised you'd look out for him. Why has he not come home?"

Though the sanctuary is dark, I find my way easily. I've only been living here a year or so, but already I feel like this is where I took my first steps, spoke my first words, spent every day of my life.

I stretch myself out on a pew without even bothering to change out of my suit. I want to see the little light in the organ loft flicker to life—the one that means Valentine is going over his music, silently tapping the keys with his fingers, memorizing a piece. I want to know that he's okay, that his foster parents won't give him too much grief about having to bail him out.

Ah, who am I kidding? They're the only people in the world who ever manage to make him cry.