Patrick
April 19th
"Things have been so calm...it's like everything is...almost boring." Pete puffs out smoke.
"I see what you mean," I cringe at the smoke he blows in my face, "but it's better this way."
He chuckles, tossing the cigarette into the trash.
"You're right, 'Trick."
He kisses me, slow and sweet. I can taste the smoke on his tongue, he's killing himself slowly.
We pull away and I smile at him, his golden brown eyes lighting up.
We're sitting on a bench in the back of the school. Pete wanted some 'Patty&Pete time' after school, so here we are.
"You know, you're just killing yourself, Pete. By smoking—you'll get lung cancer or something." I try.
"Eh, I'm cool with dying."
"You can't...I need you."
And the conversation has turned more serious; or I at least think it does maybe take in a dark hint.
"Let me smoke one."
"What?"
I scoff, "you heard me."
"Patrick-"
"Fucking pass me one." I demand.
He sighs, passing me the box of cigarettes. I take out one and put it in my mouth. I snap my finger at him, not even looking in his direction. He groans and passes me the lighter.
"You light the end then-"
I light it and inhale the smoke into my lung, and goddamn that feels good. So fucking good.
I breathe out and sigh, tossing the lighter back to Pete. He has this surprised look on his face.
"What?" I exhale smoke into his face.
He bats it away, "how do you know how to smoke? You didn't cough or anything-"
"Gerard and I used to smoke in seventh and eighth grade after school at my house to...relieve stress. I vowed to never touch one of these things again, but I guess times change." I admire the cig.
I blow more smoke out of my mouth.
"I honestly forgot some shit, but I guess I got it." I say.
Pete's silence for a moment.
"I hate when you do things right."
"Fuck you." I blow more smoke in his face.
"Patrick, could you fucking quit it?? Jesus Christ." He pushes me back a bit.
"What the hell?" I groan, "what's gotten into you? You're acting like an asshole, Pete."
"Oh shut up, Stump." He stomps on his fag.
"You're telling me to shut up? You're the one who's being all pissy!"
He scowls, "Whatever."
He looks around the moist and rain-covered terrain. Little droplets falling off leaves. It's funny how it can snow one week then rain the next.
"I'm going home." Pete says.
He picks up his backpack and starts walking away.
"Hey, where the hell are you going?"
He keeps going, and I chase after him.
"Pete, please, we're fighting over cigarettes! Can't we work this out...?" I grab his arm.
He sighs, "you wanna come home with me?"
I smile, "it would be my honor."
———
"Thank you, Ms. Wentz...this is amazing." I scarf down more chicken.
She laughs, "I'm glad you like it."
Pete, his mother, and I sit at the dinner table eating. This is the first time I've been to Pete's house, and I must say it's quite different than I imagined it being.
I live in a small apartment, and I pictured Pete in one too. But, no. He lives in a smaller house on the good side of town. His mom must make good money—which I'm happy about. Pete deserves good things.
"You're eating like you've never eaten a home-cooked meal before!" She laughs.
Pete facepalms sadly and I just continue eating, just a bit slower.
"What?" Ms. Wentz looks around concerned.
"Oh, no, it's just that I really...never have had a family dinner or home-cooked food." I down my koolaid.
"Oh," she frowns, "Patrick, I'm sorry."
"No, it's fine," I smile, "instant ramen tastes great too."
We laugh.
"If you don't mind me asking, sweetheart, but what's your living situation?" Ms. Wentz asks curiously.
"Mom!" Pete scolds.
"Peter, I was just asking-"
"DO NOT CALL ME PETER!"
"Pete Lewis Kingston Wentz!"
"Dad called me Peter..." he mutters.
"I know. I'm sorry," Ms. Wentz faces me, "I'm sorry."
I smile, "it's okay."
"Does that bother you cause he's past or because he'd...occasionally, um,"
"The 'occasionally' part, ma." Pete stabs his potatoes.
"I'm sorry, Patrick. I'm assuming you already know about Pete's father...We don't mean to scare you."
I frown and speak before my brain can even register what my mouth is saying.
"My dad's in jail for 30+ years because of sexual assault towards my mother and me. I get it. It's fine."
Ms. Wentz gasps, and Pete looks astonished.
"What?"
"Oh my god, sweetheart, I'm so sorry!" She puts her hands in mine, "if you ever need someone to talk to, honey...I'm here, Pete's here...I'm so sorry."
I frown, "it's fine, really. I've gotten over it...as long as I don't have to look him again."
"Oh, sweetie."
Pete grabs my hand from under the table and squeezes tightly, and he looks about ready to cry. He feels bad, but I don't want him to.
What's done has been done. No need to linger. It's not heavy anymore—my bruises have healed and my scars are just a reminder that he can't hurt me anymore.
"You're poor mother...do you live with her?"
"No, actually. She's lives at a hospital up state. I get to visit her every Tuesday, and that why I stole Pete for all of this previous Tuesday. I live with my mom's boyfriend. He's...cool, I guess. He never really grew up. Still parties, drinks...yeah—and I'm sorry I think maybe I should stop talking..."
"Patrick, you talk all you want." She holds my wrist, "we're here for you."
And I smile.
I feel welcomed for once.
"Now...who wants ice cream?"
———
"If I said vanilla's for ice cream and then threw your vanilla cone into the bushes and had some kinky sex with with you, how mad would you be?" Pete says as we sit on his front porch.
I snort, "you're weird, man."
"I'm just saying..."
I hit his arm, "Yeah, Yeah, Mr. I'm so experienced with kinky sex."
He raises an eyebrow, "Are you question my abilities?"
"No, just pissing you off." I laugh.
There's a brief silence where we just watch the sky—shades of purple and blue turning into black night lit up but shining, white stars—where I just lick my vanilla ice cream cone and Pete stares at his chocolate one.
"You can tell a lot about a person based on if they like vanilla ice cream or chocolate ice cream more, or if they like both equally." Pete says.
I laugh, "What?"
"Like chocolate ice cream locals are more childish, am I wrong? Vanilla people are more chill, quiet—neat. And if you like both, you're like the weirdo with creativity."
I pause, "so I'm chill?"
He shrugs, "Yeah."
"And you're...childish?"
"I prefer Creative."
I look at my ice cream, then him. I put it up to his mouth and he licks it. I lick it, then look back at the ground.
He rubs his eyes.
"Did your father rape you?"
And then it all went crashing down.
Memories, the flood gates opening.
I'm over it, I swear.
Fuck.
I start crying and he catches on and quickly pulls my into his arms.
"Holy shit, Patrick, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked that..."
I cry into his shirt, nodding. Only to answer his question.
"He-"
I try speak but my voice is torn and shredded. So I just nod more and Pete catches on.
"I'm so fucking sorry that happened..." he bites his lip, "How old?"
I hold up six fingers. Then seven, then eight, and then nine. He looks confused.
"A-ages...si-i-ix to ni-ine."I cry more.
And then he kisses my head, and I feel safer. Safer than ever, really.
I need a drink, I swear to god.