The Way We Get By

1 // Alex

Guilt.

I can't escape it.

It tends to crawl under my skin and poke at me in all the wrong places, to force shame into every destitute corner of my mind. It reminds me of all the ways that I'm lacking, and of all the ways that I will never be perfect.

Not as perfect as Angel, anyways.

"What do you want to eat, Alex?" my mother asks me from across the table.

I take out my left earbud, pretending I didn't hear her question just so I could have more time to prepare a lie. The sound of the bustling waterpark fills my ears as I pause my music and I look at my mother in confusion.

"What?"

Truth is, I heard her. I just needed another second to perfect my lie.

"What do you want to eat?"

I gulp, forcing the dishonesty out of my mouth in rehearsed uncertainty.

"I'm not hungry."

My stomach pangs in protest, although the sounds of rushing water and screaming children are loud enough to drown it out.

"But you didn't eat breakfast."

"I know," I begin. "My stomach's been hurting, though. I don't really have an appetite."

My mother shoots my dad a confused glance, my lie not sounding as convincing as I would've liked. She studies me for a moment, her brown eyes looking at me worriedly.

"You've been having these stomach aches a lot, lately. Maybe I should call the doctor."

I move my gaze from her to the water tube rental station, where I can see my brother and sister returning their tubes.

"I don't think it's anything serious," I add, praying I can play it off. "It's probably just a stomach bug. It is January, y'know. Everyone gets sick in January."

The thought of them finding out about me makes my lungs heave and burn, the chlorine scented air of the indoor waterpark not helping my cause very much.

I try to keep my calm, although the thought of going to the doctor is terrifying. They'll find out how much I weigh, and they'll find out that there is, in fact, nothing wrong with my stomach.

In short, my mother will find out that I am not the boy she raised.

I'm not the perfectly sweet and mentally stable kid she knows. I'm a wreck, and my weight can prove it.

"He's right, Ramona," my dad adds, looking at my mother. "Everyone gets sick in January."

"Angel and Lucy haven't gotten sick."

"Wait—speaking of Angel and Lucy," my dad states, not responding to my mother as he changes the subject. "Where'd they go?"

Now that the conversation has been driven away from my nonexistent stomach problem, I put my headphones back in, no longer interested in the world around me.

Truth is, I didn't even want to come here today.

I told my mom how much I hate swimming, but knowing her, she persisted, claiming we needed to spend time with each other. I mean, whatever. I've had my headphones in all day anyways.

I am surprised that she even wanted to come to a waterpark, though, seeing as she never wears anything less than long sleeves in public.

My mother's past history has made her reluctant to ever go swimming in public, let alone wear summer clothes. Even on the hottest of days she'll be wearing a sweater, covering up her past in a bubble of shame.