None the Worse ✓

2) 'It Will Get Better' And Other Lies You Tell Yourself

2) 'It Will Get Better' And Other Lies You Tell Yourself

Problem was, Benjamin had already sorted out his school year. New clothes. A cleaner room. Avoiding mathletes like the plague. In fact, he'd organized all of this in a rather handy list, in a rather handy place, which was so handy it had the shape of a foot. He loved it. He loved irony whenever it wasn't directed at him.

Benjamin acquired a rather convenient fixation to the ground. All of a sudden, for no real reason, the grass in his yard and the floor in his home became a matter of utmost interest.

"Thigh-men," he heard his father say, "Feel at home."

No response from Dutch problem.

Had everyone been constantly pronouncing Benjamin's name incorrectly, he would've pointed it out already. Dutch Problem, however, hadn't said a single word yet. Benjamin didn't even know what his voice sounded like.

He kept staring at the grass like his life depended on it as the Dutch problem moved up to the house with a clearly audible surefootedness. He heard him following his parents to the front door, the volume of his steps fading as he moved further away, and disappearing into the house.

That was the moment Benjamin decided it was safe to enter the house that was once called his home, but was now the safe haven for the Emsworths + delinquent. His mother was standing in the doorway, waiting for him to come in, so she could shut the door and put all those ridiculous locks on she thought were necessary.

Benjamin had to agree they probably were. If he had been a thief he would've thought he hit the jackpot once he got into this building.

As Benjamin entered the huge hall—the first space one would walk into when visiting the Emsworth residence—he wiped his shoes on the doormat that read a cheery 'Welcome Home'. His mother shut the door behind him. The clicks of the locks echoed loudly through the empty space of the manor.

"Ben, you're supposed to take your shoes off, not just wipe them," she scolded him, for probably the millionth time in a month.

Benjamin did not disobey a lot—in fact, he rarely ever did—but he would never ever feel like removing his shoes, so that would have to be the exception to his rule. He turned away from his mother until his face was completely out of her sight so he could roll his eyes without getting in trouble for it.

Once he turned ahead, he saw Dutch problem staring.

Oh boy.

Thankfully, this only lasted for a split second; regretfully, an instant was enough. Dutch boy smirked, mostly to himself, then looked away.

Benjamin's cheeks flushed red.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Perhaps the puff of foreign drugs that spread every time Dutch boy breathed caused a reaction on him. Or was that where that obnoxious odor originated from? It might as well have been Benjamin's mother's fragrance of the month.

Maybe, just maybe, he should cut Dutch boy some slack. Then again, he messed up the list. So no. Drugs it was.

"Benjamiiin!" called out his mother from the living room, "Benji! Ben! Bennie—"

"Going, ma!" blurted out Benjamin, mortified by all the name calling. In front of Dutch Problem, no less. Oh boy. He pictured him smirking again.

Once at the living room, he found Dutch Problem on his spot. Benjamin's spot. Not to sound like Sheldon Cooper or anything, but... but it was his spot, dammit! Benjamin would rather swallow a cactus than catch Dutch Problem smirking at him again, so he decided to remain standing, even while the rest of the family sat down. Nothing would move him. They'd put him down, but he wouldn't fall. He was titanium.