Saving Laurel

15. We Just Don't

Wes Thompson

I wake up late Saturday morning. The sun is blasting through the open curtain of my room, warming the blanket that's wrapped around me until sweat coats my skin. I hate waking up sweating, kicking at the covers until they're balled up at the foot of my bed and my damp skin meets the cool morning air.

And before I'm even fully conscious a smile tugs to my face as strawberry blond hair and crystal blue eyes fill my mind.

Yeah, Laurel's cute.

Beautiful.

I didn't know I had a thing for strawberry blondes with eyes so blue they look like they were made from a summer day and freckles that dot her thin nose and perfectly shaped pink lips but she might be the prettiest girl I've ever seen.

Nah, she definitely is.

I'm not stupid.

She's definitely not the classic, sweet and innocent pretty girl though. Last night she scolded me so hard, I felt like a puppy getting yelled at for peeing on a rug. Might as well just tuck my tail and drag my sorry butt to the door because she just about threw me out.

She's right though. All I do is apologize.

Sort of have to though. I've gotten myself into trouble, on accident of course, but people don't like when a teenaged boy shouts cuss words at them seemingly out of nowhere. I just sound rebellious and arrogant and like I'm seeking trouble.

I'm not.

My smile morphs into a smirk as I think about how Laurel said she thought I was a typical high school "bad" boy. Please. I stray so far from that I might as well have a stupid halo around my head.

It's not that I'm some saint.

But I've wreaked enough havoc already and I just want to lay low.

Rolling out of my bed, my bladder about to burst, I tic as I pull a pair of joggers I placed beside my bed the night before and head for the bathroom.

When I finish, I head for the fridge like clockwork. Those are my mom's words. You wake up, go to the bathroom and then clean out the fridge, like clockwork. I always smile and say I'm a growing boy. But we both know it's my OCD and I'm about maxed out on height. Average. Which is fine, I don't need to be taller, it'd only draw more attention to me. My Tourette's has that covered, thank you.

There's a note on the counter that I notice as I grab a banana and an apple from a bowl after having grabbed a leftover piece of veggie pizza from last night. I use my elbow to twist the handwritten note around, not wanting to let go of any of my food.

I can't help it, going ten hours without food is rough, even if I was asleep for it.

I get off at four, love you.

P.S. call your dad

Yeah, about that...I'm working on it. I'm just hoping to squeeze another weekend or two in before I have to succumb to staying at my dad's.

I love my dad, I do. I swear. He's cool, a massive lover of baseball which we can definitely bond over. I don't love it like he does but I'm pretty good at faking it. I mean I grew up going to Tiger's games like they were national holidays so it's not like I'm unfamiliar with the sport. I even played a little, I might have kept at it if it weren't for those couple years when everything went crazy. But I just don't love it like my dad does. I don't have to watch every game.

And he's a good dad too. He's not some oblivious jerk, we text, he calls, he says he loves me, he's never not gotten me a birthday present or a Christmas present. It's not like I'm forgotten or unloved.