Daryl wasn’t a stupid kid, no matter what the teachers said. His father. Even his own conscience. He didn’t know math all that well, he couldn’t write essays. He knew the others looked down on him. Even at eleven years old, he knew. The kids in school. The neighbors. He always heard them murmuring, poor boy. Poor kid. A drunk daddy and a sibling who was in and out of juvie from eight years old.

But they didn’t know anything. They didn’t know that his dad could be kind, could be just as soft as he was cruel. And they didn’t know jack shit about his sibling. They didn’t know how his sibling constantly put themself between him and their dad. How they protected him. Even at eleven, he could see it. He knew. Everyone saw them as violent, as angry and cruel as their dad. They weren’t anything like him.

He wiped his cheek of mud quietly, sitting outside the house. Their dad had accidentally locked them out again, wanting to spend time with some girl, taking off with the spare key. He watched his older sibling try to get into the house.

“Can you tell me about the roses?” he mumbled quietly. “The, uh, the ones with the Cherokee women.”