The Broken Date

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Jack’s POV:

“Hi, Jack. It’s me. Did Mark call?”

“Oh. Hi, Felix.”

“You don’t have to sound that disappointed, do you?”

“I’m sorry. I just---I thought you were Mark.”

“I guess that means he hasn’t called.”

“No. I’ve tried his house about a million times. No answer. I guess they’re not back from upstate. I don’t know if that’s good news or bad news---I mean, about his father.”

“Are you ok? You sound really strange, sort of beyond tired.”

“I’m ok, I guess. No. actually, I’m a basket case. But what can I do?” I nervously tangled my drawstrings around my fingers.

“Do you want to talk?”

“No. I think I’d better leave my calls free. You know. In case Mark tries to call.” I glanced up at my desk clock. Eleven-fifteen.

“Ok. Well, hang in. i’ll come pick you up before school tomorrow morning.”

“Ok. Thanks.”

“Get some sleep.”

“Sleep? Oh. right. I’ll try.”

I hung up, stood up, and stretched. I’d forgotten about sleep. Sleep might not be a bad idea. It was certainly a good way to make time pass quickly. I turned off the lamp and climbed under the bedspread.

Of course, getting to sleep was not going to be easy, the room seemed to spin in the dark. I closed my eyes, but the feeling of dizziness didn’t go away.

Stop thinking, I told myself.

Stop picturing Mark. Stop talking to Mark. Stop all of the imaginary conversations.

How could I blot out the pictures that flashed in my mind, slow my racing pulse, stop the dark room from twirling so recklessly?

I conjured up clouds. Soft, billowing white clouds in a clear blue sky. I followed  the clouds as they drifted slowly to the right, trailed by new, fluffy clouds, drifting, drifting, drifting. . . .

A loud tapping sound made the clouds disappears. I opened my eyes and sat up.

The tapping repeated. Two hard taps followed by three soft taps.

“Fuckin’ jesus!”

Someone was crouched outside my window.

“Mark!”

I jumped from my bed, tripped over the bedstread, and ran to pull open the window. He smiled at me, a shadowy smile. The moonlight caught the front of his raven-black hair, illuminating his anxious face.

“Mark, what are you doing up here? When did you get back?”

He dropped easily into the room. His arms went around me. He pulled me close. He felt cold, his sweater felt cold, even though it was a warm spring night.

After a while, he let go. I turned on the lamp. His jeans were dirty, probably from climbing up to my room. His sweater was torn down the front.

“I had to see you, Jack. I had to explain.”

I took both of his hands and pulled him over to the bed. “Sit down, Mark. You look tired. How is your dad?”

The question seemed to surprise him. He tossed a hand back through his raven-black hair, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, looking back toward the window. He looked more troubled than I had ever seen him. Troubled and exhausted.