Under the Influence

Chapter Thirteen: The Art of Playing Cupid

   I was sitting at the desk in my bedroom on Saturday, finishing up my homework because I knew Hunter and I wouldn’t get around to doing it at our weekly planned tutoring session (we never did), when I got a call from Scott. I thought it was a bit peculiar since Scott would usually wait until he got home from work to tell me whatever it was if he had something to say. Or he might just call to remind me that we were fresh out of milk and if I could pick some up on my way back from the library that’d be great.

   But he called for a completely different reason. He firmly ordered me to come to Crawford Comics because we had “important matters that we needed to attend to.” There was something about his tone of voice—a mixture of urgency, misery, and anguish—that made me drop everything and start walking to the comic book store at an alarmingly fast pace. He sounded hurt, but it wasn’t the I-accidentally-chopped-a-limb-off-somehow hurt. It was more like he was hurt mentally, like he couldn’t bear doing whatever he was doing, but knew it was absolutely necessary. I didn’t ask him what exactly the “important matter” was, but then I thought it’d be better if I didn’t know until I got there. I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it, whatever it happened to be.

   And when I entered Crawford Comics, the first thing I duly noted was the guilty—with a dash of gloomy—expression on Scott’s face. “I’m sorry,” was the first thing he said to me when I stepped inside.

   “Sorry?” I squished my eyebrows together in confusion. My eyes flitted around the store in anticipation. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Except for Scott—I had no idea why he was looking at me like that. “Why are you sorry?”

   He shrugged noncommittally. “Just… Sorry in advance for what I’m about to make you do.” Now I really didn’t want to know why he called me down here.  

   “And what would that be?” I asked tentatively.

   “We’re going to have to start packing today.”

   Now I was even more bemused. It didn’t last long, though, because my confusion quickly morphed into sudden alarm, as if a switch had just been flicked in my brain. “Packing? We’re not moving, are we?” But if we were moving, why would Scott have wanted me to meet him here, in the comic book store? It made no sense to me.

   “No!” he answered quickly, shaking his head strenuously for added emphasis. I breathed a sigh of relief. Scott laughed sadly and repeated, “No.”

   I eyed him warily. “Then what do you mean we’re packing?”

   “The store, Charlie. We’re packing up the store.”

   My eyes widened so much that if I was a cartoon character, they would’ve just sprang right out of their sockets and rolled on the floor. “What?” I squeaked out. “B-but you said we still have months left!”

   “I know I said six months a while back, but I must’ve miscalculated. Now it’s only about two months, maybe a little less,” he informed me softly. “Look, we can’t afford to keep this place for much longer, not unless we win the lottery or something. I’m sorry, Charlie.” And he really did sound sorry. But no matter how apologetic Scott sounded, it wouldn’t change the fact that we could only keep our parents’ pride and joy for only about another two months, give or take.

   I felt numb. So numb, in fact, that I didn’t even know how I managed to sit myself up on the counter, but I did. I couldn’t feel anything except for the numbness slowly taking over my body and my stomach, which was flopping around in uneasiness so much that you’d think it was trying out for gymnastics in the Olympics.

   Scott ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair and then once more with his other hand. It was quite a sight to see—Scott, who had been through so much egregious stuff in his life (refer back to Tiffany), looked like he might barf and/or pass out because he had to pack a few boxes. I couldn’t blame him, though. I felt about as sickly green as he looked.