The morning of the wedding saw Cortnée in his room, wondering why his Aunt Leah had tied his ginger hair back so tightly. It was starting to give him a headache. Or maybe that came from the heat. The clothes Rebekah had set out for him to wear were uncomfortable and hot; the tie at his neck was choking, and he was sweating all over. The flower Aunt Leah had put in the buttonhole of his heavy jacket was wilting badly. A shame, it was such a pretty flower.
"Cortnée love, are you ready yet?" his aunt's voice echoed up the stairs.
"Nearly Aunt Leah! I . . . just have to tie my shoelaces, yeah,"
"Well hurry up child, we're all waiting for you!" a good thing Aunt Leah hadn't noticed his black shoes didn't have laces. They were so small on his ever-growing feet, he'd taken the laces out.
They'd celebrated his eighth birthday just two weeks ago. That meant once the summer was over, he'd have to start attending the local school.
Maybe that was why his mother was remarrying.
She'd met Cortnée's future teacher at the first of several weekly orientation days. He'd been surprised when his teacher had started coming back with them for tea and shepherd's pie. The man – whose name he'd only found out a week ago was Maxwell – didn't really seem to fit in with the family. Maxwell was nothing like any of the other men; Cortnée had heard his mother many times call the man a weakling trying to find someone he could control. If this school teacher thought he could control Mrs. Floyd! Already Maxwell was cowering at the woman's feet at the hint of confrontation; it had been Rebekah, not the weak school teacher, who'd proposed. The night's meal had been tinned spaghetti and meatballs instead of shepherd's pie. There must have been something in the tomato sauce, because Mrs. Floyd had simply looked across the table and said,
"Maxwell, we're getting married on the 28th, I've booked the celebrant. Who should we invite?"
Maxwell – or Mad Max, as the boy preferred – had mumbled four or five names before turning back to the dregs of sauce remaining in his bowl. Cortnée'd thought the tomatoes had tasted funny.
And now here he was, sitting in his room, his head and feet throbbing in pain.
He didn't want his mother to marry someone else. It had just been her in the house with him for so many years, only one person to have to placate. The memory of Bartholomew had faded from his brain's recall almost completely; the only thing that kept him from forgetting his father all together were the stolen photos. But he'd never forgotten how scared he had been when there was someone else living with his mother. Did he have to go through it all again?
"Cortnée! For heaven's sake child, come down here this instant! The wedding is starting now, with or without you!" Aunt Leah sounded more worried than annoyed. Little discrepancies could be sneaked past her cloudy eyes. For a few seconds, Cortnée felt the iron in his spine, a look of fierce determination falling over his flint-coloured eyes. Slowly, purposefully, he reached up and pulled the band from his hair. The ginger-gold locks fell around his shoulders; why did Rebekah never let him get it cut? A few quick rip-throughs with a brush made it look a little more presentable.
"Aunt Leah! Wait for me!"

Every time he so much as moved, Mad Max shot him a look evil enough to blacken roses. The tie at his throat was cutting off his supply of air, and his hair kept falling into his eyes – much to the tut-tutting of his Aunt Leah – but he didn't dare move for fear of earning more killing glances. A satin white pillow rested on his lap; Rebekah had loosely resewn the rings onto the underside the night before, since he'd accidentally knocked over Mad Max's glass of claret. Max had flipped, and so had the boy's mother; Rebekah had slapped her fiancé well before the fiancé could have gone through with the raised hand threat of slapping her precious boy.
"Don't you ever, ever dare to try and slap my son like that again, you useless bastard!!"
From upstairs, underneath as many blankets as he could find, the boy had heard every single syllable of their first argument.
'Don't you ever, ever dare to talk to me like that again, you stupid bitch!!'
Did he have to go through it all again. . . ?
The red stain was still there, though now conveniently hidden under Cortnée's hands.
"Do you, Maxwell, take Rebekah as your wife, to love and to cherish, to honour and obey all the days of your life?"
"I do," even on what was supposed to be the happiest day of any human being's life, Mad Max still grumbled and mumbled almost inaudibly.
"And do you, Rebekah, take Maxwell as your husband, to love and to cherish, to honour and obey all the days of your life?"
"I do," Rebekah didn't look like a bride. For one thing she wasn't blushing, and the expression on her face was smug as the cat that's licked the cream.
"Do we have the rings?" that was his cue. Standing, his head deliberately lowered, long hair covering his half-scared eyes, Cortnée presented the rings sewn onto the pillow. It took Mad Max three humiliating tugs to break the loose stitches.

- - -
Every time he so much as moved, Mad Max shot him a look evil enough to blacken roses. The tie at his throat was cutting off his supply of air, and his hair kept falling into his eyes – much to the amusement of his classmates – but he didn't dare move for fear of earning more killing glances. The fly kept hovering around his ear. It was annoying as anything, but he refused to be the butt of any more of Mad Max's cruel jokes.
Mad Max hated him, he knew that now. Why he didn't know, but he was certain it had something to do with his mother. To an eight-year-old, jealousy was still an unexplained emotion, lurking in shadowy corners; the psyche of weak, dominated men, and their overwhelming need to control whatever they can was beyond comprehension. Today he hadn't been too bad actually. He'd not threatened and terrified the entire class, as he usually liked to do. Instead, he'd just picked on his step-son – Cortnée knew his mother and Mad Max'd had another argument the night before.
"Cortnée Floyd!"
The boy jumped, startled from his concentration on keeping still.
"Wh– . . . Yes sir?"
"How about we test your memory. Will you please tell the class what I just said?" the smirk on Max's face was almost too much for him to take. He wanted to run from his seat, from this classroom and this horrid school with its horrible students. He wanted to run back home, run upstairs to his room, the only place in the entire world where he felt slightly safe.
"I . . . you said . . . um . . . you like . . . spaghetti better than shepherd's pie?" well? The man did.
"As per expected Floyd, your memory is appalling. Or maybe it's that you weren't listening in the first place? Hmm?" if Mad Max wanted an answer from him in front of his already giggling classmates, the man would be waiting a long time. "Well? Are you going to grace us with a reply?"
Silence.
"You have to the count of three Floyd,"
Silence.
"One,"
Silence.
"Two," Mad Max's face was turning red in his building anger.
Silence.
"Three,"
Silence.
"Did you hear me Floyd?! I said, that's three!"
A muffled murmur.
"What did you say Floyd?!"
"I said, now count to ten Max," the childish defiance on his face was enough to snap the unstable teacher.
"Why you little piece of–!! Get out! Get outside right now!!" Cortnée didn't need to be told twice. As Mad Max turned back to grab his cane, the boy grabbed his bag and ran for all he was worth, not caring about either his abandoned books or his raging step-father.

The taunts of his 'fellow classmates' still rang in Cortnée's ears as he was dragged from his hiding place under the library and up to the principal's office. As far as he was concerned, it didn't matter that the principal berated Mad Max more than she did him. His life at school was turning into the full blown nightmare he could barely remember from his early childhood.
Cortnée sat in the back seat of the car as Maxwell drove them to 95th street, where Rebekah's new house – bought mostly with her new husband's money – sat on a cosy acreage. A brooding resentful silence settled in for the ride.
"Your mother's going to hear about your latest escapade as soon as we get home Floyd,"
"I hate you,"
"I assure you boy, the feeling is mutual,"
"I'm gonna tell Mom about what you do," Max swerved to the side of the road and braked so suddenly, Cortnée's head was whip-lashed back against the hard seat.
"Dammit Floyd, you tell your mother and so help me God I swear I will cane the crap out of you and every single one of your little classmates, do you hear me?!" Mad Max had his step-son's wrist in a death-grip; he was enjoying watching the boy squirm and whimper in pain. "Do you?!" he twisted the wrist, revelling in Cortnée's pitiful yelps.
"Y-y-y-yes s . . . sir. . . ."
Max let go of him then, and turned satisfied eyes back on the road.

Cortnée didn't stop trembling until he was safe behind the door of his room. Here he could cry in peace.