"Graffiti?"
"Yeah, apparently," I say resignedly as I polish some freshly washed coffee mugs and stack them on the shelf upside down, ready for retrieval on the next customer. Kellin gapes for a moment, frozen, tray of baked goods in hands. After a moment he shakes his head.
"That's so fucked up."
"I don't know what to do," I despair, stacking the last mug and then going over to the display cabinet to help Kellin arrange the fresh sweets on the shelves. "I mean, I can't take away mean people."
"It'll be enough for him to know you're there for him," Kellin assures me. "I know he knows it already, but when you're having rough times from someone you need reminding. You emailed the school, right?"
"I did. I half want to email them again, but...I don't want to somehow make things worse. I don't want to provoke more aggro."
"Just talk to him first. Get the whole story, and then come to a conclusion together."
I sigh as we position he final tart on the bottom shelf, and then close the lid of the cabinet on top. "Yeah."
The queue of customers has finally been reduced to zero and there is a temporary lull in the cafe population as the patrons settle in with their coffees and teas and cakes and sandwiches, and I take the opportunity to answer my phone as it goes off once more; Jaime. He's been texting me since I started my shift, and quite honestly, his conversation has been keeping me from being completely destitute today. My shift has been horrible, quite frankly, so far - Alan was out front this morning when I came in and forced me to hand over my hat, and I've been working for three hours now with plain, exposed, obvious patches of hairless skin all over my head. Continuously, I've been touching my head to try and disguise the bald patches, which isn't helping where I still have tiny pinprick bruises from the injections.
And of course, I still have the problem of Mike hanging over my head and bugging me, pushing down on my soul and filling me with unease. My instinct is to track down the person hurting my baby brother and kick their ass into next week, but that's not logical; so I must resort to seething quietly whilst trying to think up an effective solution. And I can't think of one.
Jaime:
So you think it really was a suicide?
Me:
Yeah, for sure. A tragic one, but I think the conspiracy theories mainly come from the private detective. He saw an opportunity, I assume, and made a story where there was none...
Jaime:
You know, you're almost definitely right but I'm such a sucker for conspiracy theories XD Do you think his wife had anything to do with it?
Me:
Mayyybe...I'm not a huge fan of Courtney tbh, idk why I just don't get a good vibe from her. I wouldn't put it past her to go along with a setup like that...but I don't think she orchestrated the conspiracy, since they had a kid and all and she was pretty young at the time
Jaime:
That's a good point actually. Yeah, I've never had a good vibe from Courtney, she seems a bit contrived to me.
Jaime:
I know about 90% of the dumbass tabloid theories are utter bullshit but even so every time I see a new CT I'm like WHOOAAA XD
"Vic, you are supposed to be working," Kellin's voice pipes up behind me, and I jump, startled, and then grin.
"Eh, there's nobody in the queue," I reason, and he rolls those icy eyes and goes to wipe down the counter as I reply once more.
Me:
Tbh I'm like that with conspiracies like JFK, you end up getting so wrapped up in the story before you know it you're waist deep in conspiracy theories and your grandmother committed the murder XD
"Kellin," I start, slipping my phone in my pocket and moving to polish the display cabinet, "how do you think Kurt Cobain died?"
"Suicide, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, that's the story, but do you think it was all a massive cover up and his wife really murdered him?"
Kellin snorts and then lets out a belly laugh. "No way! Nah, that guy had a lot of personal demons and they got the better of him, sadly. He wasn't murdered by his - I mean - good God, Vic! Who have you been talking to?"
I can't help laughing as my phone goes off again, and I pull it back out. "I made a new friend. He likes Nirvana. We've been discussing the death of Kurt Cobain."
"And you think his wife was...what, an axe murderer?"
"Not personally. I think it was a suicide. But it's speculation, isn't it? There are so many CTs surrounding his death..."
"Nice light hearted conversation for a Sunday mid-morning," Kellin nods.
Over the course of my shift, every time a customer enters and the queue builds I become more self conscious, and the amount of times I touch and rearrange my stupid patchy hair is, quite frankly, ridiculous, and the day would be set to go to shit were it not for Jaime on the other end of the digital spectrum. Somehow, his daft conversation maintains my sanity and gets me through to five o'clock. The more I learn about that peculiar boy, the more I talk to him, the more he talks to me...the more I'm starting to like him.
* * * * *
When I get home, Mike is cooking dinner, so I don't try and talk to him then. I just help him out with the curry and I pass on my conspiracy riddled Cobain stories with vigour, and he laughs at them and then makes his own crazy theories. We settle down for dinner in front of the TV watching Steel Magnolias. Mom cries at the film. I also cry at the film, but I hide it better.
Then after the film, Mike disappears back to his room to finish an essay due in a few days time in an attempt to get ahead of the game, so I postpone our conversation even further. It's my instinct to disappear to my room at this point and work on art or listen to music, but I decide that tonight, I'm going to stay here with my parents for a bit because I'm feeling sorry for myself about my hair and because both Mom and Dad look sad as heck today, so some company will do us all some good.
I don't end up going to Mike's room till about half past nine, which is later than I'd intended but early enough to still be a feasible talking point. I knock on his door, he chirrups 'come in,' and then I do so and shut the door behind me.
He sits cross legged on his bed with his laptop open and his headphones plugged in, but he quickly yanks them out of his ears and smiles. "Hey."
"Are you working?" I ask, heart dropping a little at the sight of his laptop still on; but he shakes his head.
"No, I was just chatting with the guys. Say hi, guys."
He spins the laptop around to face me and the faces of Nick and Jordan in separate screens beam out at me as they wave, and Mike tugs the headphone cable out of the audio jack for good, and noise spills into the room. "Hey Vic!" they chorus, and I wave back.
"Hey boys. Do you mind if I steal Mike back?"
"Sure thing dude," Nick nods, and then Mike spins the laptop back to face him and waves.
"See you in the morning."
"See ya," they chorus, and then Mike ends the call and closes his laptop before looking up at me, eyes happy, smile dancing. I feel bad that I'm about to squash that; but this is a conversation that needs to be had.
"Finished all your homework?"
"Jut about," he laughs as I perch on the bed beside him. "I was staring at that essay for like, fifteen minutes without doing anything. Why are conclusions so difficult? I can't finish stuff to save my life."
"I was never any good at them," I laugh back, and then let the humour become damp and fall down. "Can I talk to you for a bit?"
"Sure thing. I'm not in trouble, am I?" He jokes, but I can't get on board with it. I just smile sympathetically and ruffle his hair.
"Definitely not in trouble. Mike...what's this about graffiti on your locker?"
And almost instantly, the smile evaporates and the light leaves him. Suddenly, he's fearful, shocked, embarrassed...all at once, and because of all of that he doesn't say a word in response. He just stares at me for a moment, face fallen, eyes wide, shocked, and then looks away and clasps his hands in his lap, hunching his shoulders, as if trying to make himself as small as possible in the hope he'll disappear. "How did you find out?" He says quietly at last, still not looking at me.
"Jordan's mom let slip. She thought I already knew. I know you probably don't want to talk about it or even remember it and ordinarily I'd respect that, but...I'm going to have to force you on this one. Tell me what happened."
"You can't stop it," he reasons, shaking his head. "There's no point."
Trying to be affectionate but not invasive, I put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. "I can't stop the mean people. But I can give you a safe place to land."
He swallows and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, breathing out slowly. For a second I think he's just not going to answer, but then he finds it in him to speak. "I went to fetch my gym stuff out of the locker room and all the sophomores were walking out sniggering. When I went to go and get the stuff someone had written GLITCH in capitals across my locker in spray paint."
Somewhere in my stomach, something twists, and I resist the urge to immediately get angry as heck and instead force myself to be calm and sympathetic, shuffling over and tightly wrapping an arm around him. Perhaps something tells him to resist it at first, but then he gives up and leans into me. "That's why I was late home on Monday," he admits. "I was trying to wash the paint off. I managed most of it but some wouldn't come off."
"Oh, Mike," I sigh, ruffling his hair with one hand, rocking him slightly. "I'm so sorry. That's awful."
"I don't know what to do," he says softly, and his voice almost seems to be breaking. "I'm scared it's going to get worse."
"It's not going to get worse," I insist. "I'm not going to let it. We're going to come up with some solutions, okay? Have you talked to any of the teachers?"
"Like balls I have," he huffs. "It's so embarrassing, and anyway...what if me saying something makes it worse?"
"I get that," I say calmly, rubbing his shoulder. "But this won't do. Thing is, yes, it might get worse if we try anything, but it will probably also get worse if we do nothing. So it's worth trying. Why don't I go in and see Miss Elliot? We might be more productive if we have a conversation face to face. You don't have to come, but you could if you want. And on your part...how about Honest Abe? He said he'd back your corner if it came to it, so you know he'll be sympathetic if nothing else. Thing is, Mike, what this son of a bitch is trying to do is single you out and make you feel apart from everyone else and alone, but you aren't. You have me, you have every teacher at school who's ever had you for a lesson, you even have Mom and Dad, and you have Nick and Jordan. You aren't on your own."
"I know," he nods quickly, and then seems to completely give up and shuffles even closer, wrapping his arms around my waist, and I encircle him too, gripping tightly, swaying.
"In the meantime, focus on the new Good Charlotte era approaching. That's worth anything, right?"
"You bet," he laughs, leaning his head on my shoulder, and I feel him smile. "Thanks, Vic. I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
"Don't be sorry, trouble."
Silence settles around us as we stay wrapped up, and as soon as I think enough time has passed I start wriggling my fingers, jabbing against his skin, and he giggles and squirms. "Don't," he warns, but I disregard him and wriggle my fingers again, this time a little sharper, and he flinches and laughs. "Vic, no!"
And then I retract myself quickly and dive for his ribs, and his whole body flips and jerks as he erupts in ridiculous giggles and falls back on his bed, and he tightens all of his limbs and tries his best to curl up but I pretty much have him pinned down by this point, and through laughs so deep they leave him breathless he keeps telling my to stop, and that just makes me laugh too, and I tickle and tickle and tickle him till he cries.
* * * * *
Jaime reaches into his satchel and produces another packet of seeds and grain, carefully tearing the corner off using one hand plus his teeth, as the other is still holding the ice cream.
"Wouldn't a loaf of bread be less hassle?" I ask as he takes a lick of his ice cream and dips two fingers into the now open packet.
"Bread is actually bad for ducks," he explains, and he tosses a scattering of seeds forth into the pond water. Five ducks suddenly come to life and dive for the seeds in a flurry of feathers and flapping feet, causing vast ripples in the water that spread out to all reaches of the pond. I take a lick of my own ice cream and tilt my head.
"Is it really? I never knew that."
"White bread in particular is bad," he carries on, and offers me the packet of seeds. I hold out my hand and he sprinkles some of the grains in he palm, which I then throw out to the pond. Once more the ducks flap madly, and I half smile at it.
"Why's that?"
"It has pretty much no nutritional value for ducks," he explains. "But it tastes nice, so they can fill up on it instead of things that are of use to them. That can cause a disease called angel wing, which damages their wings so they can't fly, which means they usually die. And also, any other uneaten parts can change the water chemicals and increase the risk of avian disease. And mouldy bread can cause algal blooms, which attract vermin like rats."
"Is that so?" I muse, and he scatters some more seeds as I catch a little splodge of ice cream with my tongue before it drips onto my hand.
The ice cream is vanilla, chocolate and caramel, all swirling atop its cone, and it hits the spot on this hot, sticky day. It was Jamie's idea - ice cream and chatting on the bench in the park, and that was perfect. It required minimal social interaction with other people and meant we could spend time doing things we loved - for him, the thing he loves is feeding the ducks, and for me, it's eating ice cream.
"What flavour is that?" Jaime asks, glancing over at my ice cream.
"Gold Medal Ribbon. What's yours, again?"
"Blueberry cheesecake."
"I didn't even know that was a thing."
"It's an old favourite of mine," he smiles, taking a lick and pouring the final seeds into his palm before leaning forwards and scattering them.
"Mike is dead boring," I half laugh. "He just likes vanilla. Doesn't even get sprinkles."
"Aw," he giggles, and then falls quiet, but it's a quiet that seems more normal for him. It's almost as if being silent, being around nature, around birds, provides a calming agent. After a few licks of ice cream, he asks; "how is Mike, by the way? How's he been this year of high school?"
"Still achieving," I say adoringly. "He isn't a straight A student but he makes constant improvement and his work ethic is untouchable. The teachers love him. But...I don't know. Recently, he's been being bullied quite a bit."
"Oh no," he starts, sitting up, and for some reason it astonishes me how he seems to care unconditionally. "That's terrible. Not because he's epileptic?"
"Yeah. I know, it's fucked. You know, he's been at Clairemont as long as we were, and he's never had anything like this. I mean, he's had kids being pricks before, we all have, but never targeted bullying like this. It's kind of extreme."
"I hope that stops," he says sincerely, shaking his head as he watches the ducks on the pond. "He's a good kid."
"He's the best kid."
Jamie's ice cream has lost its dome shape by this point as is beginning to disappear, and mine is not far behind. When was the last time I enjoyed ice cream this much? I don't think I even remember the last time I had ice cream. "If you don't mind me asking," he continues, completely focused on the frozen sweet, "how does epilepsy work?"
"It's caused by electrical disturbances in the brain," I start, "but we know little more. It's not actually particularly well understood by doctors, let alone the people who have it. I mean, Mike started getting seizures when he was two and a half and was diagnosed when he was three, and he's seventeen now and we still have no idea what actually makes him short circuit. All we know is what it does to him, and that's the fits. I mean, there are a bunch of different kinds. There are clonic seizures, atonic seizures, tonic seizures...and others too. He's on medication for it, which does him many favours, but there are triggers that makes them worse sometimes. Stress is a big one for him. Which of course, is making things worse at the moment."
"Gosh."
"But it's not all bad," I say quickly. "For the most part...he's just a happy teenager. He likes reading books and talking with his friends and playing video games...music. He loves music. Obsessed with drums. He loves Good Charlotte and Green Day...if I had a dollar for every time I've heard American Idiot come blasting from his room I'd have enough money to put me through college."
"He has good taste," Jaime nods. "He'd get on well with Tony. He loves that kind of thing. I do too, of course...Nirvana and New Found Glory and Guns 'n' Roses and stuff...secretly, I have a thing for musical theatre."
"Really?" I smile broadly, completely forgetting about my ice cream for a moment and turning to look at him. He seems lost in thought for a second, vacant smile on simple features, dark eyes hazy and content, and then he seems to shake himself and realises what he said. Despairing, he laughs and puts a hand over his eyes.
"I can't believe I just told you that. That's so embarrassing."
"No!" I insist, sitting forwards. "No, it's not. It's quite different. What's your favourite musical?"
He's frozen like his ice cream for a moment, almost trying to work out if I'm being sarcastic. Eventually, he seems to decide I'm actually being serious, and he unfreezes and settles slightly. "Well...I don't know if I can pick a favourite. I really like Blood Brothers, that one makes me cry. Les Mis is a classic. Grease, of course...Umm...I love Wicked if only for Defying Gravity."
"I like that song."
"It's pretty cool. Have you seen The Lion King musical?"
"I haven't, actually."
"It's really breathtaking. I love it so much. I think...I think if I were forced to pick a favourite, I'd have to pick Hairspray. That's kind of cliché but the music is killer and the story is powerful and it's so funny, too..."
"Hairspray is very cool," I agree, taking the first bite of the cone and then lapping up the ice cream before it melts out. "You know what? You're really interesting."
"I'm really quite average," he disagrees, smiling. "I mean...musical theatre is hardly extraordinary."
"You're far from average, Jaime Preciado," I say quietly, and then we sit in some silence and watch the ducks swimming atop the pond, occasionally letting out a quack or preening their feathers. Whilst the quiet of the world settles like dust around us, I continuously look over at Jaime. I study his side profile, and in my head match it to his full profile, and I study the candid emotions painted in watercolour on his face. I study which features are rounded (his eyes, his lips), and which are angular (his nose, his cheekbones), and I study the places the light glances swiftly and delicately off his skin. Tufts of hair move in the breeze slightly, that hair like a bird's nest...
His clothing choice today constitutes a mint green tee with a pixel cat sticking out of the top pocket and pale blue jeans. With his swirly blueberry ice cream he almost looks as if he could be a mood board with an aqua theme.
But, on his wrist, there is a flash of black and yellow, and I look closer at it; two black stripes and one yellow stripe on a bracelet, and then in the middle the loop is connected by a small metal ornament. I have to squint at it for a moment to figure out what it is - but then I see it's a badger, and I brighten.
"You're a Hufflepuff?"
He pauses, and then smiles slowly, continuing to demolish the ice cream. "You noticed the bracelet, huh?"
"Hufflepuff," I repeat, smiling and nodding, because I can totally see him as a Hufflepuff boy. He nods back.
"Badger pride. What are you?"
"Can you guess?"
He turns to face me and narrows his gleaming eyes as he crunches on the ice cream cone, and in that gaze he wraps me up and encircles me in that bubble, where everything just stops existing outside of it. He tilts his head. "You aren't a Ravenclaw," he says, almost to himself. "You're Gryffindor or Hufflepuff."
"Why wouldn't I be a Ravenclaw?"
"You aren't logical enough," he explains, and then collects himself. "I don't mean that as a bad thing - I mean, you're much more emotional minded. You're too emotionally driven to be a Ravenclaw."
"Interesting deduction."
"Hufflepuff or Gryffindor...I think you might be too rational to be a Gryffindor."
"I'm not Slytherin?"
"You're not selfish enough to be Slytherin," he says certainly, and something about the level of assurance with which he says that makes my heart swell. "No, I think...I think you're a mix of all the houses. You're creative like Ravenclaw, clever like Slytherin and brave like Gryffindor. Which would put you in Hufflepuff."
"Damn, I thought you were going to say Gryffindor," I laugh, and he perks up even more.
"I'm right?"
"Hufflepride for life," I confirm, and he laughs in astonishment and ridiculous glee, thrilled he guessed right. "It's the best house, isn't it?"
"It is the best house!" He exclaims, possibly the most animated I've seen him. "Our common room is on the ground floor. We're in a cosy little burrow."
"We're next to the kitchens," I add. "It's perfect for midnight snacks."
"Our house colours are really warm and gentle," he continues.
"We have Cedric Diggory."
Jaime gasps, realising, and I can't help laughing again. "God, yeah! We really are the best."
"Without a doubt. Are you a book Potterhead or film Potterhead?"
"Books first, then the films," he says certainly. "I'm a book geek, remember?"
"With a job in a library and everything," I chuckle. "Which book is your favourite?"
"Um...probably Prisoner of Azkaban. Possibly Order of the Phoenix, I feel that was the year Harry stopped giving a shit and became master sass pants."
"Favourite character?"
"Luna, without a doubt," he smiles, and then casts me an amused glance. "Those questions are spilling out from under your hat again."
As an automatic response the hand that isn't holding the ice cream flies to my grey beanie and carefully pats it down, ensuring it's covering the parts of my head I know there are spots. The latest injections have encouraged some fuzz to start growing, but a patch is a patch and I'm hardly going to show them off. "Plenty more when they came from."
"I do wonder what's under all your hats," he muses, and finishes his ice cream. "Is it like in Ratatouille and you have a small animal hiding under there?"
"Busted," I confirm, and he laughs heartily.
I actually almost come clean; almost, but not quite. I almost let on the truth, like I did with Alex all those years ago...but I don't, because I'm still scared. What scares me, exactly, is uncertain - he's hardly a petty guy. He wouldn't just stop being my friend because of something as trivial as hair; but I don't know him well enough to say he wouldn't see me differently. I've always made a point of the whole my disease doesn't define me mantra, but in my case I perhaps take it too far. My confidence hinges on ignoring my illness, not accepting it, and hiding it from others, not displaying it. If I were to admit alopecia to Jaime now, wouldn't it colour the way he learns about me from now on? I don't want that. I want him to like me first, and then maybe I'll give him the chance to change his mind about me. I feel like we're in a kind of honeymoon period right now - I'll give that the opportunity to stretch on a little longer before I mess it up.
Jaime has secrets too, and they link back to his family. That much is obvious, and the more I think about it the more intriguing it is. Jaime's whole name is undeniably Spanish; Jaime Preciado. But his parents, Sarah and Andrew...you couldn't get more American sounding names. The way Jaime said 'finally' when he said he was in with his folks is suspicious, and the distance between him and his brother further complicates the puzzle. There are things that have gone on in his life that maybe he, like me, sees as relationship ruining, and he doesn't want to jeopardise that; so as long as he stays quiet, so do I. Perhaps we'll both come clean at some point.
"We could go to the theatre sometime," I say suddenly, breaking the silence, and he cocks his head to the side.
"Huh?"
"Well...I can't say I keep up with musicals or stage shows, but if there's ever anything you really want to go and see, I'll come with you. Sounds like it could be fun, don't you think?"
"It sure would," he smiles, and then we just settle back on the park bench and watch the birds on the pond.
* * * * *
From: l.elliot1969@virgin.net
Re: Meeting
Hi Vic,
I truly am sorry to hear that not only has the issue not been resolved but it seems to have worsened recently. Of course, this won't do, and I am happy to facilitate you in my timetable to have a chat and work out some solutions. I'm available at 12:30 tomorrow, or 15:30 same day. I hope one of those is okay for you.
Miss Elliot
* * * * *
Title credit: Gold Medal Ribbon, by Pierce the Veil