Connor joins us for lunch every day, eating more and more of his food each time. He skips 6th period so much, his teacher starts giving him the work in advance. I bring him a 3 Musketeers bar every day in 4th, rewarded with a smile. He makes us split it, but I'm hoping that's a start.
"Connor, I don't know how to say this without sounding weird and mushy. . ." I trail off.
"Don't," he commands, "I won't be the only one anymore."
"Okay," I continue, "We're really proud of you, man. I know you may not be ready to talk about it yet, but it's great to see you eating."
"Mom says the same thing," he snorts, "I'm not so convinced."
"You look great," I assure him, "In the straightest way possible."
"This," he points back and forth between us, "Is strictly a bromance."
"Of course," I agree, laughing, "A three-way bromance." Silver winks his approval, unable to talk through his mashed potatoes.
"But," I add, "I did mean it when I said you could talk to us. We're always here."
"Yeah," Silver contributes, finished plowing through his mountain of food, "No judgement."
"Alright," Connor swallows nervously, "You've probably guessed most of it: I used to be anorexic. I'm recovering now, day by day. It's hard going, but I'll get there."
"That's great," I affirm, "That you're recovering, not that you had it in the first place. Sorry."
"It's fine," he waves me off, "I'm just glad you didn't say something about how 'boys can't have eating disorders'. That's bullcrap."
"Nah," I shake my head, "I knew a guy in middle school who was bulimic. It's a real thing."
Connor nods, ducking his head into his chest, "The worst part," he whispers softly, "Was when I got out of rehab. I was expecting regular bullying, some chants of 'psycho' and 'freak'. I never could've imagined what would people do." He stops talking for a second, burying his head in his hands.
"Do you want us to change the subject?" I ask softly, putting a hand on his arm.
"I'm good," he exhales, taking a deep breath, "The first night I was home, our neighbor brought a casserole over. She talked only to my mom, telling her what a shame it was, how I used to be such a good boy. She wouldn't acknowledge me at all, even though I was standing right in front of her. There were so many people like that, coming over to our house to offer condolences. No one congratulated me on beating my illness, no one said a single word to me! It was like a funeral, no smiles or laughter. They made it seem like I was dead, and they were offering apologies."
"I'm so sorry," I murmur, "Stars, that must have been awful. What the heck is wrong with people where you come from?"
"So much," he rolls his eyes, "Small town in Ohio, you know?"
"Oh," I grimace, "Yikes."
"Although," he adds, "There was one friendly face. The old lady who lives across the street from us came over the morning after the mourners cleared out. She talked to both Mom and me amiably, as if nothing was wrong. She asked me to come over and meet her granddaughter, then watch the younger ones for a couple of hours. It made me feel amazing that she trusted the wacko with kids, and tried to set me up with her granddaughter. Everyone else let me believe I was less than human, a freak. At the end of that glorious day, she took both of my hands in hers and looked me straight in the eye. She said 'Never listen to those stuck-ups. Everyone gets a bad hand at some time. This was yours, you survived, you're better now. If they give you any more trouble, tell them Nanni Adelajda said to get their heads out of their arses and look around.'"
"That is one great old girl," I laughed, "You ever see her again, tell her she has a fan all the way in Bayridge."
"Make that two," Silver chimes in.
"Three," Connor smiles.
"So," Silver flutters his eyelashes mischievously, "What ever happened with the grandaughter?"
"Oh," Connor blinks, turning red, "We hit it off really well. My old girlfriend had dumped me because, and I quote, she couldn't date a boy skinnier than her. I was hesitant about another relationship, but Amelia was awesome." He pauses for a moment to open his phone.
The home screen is a picture of him with a girl I assume is Amelia. She has black and purple hair, dark eyeliner, and a couple well-placed piercings. She pulls it off though, the whole punk-rock attitude.
"She convinced me to pierce my nose," he admits, pointing to a small bronze ring I had never noticed before.
"That's great," I affirm, "She sounds nice."
"More than nice," he contradicts, "She navigated me through the school hallways those first days back, telling anyone who stared to. . ." he leaves the sentence hanging, letting us guess what she might have said.
We stayed, laughing about the imaginary things she could have said until the warning bell for seventh period blares overhead. We scramble up, rushing to get our backpacks and avoid being late. I slide in just as the final bell signals the automatic doors to close, surprised to see Fortune missing from her regular seat beside me.