❦ WINNER OF THE RIVETING WRITING CONTEST ❦
OLIVER IS DYING
With only months left to live at just seventeen, Oliver spends his remaining days of endless tests and debilitating drugs in the St. Andrews paediatrics ward planning his impending funeral...
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ISABELLA throws herself onto my bed.
I look at the polaroid of Nick and I, my arm around him. I wish he'd shown off that pearly white grin like he had in that photo I saw in Frankie's room. But even that lopsided side smile is enough for things to get a bit stiff downstairs.
"I don't get why you wanted my help."
I blink and set the polaroid on the side table. "Huh?"
Isabella wiggles her eyebrows. "It looks like you didn't need my help after all."
I dry the bristles of my brushes and pack them away. "He was just looking for Frankie. The conversation just happened."
"Sure," Isabella drawls out with heavy sarcasm, a reply that I exchange with an equally sarcastic expression.
I sit next to Isabella, pushing my back to the wall with my feet just hanging off the end of the bed. "Tell me what you found."
Isabella faces me, sitting next to me with crossed legs and phone in hand. "Okay, so I was right about this guy not making it easy to find his socials."
I'm not surprised. His father has a reputation to upkeep.
Since my last visit with Isabella, I looked up Nick's father online and watched some of his rallies on YouTube.
His views are definitely...questionable, especially those on LGBTQ+ related topics.
It's easy not to miss Nick standing on every stage next to his father at every rally I watched looking very uncomfortable.
I felt sorry for him in a way.
"I'm honestly so curious to know why this kid's dad is so worried about what he'd post," Isabella wonders.
"Maybe because he doesn't agree with his radical views," I grumble.
"Yeah, good point. Who would agree with that dickwad's toxic views?"
She taps away at her phone. "But I did some digging and I managed to find his Instagram."
She flips her phone around for me to see the screen. "Very douchey handle, if you ask me."
@KickinAtNicks
I chuckle.
Could that name be any more pretentious? But, then again, he was trying to keep it hidden from his father.
I take Isabella's phone and explore his profile.
There are a lot of the same photos that are in Frankie's room on his feed. There are a lot of photos like them. Most of them are of him hanging with friends, partying, spending time in the city, food, drinking.
"Your boy is the epitome of the millennial frat boy stereotype," Isabella remarks.
"I guess he's in college, then," I mumble, keeping my eyes glued to his profile.
