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witty and easily funny. Sarah, a notorious food thief, tries to snatch fries from everyone’s plates when they’re distracted, and when Milo catches her, he swiftly smacks her hand away with a fork. Everyone bursts into loud laughter, drawing attention from other patrons. The line cook, visible behind the counter along the left wall of the diner, shrugs at a couple seated on stools. Andrew loves their town, where people know them and make room for rowdy teenagers.
    “Okay, okay,” Sarah says, wiping her hand and still laughing. “Ted’ll share.”
    “Maybe Lindsey—”
    “No, shhhh,” Andrew interrupts Milo in a stage whisper, “don’t ruin the romance.”
    “Oh, fuck off,” Ted says over the giddy laughter of the table. He balls up his napkin and throws it at Andrew, but it sails over his head and onto the booth behind them. Next to him, Milo laughs. His hair is a mess, the way it gets by nighttime, after hours of Milo running his hands through it and tugging on it. His freckles are faded as fall has eclipsed the bright rays of summer. When he turns to Andrew, his smile is bright in a way that’s very rare, and this moment of happiness settles into Andrew’s heart with a strong, cramping, longing weight. He wants this boy, but more, he wants this, to see his face creased with youth and happiness.
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    One Tuesday, mid-November, Milo comes home unusually wrung out from swim practice. All he can think about is how hungry he is, and his guard is completely down. His father is at the kitchen table with a stack of papers while his mother hovers at the stove. Whatever she’s making smells so amazing that he misses the lines of worry around her pursed lips and her posture of anxiety: shoulders drawn up and back ramrod straight.
    It’s been well over a month since he’s done anything wrong—long enough that he’s stopped tiptoeing around, relaxing carelessly into the calm before a storm he should have sensed gearing up. Being caught defenseless and off guard makes everything worse.
    “Are you prepared to explain yourself?” James speaks in the cold, controlled tone Milo knows means trouble. He has a split second to cast back for what he could have done today, before his father’s fist hits the table with a thump that rattles the matched set of salt and pepper shakers Milo’s always thought are hideous.
    His father holds up the papers. Though they’re almost the same height, he looms menacingly, always bigger in Milo’s mind than he really is. His father stops shaking the papers long enough for Milo to see what they are: the history exam he hid in his room. How turned over is his room this time? He has to stop fooling himself into thinking he can hide things there.
    “I promise to work harder,” Milo says, automatic words he doesn’t have to struggle for.
    “That’s what you always say,” his father counters, sneering so his lips peel back. The papers scatter on the floor. Milo’s body goes cold, the way it does when he’s blessedly shutting down, when he’s suddenly not present in his body. It’s a thing that has started happening in the last year. He doesn’t do it on purpose, doesn’t know how it happens. Sometimes it doesn’t happen at all and those times are the worst, because there is nothing to protect him then.
    After, Milo doesn’t remember what was said next. What he does remember is how it felt to come back to his numb body with a jolt; the throbbing sting where his father’s big palm slapped him is all the more painful for its unexpectedness.
    He doesn’t tell Andrew about that. He doesn’t call him that night, but texts, managing to fake a light tone that won’t tip Andrew off. After his father retreats to his study to make phone calls, his mother brings him an ice pack. She kisses him with regret and apology deep in her eyes. Milo closes his eyes and swallows his anger, because the most she can protect him from is developing marks that will show.
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    By Friday Milo has