Max’s bedroom was a disaster, the gray-blue carpet littered with Lego bricks, comic book scraps, and stray crumbs that stuck to his bare feet. He sat on his bed, gripping me in his fist, his other hand waving a toy spaceship. His eyes gleamed with wicked delight as he dangled me over the ship’s cockpit, ready to shove me inside and start his twisted game. I braced myself, knowing I wouldn’t feel the rough treatment—somehow, I felt nothing when he manhandled me, a numb void I couldn’t explain. I wasn’t about to tell Max, though. If he knew, his “playtime” might turn even uglier.
A loud knock shook the door, followed by the jangle of the doorknob twisting. “Max!” his dad’s deep voice boomed. “I’m leaving for work. Open this door!” The knob rattled harder, the door creaking as it started to inch open.
Max’s grin vanished, his eyes widening with panic. His grip on me tightened, my ribs creaking in his fist. “Crap,” he hissed, glancing around the room like a trapped animal. “Where do I put you?” he whispered, his voice low and sly, a grin creeping back as he turned this into another game. He didn’t want his dad to find his new “toy.”
I squirmed, my voice a hoarse croak. “Max, just let me go!” But he wasn’t listening, his gaze darting across the chaos. His laundry bin sat in the corner, overflowing with sweaty T-shirts and crumpled socks, reeking of gym class and neglect. His eyes flicked down to his baggy shorts, and a wicked glint sparked. He patted his waistband, considering shoving me down the front, right into the warm, cramped space near his groin. Then he twisted slightly, glancing back, clearly thinking about stuffing me down the backside of his shorts, where the fabric sagged against his butt.
The doorknob rattled again, and Max made a snap decision.