"So how's work going, Vic?"
"Decent," I nod, settling myself a little more comfortably in the chair at the surgery. "It's been pretty busy lately."
"I can imagine," the nurse, a sweet-natured but fast-paced woman named Emma Reed chirrups as she dashes around the room, collecting relevant items. "This time of year when everyone's back at work, people suddenly realise how much they need coffee to get through the day."
"I include myself in that," I laugh, and she laughs back. "How's your son?"
"He's well," she smiles, placing the final item atop a small equipment trolley and wheeling it over so it's just to the right of me and behind. "He came home from school the other week with a teddy bear. Had to look after it for seven days and then provide a report on how it went. It was like having another child."
"How so?"
"Well, he insisted on giving this bear a report more interesting than anyone else's, so we had to take it to the zoo, on the ferry, around the park, we had to do jigsaws with it...I'm telling you, I haven't been so worn out since he was screaming his head off every night after I had him."
"Sounds like he'll make a wonderful parent," I nod approvingly, and she chuckles as she takes a needle from the trolley.
"I suppose so. Alright " she says, the storytelling tone gone from her voice and replaced with professionalism as she fiddles with more equipment, positioning herself directly behind me. A few seconds later both of her hands come to either side of my head and guides it forwards. "Just tilt your head down..."
She does the usual - cleans the area first, and then places the needle to the bare skin and pushes it under slowly, trying to minimise the amount of pain it causes me. It still fucking hurts - it's the kind of pain that starts off as a little pinch and then intensifies and tingles, spreading out in a circle in an unpleasant, biting ache. But I've had Emma, a short, slim woman with mousy brunette hair as my practitioner for a few years now and I'm used to the manner by which she does things, and her consistency and careful hands mean the pain is kept to a minimum. She's very sweet and friendly and very qualified, so I guess if I have to get these dumbass steroid shots to try and prompt at least some kind of fuzz growing, I might as well have them done by someone I like.
Today is five shots for five hairless patches, which makes my whole head kind of sore for the majority of mid morning and then some of the afternoon as well. Having called in sick to work knowing I wouldn't be emotionally or physically well enough to handle the day, all I can do when I return home to the empty house is sit down with a bag of frozen peas nearby, nursing the pinprick bruises forming on my skull and watch Steven Universe whilst I attempt to do some work in my sketchbook. My art is half assed today, so I sketch the outline of a boy sitting in a chair with his head in his hands and then give up. I already know this one isn't going to make the scrapbook.
I'm thinking about the fact that it's takeout tonight because nobody wants to cook and considering what I'm going to order from the Chinese when my phone lights up with a ping, alerting me to a message from an unknown number - unknown, that is, until I read the message.
Hey, it's Jaime :) wondering if you wanted to meet up soon?
And suddenly, my day has improved massively.
An involuntary smile springs up on my face, and I slide my closed sketch pad onto the coffee table and quickly reply, saving the number under his name.
Me:
Hey dude, absolutely! Want to catch a film?
And just as I send that off, another message comes in, and this one is from Mike.
Moik:
PFFFF VIC WOULD YOU FUCKING LOOK AT THIS
Moik:
I'M IN FRIGGIN PHYSICS AND TRYING NOT TO SQUEAL OH MY DAYS
Moik:
http://good-charlotte.....
Frowning, but quite amused by whatever is making him so highly strung on a Monday afternoon, I click the link, which redirects me to the Good Charlotte website. At first, the page is blank - and then it fills in with what I identify as a brand new layout of dark blue patterned with black clovers, and in the centre of the page the news reel loads up. The first item is a recent announcement, which says simply:
12.03.17
#BadLuck
And beneath it shows a picture of a stag's head face-on, drawn in blue neon strings and wisps of light. It looks like Good Charlotte have just, very subtly, announced that they're dropping a new single in December, which is pretty cool. I like Good Charlotte.
But Mike loves Good Charlotte, which would explain the barely contained screaming. Chuckling to myself, I go back to messages and reply.
Me:
Omg dude :0 how cool!
Moik:
New single which means new album which means NEW GOOD CHARLOTTE ERA FUCKING HIT. ME. UP.
Moik:
Hit. Me. The fuck. Up.
I shake my head as I laugh at the message and try and keep up with the conversation. In the space of about five minutes my day has gone from kind of crap to kind of okay, and that's a good feeling.
Me:
So ready for new GC :3 if Prince and Bowie could just come back from the dead this year would be complete :)
Moik:
Haha totally XD do you think they'll do a tour?!
Me:
Probably :) if it's a new single in December they'll probably tour next year :3
Outside, a car horn blares loudly, pulling me back to reality, and I realise it's past midday and I'm hungry. Which is unfortunate, because we really don't have very much in the house.
Stomach beginning to rumble, I force myself out of the seat and plod into the kitchen, checking in the fridge. There are some eggs, and a packet of spinach leaves we were saving for a meal at the weekend - but I'm hungry now and not going to wait till the weekend, so I remove both and turn the heat on the stove on, placing a pan atop it. In my pocket, my phone goes off again, and I expect it to be Mike. It isn't.
Jaime:
Yeah great! Want to see the new Disney film?
And then:
Jaime:
Sorry was that really lame? XD
"Aw," I smile aloud, and then shake myself.
Me:
No, not lame, I'm a sucker for Disney films! It's Moana, right? I'd love to see it, it looks really good :) are you free Saturday?
I crack an egg on the side of a bowl and beat it till it's mixture is a creamy, milk-ish yellow, and as I let its contents combine I think back to Mike's last message. That boy would do anything to go to a concert - since he first started listening to music on the rock scene about four years ago, going to a concert has been top on the bucket list; only he's not allowed. Every year, when a band he likes announces a tour, he asks politely, with a big cheesy grin. He pitches every argument under the sun - he'll go with Nick and Jordan. He'll stand at the back of the crowd. He'll take an emergency pager. He'll wear his dog tag. He'll take me with him; and thing is, I would go with him. But every year, every plea is met with a dead end.
"You can't go, Mike. It's too risky."
I understand my parents' reasoning. Flashing lights are an issue - although Mike doesn't have photosensitive epilepsy, the type in which flashing lights trigger seizures, to my folks, strobe effects and flickering images are still too much of a risk. In a concert hall, a fit isn't just a fit - it's a possibility of being stepped on, tripped over, kicked, hit...injured. In a concert hall, my parents reason, it's too unsafe. Too dangerous. Not worth his life for a night of music.
He gets it. So every year, when he asks the folks if he can go to this gig or that, and they say no, he shrugs, smiles, and says okay. Worth a shot.
And then he disappears for an evening, and though I've never checked I'm pretty sure he cries.
When music is your escape, the only thing that makes you forget how shit the world is, being denied that hour and a half of jumping and singing and screaming and living is like being told you can't breathe. When you're denied that ninety minutes of freedom, it feels like being stamped on and torn apart from a world you can only be part of through your headphones.
And it's not only that, but also the reason he isn't allowed to go. He lives a life with normality injected into it by his friends, his teachers and his family, so much so that sometimes it becomes easy to forget he isn't as able as others. That's a good thing, really - he doesn't, necessarily, live a life dictated by illness. He's the one in control; but on the occasions the illness climbs on top of him and the normalcy is yanked away...it's pretty damn harsh.
Once the egg is beaten I stir in some of the spinach leaves, and then dip into the fridge for some powdered parmesan, which I sprinkle in until it looks kind of eatable. I spray the pan with cooking oil, and then pour in the mixture and try to avoid the sudden spattering. Absent-minded and only half focusing on the omelette, I scratch my head with one hand and then wince, retracting it just as quickly; I deadass forgot about the injections, and that didn't help the pain.
Nudging the omelette around the pan, my phone pings again and I leave it face up on the kitchen counter.
Jaime:
Yeah that sounds fine :) the one thirty viewing?
Me:
Coolio :) stoked!
While the omelette cooks and I smile unreasonably wide at Saturday's prospect, I fill the kettle with water and flick it on to boil. I haven't been to the cinema in ages - I haven't even watched a Disney film in ages, which is a bit of a travesty. Disney films used to be a tradition of the household, until Mike's homework load increased by ten along with my parents' working hours. Disney films are a rarity now - so going to see the new one on Saturday fills me with peculiar bubbles in my gut, and I think about watching it with Jaime and the bubbles multiply.
The spinach omelette, with some salt and pepper seasoning and hot sauce, is actually decent and filling enough to last me till dinner.
Mike is first home at half past four, a little later than normal for a Monday, full of smiles and a big hug.
"How's your head?" He asks, squeezing me once before stepping back and flopping down on the sofa. Tidying away my art pieces from earlier, I shrug.
"A little tender. But it'll be fine by tomorrow. How was school?"
He's quiet for a moment, at that. He's quiet in an odd way: he's rarely hesitant, talking about school. He's normally such a babbler you can't shut him up - but he definitely hesitates, and something inside me twists. "Fine," he says eventually, bright as ever.
But I'm not convinced.
"Are you sure?" I frown, sensing that perhaps that isn't true; or fully true, at least.
"Yeah. It wasn't interesting, Jordan was kind of funny at lunch...that's pretty much it."
"You're a little later home than usual."
"I missed the first bus," he groans, half smiling at himself. "I got caught up talking to Viva. You know, Mrs Warton's TA? We were chatting about Indian culture and I lost track of time."
That sounds plausible enough; Mike gets on with every teacher and teaching assistant in the school, thanks to his likeable personality and tremendous work ethic, and he even seems to enjoy talking to teachers. So I lighten up, shrug off his previous hesitation, and smile.
"Nerd. Have you decided what you're ordering from the Chinese?"
"Chinese?" He says incredulously. "Who cares about Chinese when Good Charlotte are dropping a single?!"
"Still stoked about that?" I laugh, tucking away my sketch pencils.
"Stoked? Vic, I haven't stopped screaming since Physics."
Mom as next home at five-oh-five, hanging up her jacket, kicking off her shoes, greeting us both and then heading up to her room to immediately get changed out of her suit. I clean up after her whilst Mike gets in with math homework - I put her shoes away under the stairs, hang her jacket back up when it falls off the hook.
Dad follows at five thirty, looking exhausted and dishevelled but still smiling. He sets himself in the armchair and asks me to fix him a cup of tea, but once it brews and I've carried it through in his special mug he's dozed off in the chair. So I finish the tea myself.
We order Chinese food for dinner. Mike does his homework whilst simultaneously eating sweet and sour chicken, getting a little sauce on it in the process and laughing that the teacher often gives back marked homework having stained it herself, so she won't mind. After dinner, I retreat to my room and do nothing but lie on my bed with my hands clasped over my stomach and my headphones in blasting Prince. Today has been a day like many and most other days. Tomorrow will bear little difference, and nor will the next day.
At nine o'clock, Mike knocks on my door and pokes his head in. "Vic!"
"Oh my God," I start, jumping halfway out of my skin at the sudden intrusion, yanking my headphones out. "Yeah?"
"Please can you drive me to Jordan's on Saturday? We're going to have pizza and study. I can't get a lift from Nick and the buses don't run at the right time."
"Um..." I hesitate, scratching my head. "That depends. What time do you want a lift? I have plans for Saturday."
"Well, I was thinking about...wait, you have plans?"
"Well, don't sound so surprised," I laugh at his baffled expression. "I know it's shocking your boring big brother has a life."
"What are your plans?"
"I'm going to the cinema with Jaime."
His face remains baffled for a moment, and then a slow smile stretches from ear to ear and he tilts his head as he straightens up. "Oh. Are you now?"
"Would you stop?" I scoff. "He's really nice and interesting."
"Yeah, so you keep saying," he giggles, full of mischief. "I'll be wanting a lift about eleven."
"That's fine," I nod. "I'll drop you off."
"Thanks, Vic," he smiles, and then leaves me to flop back down on the bed and reattach my headphones. Yes. I have plans for Saturday.
I can pretend I'm not as excited as I am just fine.
* * * * *
The film's animation is beautiful, seamless, captivating and altogether completely stunning. As an artist (or a wannabe artist, at least), it's nothing short of inspiring.
But I only half focus on it. The rest of the time, I'm wondering what it is that happened in Jaime's past to make him who he is.
He sits beside me in the cinema, hand occasionally going to the popcorn bucket, fascinated by the story and the pictures, utterly entranced, and I abuse his interest in that and spend longer looking at him than is acceptable. There's something slightly peculiar, slightly out-of-the-ordinary, slightly other-worldly about him, and I wonder why. I wonder what levels he has that people don't see; that I have never seen.
His clothing choice today constitutes a pale pink pullover and a pastel blue jumpsuit to wear over it. The sleeves of the pullover come down over his hands, revealing only his fingers, and his footwear constitutes plain white converse with what appear to be hand-painted birds on the ankles, as if there are wings on his feet, so every time he walks, he flies. He never dressed this way in school, that I remember - but that's the thing. What do I remember of this stranger I saw a few times a week? I remember his powder blue shirt and black jeans in music class, or the plain black tee with the same pants; but that's all. There were many days and hours I missed.
Did he dress in pastels more often than I remember, and I just didn't notice? Or does he dress in pastels now because, quite simply, he feels he can? How happy a place was school for him? Did it stifle him, like I know it stifles some? Does he feel freer now?
Many questions.
"That was amazing," he laughs in awe as the end credits roll up the screen and the lights come up. Sunken down in his seat, he has one hand over his mouth as he smiles broadly. "That was actually so good."
"I'm in some kind of shock, I think," I agree, sitting forwards in my seat, elbows perched on knees. "That was...flawless."
"I have a new favourite Disney film," he continues, almost sounding slightly high as he speaks. "I mean...the plot...and the soundtrack...as an artist, that must have been double awesome for you."
"I have to tell you, I tried my hand at animation about a year ago and started taking some beginners classes and I sucked. It's so hard. Seeing this kind of work is mind-blowing."
"You really did animation?" He chirrups as he finally slides out of his seat, picking up his bird satchel from the floor and hanging it from one shoulder as I stand, laughing.
"No, no - I tried."
"That's half the battle," he reasons with a smile.
We wait for everyone else to file out of the movie theatre first before we follow suit, breaking out into the brightly lit lobby with all its excitable people, squinting in the sudden switch from dark to light. I can't help but think that to an onlooker, Jaime and I must look like polar opposites. He looks like he climbed out of a pastel edit on Tumblr, and all he needs now is a flower crown and a stuffed animal. I, on the other hand, am at the opposite end of the spectrum: dressed in a black tee with grey flannel, a black hat and black jeans, so I could probably say I was cosplaying as Marceline the Vampire Queen from Adventure Time and not invite many questions. It's almost funny, the way we must look to others. It's funny to me.
And it is around that time I'm considering our complimentary clothing choices and glancing at the stars dancing in Jamie's eyes, still dazzled by the film, that I realise, for all Mike's teasing, he's right; oh boy, I'm crushing on this guy.
"You know what else I liked about it?" He pipes up after a while, just as we leave the cinema and break out into the fresh San Diego air.
"What?"
"No love interest," he grins. "Not one love interest. Damn, I am here for that."
"I know what you mean!" I agree vigorously, and his smile widens when he sees my enthusiasm. "So often in Disney films I feel like the romance and love interests overtake the story. In this one it was all plot, it was all about the heroine."
"Exactly," he nods. "So, uh...are you walking home or driving?"
"Walking," I confirm as we cross the car park and head for the street. "Which direction are we going in? Maybe we can walk together?"
"I'm going left."
"Great! Me too," I chirp with what is probably too much enthusiasm. "Anyway. I really like the alternative ways they explored love in that film. Platonic between Moana and Maui, and then familial between Moana and her grandmother."
"It was so subtly powerful," he agrees. "Is it weird how thrilled I am there wasn't a love interest? So often, I feel love is so misrepresented."
"Not at all. Say...is love something you believe in? Like, in reality?"
He slips his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit and tilts his head to himself, watching the concrete vanish beneath our feet as we walk along the sidewalk. "Mm...yes. Although I've yet to experience it. Do you?"
"Yes," I say strongly. "Although I've never had it either. But I do believe in it. Do you believe in fate? Soulmates?"
He whistles slowly, running a hand through his bird's nest of a hairstyle. "Damn. I believe in soulmates that change. I think at certain points in time, people are soulmates. But sometimes they don't stay soulmates. Sometimes their soulmates change."
"Interesting. Do you believe in...God?"
"Uncertain. Probably not."
"Do you believe in angels?"
"...no."
"Do you believe in demons?"
"I believe in personal demons."
"Do you believe in the Loch Ness Monster?"
He laughs heartily, letting his spirit into his voice, and it sounds like wind-chimes. Purposefully, I slow my footsteps, slowing down our journey, breathing in the conversation. "The what?"
"You know, the Loch Ness Monster! That big snake thing in that lake in Scotland. You know."
"Ah. Right. Er...I think I'd like to believe in it, but I don't know if I do."
"Do you believe in monsters in general?"
"Not really. I believe in human monsters. I've met plenty."
"Do you believe in superheroes?"
"Ha!" He bursts. "No! Vic Fuentes, you ask a lot of questions. Is that what you keep under your hats? Questions?"
Enjoying how cryptic I'm being, I throw a smirk in his direction and tip my hat; a brimmed fedora today, covering up the empty patches fully. "The taller the hat, the more questions I have hiding up there."
He nods, corners of his mouth curling. "You look good in hats."
Cars rush by on the road beside us, and the sun beats down and bakes the earth, warming its inhabitants, its creatures and its plants. In a tree on the opposite side of the road, I spot two sparrows flitting into the leafy cover, singing softly, and I am reminded of the swallow tattoo on Jaime's wrist. Today, it is covered by the pale pink pullover; but I know it's there, on that left wrist. Delicate, tasteful, two birds with forked tails to remind him to stay true to himself. "Speaking of questions," I start again, "when did you get that tattoo on your wrist?"
"When I was fifteen," he says nonchalantly, unbothered; but my jaw drops.
"Fifteen? That's so underage!"
"I know," he says smugly. "Probably the only rebellious thing I've ever done."
"How come you got it when you were so young?"
Some of his shyness seems to crash on him in a wave, and he blushes, suddenly nervous. Part of me regrets asking - I feel I've tugged at a sore spot. "Well..." he begins. "It was at a time when my life was kind of...crazy. I wasn't in a great deal of control. I wanted that tattoo so badly, I'd been planning it since I was a kid...so I went and got it done. Completely illegally, and it's a wonder I was even allowed in the tattoo parlour at the time...the only reason I got away with it was through my best friend, Tony."
"Tony? Tony who?"
"Tony Perry. He didn't go to Clairemont, I know him from outside of school, but he had friends and stuff and he was able to organise it for me. I didn't plan it very well, I had to hide it for the next three years of school under bracelets, mostly, or band aids. But in the end...I'm glad I got it."
Once more, his words are carefully chosen as he picks what details go into the story and which ones don't quite make the cut. It's information he doesn't want to withhold; but making it public knowledge is a no-go, so the description of events remains an outline. I tilt my head as we walk, trying to work him out and failing. "You have a lot of depth."
Shyness evaporated once more, he laughs. "Well, I'd hate to be one dimensional."
"Quite so," I nod, half smiling but half wondering still. He has a hundred miles of blank space beneath his surface - I wonder what's down there. I wonder what occupies him most, how many different pieces and compartments there are in his heart. Jaime is hardly a punk; he's a pastel boy, shy and anxious and kind, enamoured by the freedom of birds with a thing for scarves and a love of Mexican food. He didn't get a tattoo underaged to be rebellious, to say 'screw you society'. He didn't do it just to piss someone off, or to be defiant in the school - he spent the rest of his school life hiding it. So why would he do something so...out of the box? What was his prompt? His on-button?
"Tell me about this Tony guy," I continue, instead of pressing further. "He has friends in high places?"
"High in some ways," he giggles. "It's hardly like he has contacts with the Feds or anything but...sometimes his contacts can come in handy if you're looking to get heavily discounted tattoos or piercings, or if you're after some alcohol and you're underaged. He knows some dodgy people, I suppose, but Tony himself isn't dodgy at all. He's a sweetheart. He's about as shy as me, if not more, actually. I've known him for...probably about eight years all in all. He has a real passion for music...and for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, that's what brought us together I suppose. He's been the only constant in my life, since then."
"Best friend forever?"
"I suppose so," he nods. "I often stay over at his, when I don't fancy being at home."
"It's odd to think of you having a best friend," I say, before I've had a chance to consider the cryptic nature of what he just said.
"It is?"
"Well, all through school you were a question mark. It's weird to think that to someone else...you aren't. That sounds dumb, but..."
"I kind of get what you mean," he sympathises. "Thing was, I really just turned up to school for the classes. Every part of what I called my life, I forced to exist outside of school. I never wanted the two worlds to crash, I didn't want any aspect of either life spilling into the other."
"I get that," I nod. "Like, when I'm painting. I don't let the colours get too close to each other, because I don't like the way they look when they mix."
"Exactly!" He says enthusiastically. "It's different these days. You finish school, I guess, and life just becomes a fuzz."
"Isn't that the truth," I laugh bitterly.
Overhead, two sparrows fly side by side, crossing over the street and disappearing behind the rows of houses. We're quite a way from the cinema now, heading for my house, and I wonder where it is Jaime lives for him to be walking in the same direction as me; but I'm enjoying his company too much to question it, so we just walk together, footsteps falling in a pleasant rhythm on a world that turns mercilessly.
"Did you have a best friend in school?"
"Huh?" I start, being snapped out of my trance.
"Well, to me, you were a question mark too. Did you have a best friend?"
"I did," I confirm happily. "Do you remember Alex Gaskarth?"
"Kind of..." he says slowly. "I didn't really know him, but I knew of him."
"Yeah. Well, him."
I can't help smiling telling Jaime about Alex, because quite frankly, our relationship was hilarious, and more complicated than I can be bothered to fully explain.
Alex joined Clairemont in sixth grade after moving to San Diego from Baltimore on an academic scholarship, and we hit it off straight away because we both loved guitar and we both loved singing, even more so by the time we got to high school. We had infinitely different styles; although loving many of the same bands Alex's voice was so clean and open, moving in steps, where mine was raw and moved on sliders, and that was cool for when we got together to jam, Mike helping out with drums in the background for us. Alex was a funny guy, secretly caring and with an underlying panic disorder that he had previously received treatment for, but was still recovering from and which flared up to haunt him now and then. After many years of going to school and hiding beneath hats, somehow I was comfortable enough with Alex to admit to him I had alopecia, and he was the first person I'd told in a long time. He was cool with it, of course.
Alex was great. We only had half our classes together by sophomore year, but half was enough. And then, in junior year, we courted briefly - we kissed some, hung out some, fucked some...But, eh. That didn't work out, and we decided we worked better as best friends, so went back to that quite happily until we graduated at the end of senior year. We had a few weeks of celebrating the end of school before he moved back to Baltimore, kind of platonically breaking my heart. I'm still in touch with him, of course; but Skype isn't quite the same as actually hanging out, and it's not quite as comforting as it used to be. Alex was a safety net, and the safety net isn't around these days.
"He always seemed like a nice dude."
"He was," I agree. "Ever so kind and generous. A very gentle guy. Yeah, I knew him from sixth grade, grew up best friends, dated some, broke up, went back to best friends...he lives in Maryland now, unfortunately. But I'm still in touch."
"That's so great," he smiles. "I think any friendship that lasts after school is a good one."
"I do too."
We round the corner of my street before long, and we walk down the quiet road towards my house. They aren't big houses, but they're well kept at least, and the neighbours are friendly enough and responsible for their own properties. The gardens are small and pokey but tidy, and the road is cluttered with parked cars, but it's enough out of the way of the city streets that it doesn't cause traffic problems. The bus stop is at the top end of the street, and that's where Mike runs to every day and runs away from every evening. My house itself is situated about a third of the way down, and we stop outside its red brick front and pebble garden.
"So this is your house?" Jaime asks, looking up at the house with glittering eyes.
"It sure is. Dude, do you...I thought you live near the cafe."
Jamie's inquisitive look turns embarrassed in a flash, and his cheeks flush red as he bites his lip and looks down. "Um...yeah, I do."
"So...shouldn't you have gone in the opposite direction a way back?"
"Yeah," he admits, sighing.
"Why didn't you? You're way out of your way now."
He opens his mouth to speak, closes it again, and then tries once more, looking at me sheepishly with a cautious smile. "I kind of just...wanted to walk with you. And talk."
And I'm rendered speechless for a moment, before an involuntary smile climbs onto my features, subtly delighted. "Oh. That's...cool. I really enjoyed talking with you."
"That's a turn up for the books," he giggles, looking down.
"Hey, are you going to be able to get home okay?"
"Sure," he assures me, a little more confident now. "Tony actually lives not far from here, I'll catch the next bus and drop in on him for a bit. So I'll...see you again, sometime soon?"
"Sure thing, dude. I had fun today. Take care, okay?"
"You too, Vic," he chirps, and we part ways at my gate.
Once I'm inside the house, I leap nimbly into the front room and look out the window, pulling the curtains back slightly. I watch as he walks down the street, hands still in pockets, and his gaze ventures over to a tree on the other side of the road where there are birds nesting in the branches. He appears to whistle some, almost trying to attract their attention, and when one of them takes flight up into the crystal blue he smiles brightly. And I smile too, watching him.
With Mom and Dad out doing the grocery shopping and Mike with his friends, the house is empty, and I'm about to head upstairs for some sketching when my phone starts ringing, and I frown. I rarely get calls, and the frown deepens when I see the caller ID; Nick.
"Hello?" I start, answering the call.
"Hey Vic," Nick's voice sounds. "Sorry to bother you, dude, but...Mike had a seizure, and I think he should probably go home and I don't want him to get the bus so -"
"Wait, what?" I start incredulously. "Another seizure?"
"Yeah. He just collapsed for a few seconds and got confused. It was one of those quick ones...atonic? Is that what they're called?"
"Yeah," I confirm, stomach dropping as my worry levels suddenly spike. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine," Nick confirms quickly. "Here..." there's a sound of moving around, and then there's a second voice over the speaker.
"Hey," Mike says groggily, and I take off my hat and rub my head.
"Hey, buddy. You okay?"
"I'm fine. I'm just a little spacey and stuff."
"I'll come pick you up, kid. Guys, you there?"
"We're here," both Nick and Jordan chorus, and I put my hat back on and then grab my car keys from the hook, stepping outside again what feels like a moment after I got in.
"Good. Make sure he has something to drink. If he wants to sleep, let him. I'll be there in ten."
I try not to over-worry as I drive to Jordan's house, but it doesn't come easy. Mike having seizures is obviously not a shocking thing; but this is the third in a few weeks, and his medication is supposed to control them more than this. It doesn't sit well with me that suddenly, the frequency seems to be increasing.
And, true to my word, I am at Jordan's large, white, slightly messy but very homely house in just under ten minutes, ringing the doorbell with hands that are shaking a little. Whilst I wait for the door to open I admonish myself; it's not helping anyone, getting worked up.
Jordan's mom answers the door, chestnut hair swept back into a pony tail, glasses perched on the end of her nose, and she sighs with relief upon seeing me. "Ah, Vic," she says, further opening the door and allowing me to step in. "Glad you're here."
"Sorry to bust in, Mrs Fish," I apologise, and she shakes her head, putting a hand on my shoulder.
"Don't be silly, love. He's just through in the living room there."
She guides me into the large, well lit, spacious living room, but I don't care about the decor. All I care about is my brother lying down on the sofa, arm slung across his stomach, propped up with all of the couch cushions behind him. He tries on a weary smile upon seeing me, and I smile back, but it's nowhere near as confident.
"Hey, trouble. You alright? You aren't hurt?" I ask softly, completely ignoring Nick and Jordan, both sitting on the coffee table at differing angles, and I perch myself on the edge of the sofa beside him. He nods.
"I'm okay. Knee bruised, maybe. Sorry to drag you away from your date."
"I was already home," I dismiss, and then, point a finger accusingly. "And it wasn't a date."
Still a little confused and spaced out, he makes an attempt at laughing but it falls short at a huff. "Right."
"How are you feeling?"
"Rubbish," he admits, rubbing his forehead, and I frown concerned, and look over at Nick and Jordan, both equally worried.
"How long ago was it?"
Jordan checks his wristwatch and does some quick math in his head before settling on an answer. "About...twenty, twenty five minutes ago?"
"You should be feeling better by now," I mumble, turning back to him, and then take one of his hands. "Do you feel sick or dizzy at all?"
"A little nauseous," he shrugs, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing out, which only unsettles me more.
"Hm. I think we'll maybe stay here for a few more minutes. Wait for that to pass, yeah?"
"Okay," he agrees without reluctance, looking like all he wants to do is stop talking. Ideally, I want to get him home straight away - being in other spaces when he's in a bad state makes me uncomfortable because I don't know where first aid things or emergency phones are, and it makes him feel better to be somewhere he's familiar with; but the feeling of sickness and the continued spacey feeling is making me think there might be another seizure brewing, possibly a convulsive one, so we aren't going anywhere for now. If he's at the risk I think he is, it should happen within the next ten minutes. If it doesn't, I'll take him home.
"Have you guys had a good afternoon?" I ask Nick and Jordan, trying to normalise the mood. Immediately, Nick's smile springs up.
"Yeah, we did. Listened to some banging tunes, did some good study, ate pizza...it was rad."
"Sounds fun."
"What have you been up to then?"
"I went to see the new Disney film with a friend," I grin, the unease of the situation wearing off slightly, remembering what a good day I've actually had so far. Jordan immediately brightens and leans forwards.
"For real? Was it good?"
"It was awesome. I would absolutely recommend it."
"I always say that if it has your seal of approval, it's worth seeing."
I tip my hat forwards slightly and wink. "Well, I'm no Disney slouch. I have my standards."
"Mm," Mike moans softly, dragging us back to reality.
"Feeling worse?" I ask, voice dropping significantly, rerouting on automatic. He shakes his head, eyes still closed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"About the same," he murmurs, and I breathe out slowly, controlling my own nerves as well as his. There are triggers that don't necessarily cause seizures, but which make them more likely to happen. Some of these triggers include alcohol, not enough sleep, not taking medication...and internally I try and figure out if any of these are coming into play. They shouldn't be getting more frequent like this...he doesn't drink, so it's not that. Is he sleeping okay? Did he forget to take his meds this morning? He's barely missed a day since being prescribed, so surely not...
"Everything okay, boys?" A chirpy voice pipes form behind me, and I turn to smile reassuringly at Jordan's mom.
"They will be. We're just going to wait a few minutes, is that okay?"
"No problem," she nods gently, and dries her hands, wet and soapy from washing up, on the tea towel she has sung over shoulder. "Would you like anything to drink?"
"Tea would be nice," I confirm, relieved for the re-injection of normality. "In fact, I'll give you a hand. Shout if you need, okay Moik?"
"Such a weird nickname," he groans, and I take that as a confirmation, squeeze his hand and follow Jordan's mom out of the living room and into her lavish kitchen.
I get on well with the Fish family, and Olivia Fish has worked in healthcare previously in her life, so she isn't kicking up any kind of fuss about some kid having a seizure in her house, for which I am endlessly grateful. Olivia is a sweet woman, short and round in all dimensions and yet still the spit of her son, with dark wavy hair and crystal, icy blue eyes and angular cheekbones that set off her looks; but despite her look of ice she is warm and kind, and she smiles tenderly as she flicks on the kettle and I go to her cupboard, sighing, removing two mugs.
"He'll be fine soon, I'm sure," she assures me, answering my silent question, and I smile back, only half committing as I place a teabag in each cup.
"He will. I'm just a little concerned...this is the third one in a few weeks. And he's on meds, so..."
"Perhaps it's sleeplessness," she suggests. "This point in education, sometimes you lose sleep. Could be making him more vulnerable."
"Indeed," I agree, but I'm not convinced. The kettle boils quickly - it must already have had recently boiled water in it. Olivia takes both of the mugs and pours in the water before stirring each cup of tea, spoon clinking against the sides of the cup.
"Stress," she adds after a minute of silence, sprinkling some sugar in our drinks, and I start, part zoned out.
"Hm?"
"Stress is a common trigger, isn't it?" She checks as she passes me my drink. I take a sip gladly, the hot, sweet liquid calming my nerves slightly.
"It's cited, yes."
"Again, with the school," she continues regretfully. "It could be increased stress."
"His homework load has got pretty massive lately," I nod, leaning against the counter. She echoes my position, tucking a little hair behind her ear.
"I'm sure the education system wants to crush children with work. And of course, the bullying won't be helping..."
"Hm..." I hum softly, and then shake myself, realising what she just said, and I look over at her. "Wait, how did you know about that?"
"This Phil Green character has been making something of a ripple in our boys' friendship group," she says dryly, but keeps her voice down. "He seems to be honing in on poor Mike in particular. Nasty piece of work. Jordan's told me a little about him."
"I see...I did email the school. They said they'd taken a few steps to try and reign it back in, so...it should be a little under control now, at least."
"Quite. Well, regardless, this boy sounds quite despicable. I wouldn't expect such behaviour from a senior. First the name calling, and now the graffiti incident on Monday...no wonder Mike is stressed."
"Wait, graffiti?"
"I thought he told you," she frowns, surprise appearing on her features, tilting her head. "They went to collect their gym things from the sports lockers and someone had written graffiti across his locker."
"What did they write?"
"Jordan didn't say," she says resignedly, and then looks anxious. "Don't take your facts from me, I'm only an in-between, I may have got it all wrong. I would talk to Mike."
"I will," I nod, brow deeply furrowed. Monday...that was the day he was late home and hesitant when I asked him about school.
He was lying. I knew he was lying, when he said school was fine. I half suspected something had happened...but this? Graffiti on his locker? Public humiliation? That's fucked, and I'm not going to let this one slide; not when the actions of a bully are causing my brother as much physical distress as mental.
I was right - Mike does end up having another seizure, although a short one, and then I leave another fifteen minutes before finally getting him in the car and safe home. The moment we get in I set him down on the sofa and he falls asleep almost immediately, tired out and broken. My parents, home by this point, ask what happened, clearly concerned and confused, and I tell them. They feign bravery and professionalism, although I know they're as uncomfortable and upset as I am about it.
I don't tell them about the graffiti on the locker. I was going to confront Mike about it; but it would be pointless. Getting a coherent response out of him at this point would be drawing blood from a stone, so I decide to let him rest and ask him tomorrow, alone.
That night, as I lie listening to Purple Rain, my brain is tossed like salad. I think of Mike being bullied, and that makes me sad. Then I think of Jaime, and that makes me happy. The two emotions blend together and baffle me to the point of no understanding, so I just sigh, turn out the light, and try (and fail) to sleep restfully.
* * * * *