space dust || boyf riends

prologue

It's February. I'll survive for three more months, right?

Knowing me and my history...probably not. But the thought is what counts.

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The day turned out slow. My school days were shorter at my last school by, like, an hour or so. I quickly figured out that this school is a lot more chaotic in the afternoons than in the early mornings, and that these people will stare at you and make snide comments about your looks with you sitting right in front of them. Tons of other people have done that last part before, but here it feels worse somehow. I just barely made it through.

The good news is that nobody wanted to be friends with me. That kid in math class kept glancing at me this morning, but when I looked back at him, he stopped. I have the feeling that I scared him.

Now I'm walking home from school because Mom or Dad couldn't be bothered to pick me up. I didn't want to take the bus, so here I am in forty degree weather. It could be worse, I guess. I'm almost home anyway.

Now thinking about it, I'm not sure if home is the place I want to be. I don't have any other choice, though. I'm sure my dad will be at work and my mom will be stressing over the fact that she won't divorce him. They don't love each other. They don't love me. I don't see why they're still living under the same roof.

I itch my cold nose as I get to my front yard, trudging through the grass to the front door. I don't bother with using the front walk. I immediately notice that Mom's car is in the driveway, which means that she's not at work, which means I'm going to have to deal with her questions about my day. I don't want to tell her any of that. If I did, she'd immediately call Dr. Wilson, which I don't want. Therapy just makes things worse. My parents trying to fix me makes me worse.

I step into the house, the smell of fresh-baked snickerdoodles hitting me like an ice cream truck. Stress baking, I think. Of course. My mom is stress baking. I close the door behind me and begin to trudge to my room, hoping that she doesn't notice that I'm back.

She calls from the kitchen, "Jeremy? Is that you, honey?"

Fuck.

"Yeah." I respond.

One thing my mom likes to do is to pretend that she gives a shit about me, when she really doesn't care at all. She argues with my dad all the time, tries to drag me with her when she wants to leave, but I refuse and she calms down and goes to bed. The cycle repeats itself. She knows how much I hate it. I'd be fine if she just decided to abandon me and never come back. She tried to when I was nine, but came back after a week because she 'missed her baby'.

Mom enters the living room from the kitchen, her graying hair messily tied back and cookie ingredients all over her black apron. My chest tightens upon seeing her. She smiles, which should bring me relief, but it doesn't. "How was your first day, sweetie?"

"It was fine." My automatic response, even if it was complete shit like today. Mom isn't buying it though. In my mom's mind, 'fine' is a warning sign because of my last attempt. I used to assure her that things were fine when they really weren't.

"Oh, Jeremy," She sighs, like she's disappointed in me. I look at my shoes. "What happened at school today? Did you meet anyone?"

"Literally nothing happened. Everyone avoided me like I'm the human embodiment of the bubonic plague."

She stands there for a moment and 'tsk's with a sigh. "You need anything? I can fix you a snack. I've been making your favorite."

"I don't want a snack. I'm headed to my room." And hopefully, I'll never have to come out of there again. Without another word, I turn on my heel and I head up the stairs, shoulders aching from the weight of my backpack. I'm ready to lay down.

My footsteps just barely echo off the walls. I've lived in this house since I was about eight, when we first moved to New Jersey from the countryside in New York. My room has pretty much stayed the same in these past nine years, except that I removed the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles posters forever ago and I've got a bigger bed since then. I still have all my stuffed animals in the corner of my bed and I haven't rearranged my room since the fifth grade. I've changed more than the room has. I used to be a pretty happy kid, I guess. I don't really know what happened.

When I get inside, I immediately drop my bag by my bed and I flop down onto the bed. I curl up into a ball and sigh, relieved that I'm finally here. I've missed laying in bed and doing nothing. I stare at the light blue wall, and I just think about whatever decides to come to mind first.

I think about how I'm staring at a wall.

There's a gentle knock on the doorframe, and I immediately know that it's Mom. I sit back up, my body feeling so heavy and so sore. I've already got homework to do, but I'm exhausted and I'll do it later. I look over at her with a 'what do you want' glance. She doesn't even try to ease me into this conversation, she just goes:

"Tomorrow's Tuesday."

"Yep." I say, popping the 'p'. My legs hang off the side of my bed. I stick them out in front of me and stare at my worn-out Converse instead of looking at my mom when she's talking to me. I hate making eye contact, especially with my parents.

"You know what that means?"

Therapy. It means therapy. Another horrible, awkward hour and a half of something my parents pay for because they think it'll help me get better. "Yes, ma'am."

Mom sighs. Oh no. "Jeremy, I'm a little worried about you."

"Jeremy, I'm a little worried about you." I mock her.

"I'm being serious, honey." She says. I don't care if she's being serious. I stay quiet for few moments and I feel her stare. I wish she'd go away and just realize that I don't want to talk.

"My first day was just bad, okay? I'll...I'll try harder tomorrow," I force myself to tell her, though I don't believe myself. She won't believe it either. "Sorry for disappointing you."

"Jeremy, I'm not-"

"It's fine. I get it." I look at her for once. She looks guilty, like if all those times that she hasn't been here have finally found their way to her conscience. I hate how she's trying to be here now. It's probably because of what I did. As far as she knows, that's only the first time I've tried to do it. Not my third.

She's obviously trying to hide the pain this is causing her. Mom turns and she's about to leave, but she stops for a moment. I feel that she's going to try and talk to me about this again, but I'm relieved by what she actually says. "Get your homework done, Jeremy. There's snickerdoodles in the kitchen. Help yourself." She sighs.

I know she meant that I can help myself to however many cookies, but I have that feeling that she meant for me to help myself in more than one way. Maybe she's finally given up on me.

Good.

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