Stowaways

The sun had already sunk low in the sky by the time they arrived, the barest sliver of its head peeking out from underneath the horizon. Somehow, though, this made no difference: the street was bathed in gold, brighter than the light of the day. It bursted off the orange-limned buildings around them, causing them to squint uncomfortably against the glare. This late in spring, the city had finally reset the timers for the streetlights, and they lay dormant as the odd pair had made their way. Even without the light, though, they would have known exactly where to go. This path was as familiar to them as each other, forged over the course of what felt like a lifetime.

Despite this, though, they still stopped short before their destination. The library was the same as it always was: a misleadingly narrow building crammed between a corner market and a realtor’s office, all weathered stone and wood. To a newcomer, it wouldn’t have looked so much like its own spot as it did a transition from one building to the next. Yet, to Sadik and Henry, it was the most important space on the whole block. What lacked in physicality made up tenfold in the sanctuary it provided for kids like them.

Sadik looked over to his friend now, holding up a hand to block the persistent sun’s blaze. Henry was nothing more than a silhouette because of it, the other boy’s red hair glinting violently in the light. He did not return the look, and was instead scanning the library, the street, glancing over at the side alleyway through which their entrance was. This was the typical routine: they would start making their way here around seven, an hour after the library had closed. The walk would consist of a few inside jokes and much shoving each other off the crooked sidewalk. They would get to the library some fifteen minutes later and wait, watching for any signs of life. Then, they would stroll as inconspicuously as possible down that alley and reach for the handle of the side door, which shouldn’t be unlocked but would be, as it always was.

Then, the night took them wherever it would take them. Which was perfectly fine to both of them, so long as it didn’t take them home.

“I sure hope there wasn’t an after-school event they forgot to post on their website,” said Sadik as they started towards the side entrance.

Henry chuckled at that. “Well, I dunno,” he said, flashing one of his world-famous grins. “I think it could make things interesting.”

“‘Interesting’ doesn’t always need to mean getting arrested, you know.”

“Bah!” Henry held a dramatic hand to his chest, as if offended. “Since when have I, your dear friend, ever gotten us into trouble?”

“Well, there was the police escort off the school’s roof, the burning newspaper, the subway incident…” Sadik ticked off on his fingers as they approached the door, a metal rectangle set into the brick and laden with chipped brown paint.

Henry waved his words off with a dismissive hand. “That wasn’t trouble, that was fun. And I thought we agreed never to bring up the subway incident, traitor.” He shot him a sideways look.

“Shush,” replied Sadik, but not without a smile. He reached for the door handle, jimmied it upwards--a trick they had learned--and stepped back as the door swung open noiselessly. He motioned to his friend, after you.

In stark contrast to the street, the library was almost completely dark save the exit lights, which cast strange red light over them as they entered. The stacks rose ominously above them like black skyscrapers, the aisles between them cast in shadow. The only noise was from the vents, the cool air shifting Sadik’s hair. The eeriness of the dead library no longer struck them, however. Now, it felt more welcoming than anything. 

“Usual spot?” Sadik asked, softly. Henry nodded, and they set off down one of the darkened aisles towards the center of the building. There wasn’t much there besides the round info desk and a few spare study tables, but that wasn’t what they were looking for. To the left sat a tiny spiral staircase, leading up to a small upper level that housed the reference section. The staircase shook and rattled slightly as they ascended, despite their careful steps, and Henry let out a quiet curse as he gripped the railing. Once up, they took up their usual posts: Sadik sitting with his back against one of the shelves’ ends, Henry sprawled on the carpet, and their bookbags serving as the latter’s pillows. 

Sadik reached under Henry’s head and rummaged through his bag, eliciting a noise of annoyance from Henry. “Cmon, man.”

“Cmon, yourself. I’m hungry.”

“Ooh, wait, yeah, me too. What you got?”

Sadik gave a long-suffering sigh and tossed a pack of cheese crackers to his friend, who tore them open unceremoniously. He, personally, had a sweet tooth, and went for a chocolate chip muffin he had nagged from the school cafeteria hours ago. 

The hours went by and the conversation ranged from food, to music, to talking about the fight that had happened in their history class that day.

“Jack went in with that right hook and it was all downhill after that. For him, at least. Like dude, if you’re going to start a fight, at least be able to finish it.” Henry laughed at his own comment.

“I just can’t believe they had to pull Gabe off him. And to think it started over some shoes,” Sadik shook his head.

Hen shrugged. “Can’t disrespect a man and then step on his brand new shoes, Sadik. This is basic protocol.”

He laughed, despite himself. “Still a stupid reason.” A pause. “And they probably called his mom. I feel sorry for the dude, she’s crazy.”

The other boy rolled over to lounge on his back, his copper-colored head a little ways to Sadik’s right. He stretched his arms towards the ceiling, voice dipping as he replied, “Eh. There are worse problems to have.”

“Like?”

Henry merely turned his head towards him, catching his friend’s gaze and holding it for a moment, before returning his attention to his still-raised arms.

“Hmm,” was all Sadik said, even if Hen hadn’t actually said anything. He didn’t need to.  Sadik placed his hands flat on the ground behind him and reclined back on his arms, watching Henry’s fingers play in the dim light. 

There were a lot of words that could be used to describe the pair of them, odd and discordant as they appeared. Street kids. Troublemakers. Breaking and entering. But perhaps the simplest, and by far the most true, was orphans. It was one of the only identities that the two of them shared, and yet it was the one that brought them together in the first place. The story was easy: Sadik, age nine, only survivor of a car crash. Henry, age eleven, only one to get out of a house fire alive. Sadik’s parents had been going out to get him ice cream; Henry had been attempting to bake his mother a cake, unsupervised. Cue a long journey through the foster system, countless school transfers, and finally being adopted at the age of fifteen. A relatively rough first semester of high school, and then a chance encounter one January afternoon. Sadik had been sitting in the cafeteria, keeping his head down and trying to ignore the hubbub around him as he attempted to work through the “Cardboard Special” they had served for lunch that day. Despite his solitude, the table he sat at was mostly full; a ragtag group of students from the school newspaper had decided to grace him with their presence early on. They chattered, occasionally glancing over at him in a silent attempt to include him in the conversation. He had no interest in talking about sports, or prom, or whatever happened to hold their attention, so he pretended not to notice. It was more than just boredom, though. He knew what the stares in the hallway meant, could translate the way a conversation seemed to halt whenever he walked into a classroom: there’s the kid whose parents died, isn’t it so sad? Sadik had had his fill of pity growing up in the system. He couldn’t stand the roundness of people’s eyes when they looked at him, nor the way they could talk so openly about it except to his face. 

His reverie had been interrupted by the sound of chairs clattering to the ground. His head snapped up to see three seniors on the lacrosse team, standing in a circle around something. Despite himself, he had leaned this way and that, trying to see what had caused the commotion. A flash of red, arms flailing, and at last one of the boys moved just enough for Sadik to see. They were standing around another boy, a skinny thing with a shock of bright red hair. As Sadik watched, the boy set his jaw and said something to them. He couldn’t hear what, but clearly it struck a nerve. One of the bigger boys shoved him backwards. The skinny one stumbled, but held his ground, mouth still working. Everyone seated at the surrounding tables were turned to watch the fight, their faces rapt and mouths in the shape of an o. Finally, the punch came. It hit the skinny boy square in the jaw and sent him to the ground. Sadik watched, waiting for him to get back up. He didn’t. The other boys laughed, hitting each other’s arms, and stalked back to wherever they had been sitting before.

The excitement over, everyone else in the cafeteria grew bored again and returned to their conversation. The newspaper kids huddled back to each other, whispering excitedly, one cursing about not having a camera on him. But Sadik wasn’t listening. He couldn’t stop looking over to the boy, who was still laying on the ground. He wasn’t one for getting involved--in fact, it had been one of the rules he had given himself upon entering high school--but something about the boy’s face had struck him. Yes, there had been a clear defiance in his expression, but there was something more. Something like desperation.

Before he could think better, he was on his feet and walking over to where he lay. The newspaper kids hissed at him to sit back down, but he couldn’t hear them. Sadik approached the boy and without a word offered him a hand. He had been sitting up at that point, rubbing his jaw with one freckled hand, and started when he noticed Sadik standing there. He glanced at his extended hand, then at his face, then back to the hand. Finally, he grasped it, and Sadik hauled him to his feet.

“Thanks,” the boy said, brushing off his sleeve.

“It’s dumb to go three against one.” Sadik said automatically, causing the other boy to stare at him. 

“Do I look smart to you?” The boy raised a pale eyebrow, motioning to himself. 

Sadik shrugged and abruptly turned on his heel, walking back to his table. The other boy looked around bewilderedly, but no one at the tables had bothered to pay attention to the exchange. Sadik returned to his bland lunch, not looking up to see where the boy went. In fact, he didn’t spare a full thought about it until after the final bell had rang, and he was walking out the front doors of the school. His adoptive father usually picked him up after school, albeit half an hour late, so Sadik usually made himself at home on the low brick wall near the front steps while he waited. As he made his way there, however, he found his spot already occupied. 

The boy with the red hair leaned against it, arms crossed and eyes scanning the crowd. When he noticed Sadik approaching, he uncrossed his arms and braced his hands on the wall’s edge. 

“You never answered my question, man,” called out the boy, using one hand to shield against the bright winter sun. 

Sadik’s brow furrowed. “What question?”

“Do I look smart to you?”

It was Sadik’s turn to be confused. Why was he asking this now? “Smart enough not to do that.”

“Why shouldn’t I? They deserved it.”

“Dude, I’m new here and even I know not to mess with the lacrosse guys.”

“Even when they were being assholes?”

“Even then.”

The other boy studied Sadik for a few minutes. Then, he said something Sadik had only ever heard himself say. “You’re the kid with no parents, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, without missing a beat. “Who are you?”

Impossibly, the boy grinned, a sharp expression. “The other kid with no parents.” He held out his hand. “Henry.”

Sadik surprised himself and smiled back, taking his hand. “Sadik.”

And thus began their inseparability. They had no classes together, and always sought each other’s company during lunch. The newspaper kids had slowly but surely evacuated the table once Henry began joining Sadik there, but they found that they enjoyed the emptiness better. It meant they could talk boldly about the things everyone else did in whispers: the accidents, life before, life after. How neither of them really felt at home in their adoptive families, how it wasn’t really anyone’s fault. How, by virtue of the nature of each accident, Sadik no longer liked other people doing things for him, and Henry didn’t feel safe doing things for others, and how in some complicated way, this made them compatible. 

The boys’ adoptive parents were more than thrilled to hear that they had finally made a friend, which granted them relative freedom to come and go as they pleased. They took advantage of the go part much more often; neither liked the way the other’s demeanor would change on the rare occasions they hung out at someone’s house. It was an unspoken understanding, as much of their unlikely friendship was. Because a house was fairly off-limits, they then took to finding parks, or restaurants, or other public places to spend their days. It became a sort of game between them: whoever came up with a spot first could choose where they went for that entire week. Henry had once brought them to a laundromat, which Sadik refused to let him live down. 

The one downside was that--with the exception of the laundromat--there were few places they could go to once the sun went down. Their time started and ended with the daylight. That was until Sadik had been walking past the public library one day and noticed a disgruntled worker go down the alleyway and, without a key visible, entered through the side door. He mentioned it to Henry, who, being inclined to chaos, insisted they try it out that night. With much trepidation, they did, and the rest was history.

Now they sat here as they had been doing for the past two years, stifling their laughter in the dark vastness of the space as they devoured stolen snacks. It was routine as much as it was special. Neither of them would trade it for anything.

“D’you think people still think we’re tragic?” Sadik asked, voice still full of leftover laughter. 

“The only thing tragic about us is your wardrobe.” Henry quipped. This resulted in Sadik throwing a pencil at him, which started a new round of play-fighting and giggles.

Tragic, troublemakers, weird, orphans. Perhaps the truest title for people like them were stowaways. Running, hiding, tucked away in the dark with someone on a similar journey. And, in spite of the shadows and the scars, safe.