Author's Note: Gosh, it's been far too long, hasn't it? To everyone's who's emailed and not heard back, I actually have a legit excuse. My email was hacked! No idea who, but a not-so-nice person decided to hack my hotmail account and sent some unpleasant emails to people in my address book.
Disappointing, to say the least.
Anyway, if you've emailed in the past and haven't got a response, please don't be discouraged from emailing again. It's a silly cliché, but fan mail is really the only payment we get around here. And personally, I'm fond of every single reader who takes the time to email and give me their thoughts on my story.
So, if you wanna get in contact, my email address is mcooke0@utas.edu.au.
If you wanna add me on MSN, my address is pluginmatty@hotmail.com. Please don't email my hotmail account though, as the inbox is unattended.
Apart from that, sit back and enjoy chapter five of The Things You Fear The Most.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
The damned coffee was cold.
Somewhere between the words 'I hate him' and 'God damn it, I fucking hate him', the stupid damned coffee had gone cold.
"Ugh, I need a hot drink," the kid muttered, staring in disbelief at the beverage in his hand. The coffee may have long since lost its warmth, but the burning rage inside had only just begun to ignite. "What?!"
"Nothing," the Detective smirked, making fun of the kid's obviously heated demeanour. "Maybe you should try staring at it some more,"
"Oh shut up," the kid told him, not seeing the funny side at all. "Seriously, why are you looking at me like that?"
"No reason," the Detective said, trying unsuccessfully to hide his bemusement. "Unless you count the fact that you didn't answer the question."
"Oh."
"Yeah," the Detective grinned, tapping the pen against his notebook as he searched for a delicate way to frame his next words. He thought better of it. "Now answer the bloody question."
"Um, what was the question again?" the kid asked, the slightest tinge of pink across his cheeks. "I think I forgot."
"Your father," the Detective repeated, some of his previous bemusement making way for frustration. "He's having an affair, right?"
"Oh. Um, yeah," the kid said, so quietly that the Detective almost didn't catch it. "They were... are... yeah."
"For how long?" the Detective asked, giving a small nod as he motioned for Will to continue. By this stage, though, the kid wasn't even looking at him.
"About five years, I guess," he said, appearing to consider it for a moment. "Yeah, five years. Give or take."
"And how long have you known?" the Detective asked, pressing the issue further.
"Since my parents divorced, I guess."
"And when was that?"
"When I was twelve." His voice was clearer, louder, stronger now. "Just after I started high school."
"Oh ok," the Detective responded, frowning slightly as he processed the information. "That must have been hard for you."
"Mmm." The kid merely shrugged in response.
"I can relate, you know," the Detective continued, recalling his own memories of a broken home. "My parents divorced when I was eleven."
"Mmm."
"So if you ever need to talk about..."
"Whatever," the kid said, trying his best to remain disinterested.
"I'm serious, Will," the Detective continued, emotion briefly overtaking his logic. "If you ever need anything..."
"I need more coffee." Just like that, the moment was gone.
"Ok," the Detective sighed, his shoulders slumping a little as he set his notepad back down on the desk. "Coffee it is, then."
It was almost 7pm by the time my father walked in the door, setting his briefcase down in the foyer as he marched straight down the hallway toward the kitchen. Opening the door with his usual precision, the timing of his arrival coincided with the exact moment that the oven timer signalled dinner was ready. God damn, it was perfect.
In fact, everything else about dinner that night was perfect, too.
The beef was tender, the vegetables were crisp, the conversation fluid... gosh, it was all so perfect. And as if that wasn't perfect enough, when we finally did sit down at the dining table and begin to enjoy our meal, I was treated to a perfectly detailed rundown of everyone's entire perfect day.
Perfect.
There was a grand tour of the day spa next to Montgomery's, with its mud baths that were 'simply divine!' There was the law firm's newest partner, a glowing example of how a 'good, smart kid' could go a long way in this world. And there was the upcoming second honeymoon, complete with its 'astonishing!' view over Sydney Harbour.
Perfect.
I think even Carol Brady would have been proud.
"So what do you have planned for the weekend, Will?" Stepmother #3 asked, turning her attention to me as I stared down at the julienne carrots in front of me (which, by the way, needed a little more salt).
"Not much," I told her, conveniently forgetting to mention the party I wasn't planning. "Play some xbox, shoot some hoops, surf the net, I guess."
"Sounds like fun," she said, smiling.
"Mmm." Sounds perfect.
"Anything else planned?" she continued, smiling again as we made eye contact for the first time during the meal.
"Not really," I shrugged, turning attention back to the carrots.
She didn't say anything after that, looking a bit uncomfortable as the next few moments passed in silence. The perfect dinner was beginning to lose its gloss, and before I could get it back...
"You're not having a party."
Suddenly, the mountain had been brought to Mohammed.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, you're not having a party," my father repeated, giving me a smile that could only be interpreted as 'gotcha!' "I know what happened last time I left you home alone; and I'm telling you, it's not going to happen again."
"Whatever," I told him, waving my hand dismissively as I set my knife down and began to pick at the food. "Go away."
"Don't speak to me like-"
"Pass the salt," I asked loudly, cutting him off as I turned attention back to my stepmother.
"Please," he admonished, intent on picking a fight through whatever means necessary.
"Pass the salt," I repeated, not even bothering to look in his direction. "Please."
"And what else do you say?" he continued, still prattling on as she passed the saltshaker across the hardwood table.
"Thank you," I told her, rolling my eyes as I turned attention back to the meal in front of me. "Thank you very, very much."
"Don't be sarcastic," he said, raising his voice again. "I didn't raise you to..."
"JUST FUCK OFF," I told him, raising my own voice to match his level. "Seriously, SAVE IT FOR SOMEONE WHO CARES."
"Don't you dare speak to me like that."
"Or what?" I asked him, mocking his jabbing motion with my left fist. "You'll what, hit me? Would you really be stupid enough to do it in front of-?"
Oh great, she's gone.
Perfect.
"In front of whom, Will?" he asked, sitting back regally in the hardwood chair as his hand made a sweeping gesture. "Well, in front of whom?"
And just like that, I'd given him the upper hand.
Perfect.
Just fucking perfect.
He looked so smug, sitting back in his chair as if it were some sort of throne. Crossing his arms and tilting his head, he was the picture of self-satisfaction, firmly set high on his perch and not a hope of ever being dislodged...
Naturally, it was time to tear the prick down.
"Enjoy your 2pm 'meeting'?"
Yeah, that got your attention.
"Excuse me?" He sat up straighter in his seat.
Now you don't look so comfortable.
"Did you enjoy your 2pm meeting?" I repeated, watching him stifle a look of surprise before I moved in for the kill. "She even wore your favourite perfume."
He opened his mouth to say something, but wisely closed it before even making a sound.
"Oh yeah," I continued, lowering my voice to just above a whisper. "I know your dirty little secret."
He didn't say anything for a moment, simply sitting there in stone-faced silence.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he finally said, a solitary bead of sweat running down his flushed face.
"Oh, I think you do." I leaned in further. "But if you wanna play dumb, that's fine by me."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he repeated, a little more indignant this time.
"Play it your way, then," I told him, setting my fork down as well as I pushed my chair back and rose to my feet. "But you stay out of my fucking business, or Miss Third-Time-Lucky over there finds out your little secret."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," I told him, turning my back and walking away, leaving him to ponder his future in silence.
"Goodnight, old man."
And while I may have gone to bed hungry, dinner that night was one of the best meals I'd ever had.
In fact, I'd just about say it was perfect.
"Perfect," the kid said, sipping from the steaming hot beverage that had just been placed in his hand. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," the Detective said, retaking his seat behind the desk as he began to look over the notes he'd just scribbled down. "So what happened after you stormed out?"
"Nothing, really," the kid shrugged, taking a sip from the beverage placed in front of him. "I went up to my room and didn't see him for the rest of the night."
"He didn't say anything, do anything?" The Detective seemed surprised by the revelation.
"Nope, nothing," the kid said, shrugging again. "I heard his car leave about half an hour later and didn't see or hear from him for the rest of the night."
"And what time was that?" the Detective questioned, scribbling something down on his notepad.
"About eight, I guess. Why?"
The Detective didn't respond.
"Why?" the kid repeated, leaning forward in an effort to see what he'd written. "What did I say?"
"Nothing," the Detective told him, frowning slightly as he continued to jot notes down. "It's probably nothing."
"Surrrrrrre." He drew the last syllable out, shaking his head in sarcastic agreement. "That's probably why you're scribbling it down so fast, right?"
"Exactly," the Detective said, looking up from his notes briefly as he gave the kid a knowing smirk. "Now you keep telling the story, and I'll decide which bits are important."
"Whatever," the kid said, although there was the hint of a smile as he took another sip of his coffee. "I guess you wanna know what happened next then, right?"
"Got it in one, kiddo," the Detective grinned, turning over a new page as he prepared to note down whatever the kid was gonna tell him next. "Knock yourself out."
It's amazing what a good night's sleep will do for your outlook.
Bounding down the stairs in an old pair of boxers and my half-buttoned school shirt, I could barely suppress my satisfaction at the way I'd handled myself at dinner the previous night. It's not often you get to say the exact thing you want to say, at the exact time you want to say it. And now, as I turned at the bottom of the stairs and made my way toward the kitchen, I knew I had the upper hand.
Some kids would have been devastated at the realisation their dad was having an affair, but all I could see was a flashing neon sign that said 'leverage!'
Glorious, neon leverage.
"Morning, Jen," I greeted, granting my stepmother a smile as I walked through the door.
Oh yeah, I'm on first name terms with my own stepmother now. Jealous?
"Oh, good morning, Will," she replied, the initial shock wearing off as she returned my smile with a warm one of her own. "Sleep well?"
"Like you wouldn't believe," I told her, reached over to grab the jar of coffee as she peeled a banana.
"That's good," she said, giving me another curious smile as I flicked the switch to re-boil the kettle.
She looked like she wanted to say more, but the words either couldn't or wouldn't make their way to the surface.
"Big day planned?"
"Not really," she said, continuing after a slight hesitation. "How about you?"
"Same, same," I told her, reaching over again as I grabbed out my favourite mug out of the cupboard. "School. Might shoot some hoops later, maybe."
"Sounds like fun," she said, a little more certain this time. "Maybe you could..."
She was cut off by the sound of a slamming door.
Both turning at the same time, we watched my father walk into the kitchen, a crumpled pack of cigarettes in his hand as he re-tied the sash on his robe. It was almost 7:30 and he hadn't even shaved yet. It was an unusual sight, to say the least.
"Sleep well?" I asked cheerfully, knowing full well that he hadn't.
"Hmph," he grunted, glaring at me through bag-laden eyes as he walked over to the counter and poured himself another coffee.
"Late night at the office?" I continued, pressing him further. "You should have told me you were going out; I'd have asked you to get some more Doritos."
"Hmph," he grunted again, his voice a little more gravely than usual as he forced the packet of cigarettes into his pocket. He didn't smoke very often (my Grandma died of lung cancer when I was eight), but the cigarettes were known to make an occasional appearance in moments of extreme stress.
"Big day in court?" I asked him, watching as he tossed a spoon into the sink. "Or does the fag addiction run in the family?"
"Excuse me?"
"You heard m-"
"Shouldn't you be getting ready for school?" he asked, cutting me off.
"Shouldn't you be getting ready for work?"
"Don't get smart with me," he cautioned.
"Or you'll wh-"
"Just go get ready, Will."
"Whatever," I told him, throwing my hands up in mock defeat. "Wouldn't want to be late now, would we?"
"Just go," he repeated, waving his hand as he took a sip of his coffee. "Go."
"Going," I told him, grabbing a banana as I exited the kitchen.
Gone.
"So he went back to his office that night?" the Detective asked, his instincts demanding that he know the missing facts.
"I guess so," the kid told him, tracing the rim of the half-empty cup with his index finger. "I didn't hear him come in before I went to bed."
"And what time was that?"
"About midnight, I guess," the kid said, his eyes darting right as he tried to remember the details. "Whatever time 'The Late Show' finished."
"Midnight," the Detective affirmed, smiling as he recalled his own fondness of the program. "Definitely midnight."
"Ok, midnight," the kid repeated, subtly nodding in agreement. "He wasn't home when I went to bed at midnight."
"Did he say where he was?"
"Well, apparently he had a 'big case' to work on," the kid said, his non-committal language not escaping the notice of the Detective.
"'Apparently'?"
"That's what he told my stepmother."
"So you don't believe him, then?" the Detective asked, jotting a couple more things down.
"What makes you say that?"
"The fact that you didn't immediately say 'yes'," the Detective grinned, playing the kid like an old six-string.
"Hmmmm," the kid muttered, shifting a bit in his seat.
"And the fact that he was still there when you left," the Detective continued, looking to the kid for confirmation as he jotted more notes down on his notepad. "Didn't you say he left at the same time every morning?"
"7:35," the kid nodded, his look suggesting that he'd already put two and two together.
"Hmmmm." The Detective didn't say anything for a moment, using the break in conversation to take stock of the notes he'd written so far. There were still quite a few questions that needed answering, but he could gladly say the bigger picture was beginning to take shape in his mind. There was still one thing that didn't add up, though...
"Will, you're a smart kid, right?" His answering smile said more than enough.
"Then why are you failing school?" And just as quickly, the smile was gone.
"Umm..." The kid didn't really respond at first, taken off-guard by the sudden shift in conversation. "Long story."
"Fair enough," the Detective said, setting the notepad on the desk again as he gave the kid his full attention. "But the further this goes on, the more I'm beginning to doubt your stupidity."
Now the smile returned full force.
"Good work, Detective," the kid said, laughing at his own little joke.
"Thank you," the Detective responded, deciding he was now on a roll. "Let me get one thing straight, though. Are you just lazy, or are you deliberately failing your classes?"
"What do you think?" the kid shrugged, the smile gone again as he set his cup down on the desk. "You're the Detective."
"You'd really fail school just to piss your father off?"
The kid shrugged again, seeming a little more agitated this time.
"Come on, Will, you're better than that."
"Don't tell me what I am," the kid snapped, his agitation complete.
"Ok," the Detective sighed, trying to work around the kid's abrasive attitude. "Seriously though, you're a smart kid. Why waste it, Will?"
"Why not?"
"But..."
"If he wants to pay $10,000 a year to see me fail, let him."
"But it's not about your father," the Detective said, watching the kid bristle at the mention of his name. "It's your future, not his."
"Is it?" the kid retorted, defiance straightening his posture. "Really?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"You really have no idea, do you?" the kid said, his face working through different expressions before settling on pity. "None at all."
"No, I don't," the Detective sighed, fatigue beginning to catch up with him. "Indulge me."
"Ok," the kid continued, the sarcasm either lost on him or deliberately ignored. "How many law schools do you think there are in the country, Detective?"
"No idea." Most of all, he was tiring of the kid's attitude.
"Fifteen? Thirty? Forty?" the kid continued, determined to answer his own question. "And how many of them do you think are aware that I'm about to graduate high school?"
"Well..."
"Too fucking many, that's right." He was on a roll now. "They can go to Hell, I'm not going."
"But why fail?" the Detective questioned. "Doesn't that put all your other options in jeopardy, as well?"
"No." His response left the Detective in no doubt that he'd considered every possible angle. "I know exactly what I need to get into uni, and I'm not doing a damn thing more."
"Ok then," the Detective said, draining the rest of his coffee before asking his next question. "But what about all your other options?"
"What about them?"
"Well, I'm not advocating what your dad's done, but if you went to law school-"
"What, I'd end up a jaded old prick like he is?" the kid said, a bitter laugh escaping his mouth.
"As opposed to what you're acting like now?" the Detective retorted.
That seemed to snap the kid out of it.
"Whatever," the kid finally muttered, practically shutting down as the Detective rose to make another coffee. The room was quiet for a couple of minutes after that.
Frankly, there was nothing more that needed to be said.
There's an unspoken rule in cultures all around the world; a rule that transcends genders, that transcends borders... a rule that transcends gingers, even. A rule that, if you begin to even question its all-encompassing authority, will set off a chain of catastrophic events only ever rivalled by the Hindenburg in its disastrous scale.
I'm talking, of course, about the iPod code.
Since the beginning of civilisation (2001, for the purposes of this exercise), the iPod code has governed boppers all across the globe; a veritable bopper Constitution that dare not be questioned, for fear of instant death...
Or worse, a stay at the Copacabana.
But what is the iPod code, I hear you say. You've never seen it? Never heard of it? Never felt the full force of its catastrophic wrath? That's ok. The iPod code is fairly simple, and entirely flexible in its interpretation. However, it should be rigidly enforced as follows:
Rule Number One: If a citizen is listening to their iPod in public - whether at the train station, on the bus, in the hallway, on the floor... DON'T TALK TO THEM. If they wanted to hear your incessant drivel, they probably wouldn't have a set of headphones blocking their ears.
Rule Number Two: If a citizen is listening to their iPod in public - whether it's on the boardwalk, near Piccadilly, or 'GO TO JAIL, GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL'... don't even look at them. Staring, quite frankly, is rude, and if a person doesn't want to listen to your crap, they most certainly won't want to look at your pimply face, either.
And finally, the most important rule...
Rule Number Three: If a citizen is using their iPod...
"Anybody home?!" a loud voice boomed, grabbing me in a headlock as my headphones landed somewhere near my breastbone.
...DON'T. EVER. FUCKING. TOUCH THEM!!!
"I called your name, like, three times," Scott continued, grabbing one of the headphones from its prone location and raising it to his left ear. "Ooh, Britney!"
"Fuck off," I told him, shoving him against the wall as he laughed at my reaction toward him. "My iPod, not yours."
"Well, if I remember correctly, it's actually Hayden Turner's," he said, laughing even more as he recalled the senior point guard who'd challenged me to a pickup game the previous summer.
"What was it, 21-0?" I asked. For some reason, my mood improved.
"Like you don't remember," he said, laughing again. "You made the poor bastard cry."
"Well he deserved it," I told him, joining in the laughter. "Speaking of Hayden, do we have training tonight?"
"Yeah, unfortunately."
"More 'team-building' shit?" I asked, not hiding my distaste. "God, Barker's a wanker sometimes."
"Don't worry, I'll set Dave onto him," Scott said, laughing again. "Speaking of, where is The Bionic Stick?"
"No idea. I doubt he even knows half the time."
"Knows what?" Dave asked, appearing at Scott's side, as if on cue.
"Nothing."
"No, come on, what were you talking about?" he asked, falling into step beside us.
"Just bitching about the Coach," Scott told him. "Same old shit, really."
"Fair enough, then," Dave said, although I could tell he didn't really believe us. "What's happening, anyway?"
"Good morning to you, too, David," I told him, mocking his lack of formal greeting. "Yes, I'm well, thank you."
"Oh fuck off," he said, raising his middle finger to go with the stupid grin on his face. "Like I'd actually care."
"Thanks Dave, means a lot."
"My pleasure."
"Anyway, since you asked," I continued, beginning to slow down as we reached my row of lockers. "I've got another hot date."
"With who?"
"Who do you think?" Scott asked, playfully smacking him round the back of the head. "It's not like he actually dates any of the girls around here."
"Excuse me? What about..."
"Stacey Andrews?" he asked, looking back as he mocked my assumed response. "Dude, that was like tenth grade."
"But we..."
"Yes, we all know what you did together," he said, cutting me off again. "Heard that story many times, my friend."
"Shut up then," I told him, hoping I'd created enough of a distraction. "Anyway Dave, since you asked, I've got a hot date with McMahon."
"She's not here," Dave said, gesturing back toward the hallway door with his go-go-gadget arms. "At least her car wasn't there when my mum dropped me off."
"Seriously man, who gets dropped off anymore?" Scott asked, falling right into my trap as he focused his attention right back on our friend. "When are you gonna get your licence, dude?"
"When he gets the co-ordination to drive a car," I said, laughing with Scott as Dave gave me the finger once again. Then I remembered what he'd actually said. "Wait, what do you mean she's not here? She's always here."
"Not today," Dave shrugged, stopping as we came to a complete halt in front of my locker.
"Wait, how do you know what her car looks like?" Scott asked, giving him a weird look. "You her stalker, now?"
"No," Dave told him, now giving him the finger. "I just remember it from where the footy team egged it last year."
"That was the footy team?!" I asked, horrified. "Sanderson blamed ME for that."
"Haha, he did too."
"Well it's usually a pretty good bet," Scott interjected, watching as I entered my locker combination. "Can you really blame him?"
"Point," I conceded, pulling open the door to reveal the dusty contents. "Still, I got major detention for that. Fucker."
"Not much you can do now," Scott said.
"Still..." I began, trailing off when I couldn't be bothered arguing it anymore. "Anyway, you're sure she isn't here?"
"Yeah, fairly certain," Dave said, shrugging his shoulders.
"Cool, won't bother going then."
"And if she is here?"
"Tell her I forgot," I shrugged, tossing my iPod on top of unused textbooks. "She'll get over it."
"Fair enough." He trailed off, his eyes drifting toward the stairs.
"What are you staring at now?"
'Your mate," Dave said, pointing at the blond head as it disappeared over the top of the landing. "I'm guessing the faggot's still here."
"Who?"
"Riley," Dave responded, still pointing despite the fact that he'd disappeared nearly five seconds ago. "You know, used to-"
"Yeah Dave, we know," Scott said, giving me a weird look. My feigned disinterest didn't seem lost on him. "I think we all know."
"Fair enough," Dave said, for what seemed like the millionth time in the last five minutes. "You know why he came back, right?"
"Huh?"
"You know why he came back?" Dave repeated, finally dropping his hand as he turned back and gave us his full attention. "You've heard the rumours, right?"
"No," Scott told him, his tone suggesting he didn't really care either. "But you're gonna tell us anyway, right?"
"Stop being a dick," Dave told him, punching him on the shoulder. "Do you wanna hear it or-"
"Just tell the story." I cut him off, in what I hoped was an even voice. "Seriously, just spit it out."
"Ok," Dave said, giving me a funny look to match the one Scott had given me earlier. "Apparently his aunt and uncle kicked him out."
"What? Why?" The tone was a little less even that time.
"You know he was sent interstate, right?"
"No." Why didn't I know that?
"Are you serious?" Dave asked, giving me an even funnier look this time. "You two used to be joined at the hip."
"So?" He wasn't to know that I'd spent the past two years avoiding anything that might remind me of him.
"So-"
"Yeah, yeah, just get back to the story," Scott told him, getting impatient as he gestured for Dave to continue.
"Ok," Dave said, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Anyway, story goes, he got in a shit load of trouble with his parents and they sent him away for his uncle to straighten him out."
"In trouble for what?" I asked. If anything, Justin was the one who kept us out of trouble.
"Well, this is the best part," Dave said, pausing for dramatic effect. "Apparently his dad caught him fucking around with his boyfriend, and he was sent away cos his uncle works for some church camp on the other side of the country."
Oh. My. God.
"Okayyyyyyyyyy," Scott said, sounding like he didn't really believe the story. "Who told you that load of shit?"
"Toby Masters."
"And you do realise that Toby's usually full of shit, right?"
"Not this time," Dave said, folding his arms across his chest.
"Seriously, I'm telling you, he's full of shit."
They spent the next couple of minutes arguing about the 'bullshit' story that Toby spread about Scott's sister when we were in ninth grade. But I somehow knew this story wasn't bullshit, not this time. And while they stood there arguing over and over, the same handful of words just kept running through my head on repeat, as I processed the information that Dave had brought to bear.
You should have known.
I should have known.
Why didn't you know?
I don't fucking know.
You could have done something.
But he was...
You SHOULD have done something.
I should have done something.
And now it's too late.
And now it's too...
Wait.
"I've gotta go," I told them, leaving them to argue some more as I made a mad dash toward the stairs. "I just... I've gotta go."
And without another word, I went.
"There's something you're not telling me, isn't there Will?"
He watched the kid pull his knees up to his chest, appearing to go quiet again as the clock ticked toward the small hours. It didn't take a genius to figure out that someone had hurt the kid, but just when and how badly was anyone's guess.
"Will," the Detective prodded, after he'd decided enough time had elapsed.
"Will," he repeated, a few seconds later when the kid still didn't look like responding. "Whatever it is, whatever you did, you need to tell me."
"So, what, it's MY fault, then?" The sudden outburst caught the Detective by surprise.
"I didn't say-"
"Yes. Yes, you did," the kid told him, raising his voice even further. "You said 'whatever YOU did', as if it's instantly MY fault."
"I didn't mean-"
"It's always MY fucking fault, isn't it?"
"Will-"
"Every time something happens-"
"Will, STOP."
Well, that shut the kid up.
"I'm not the bad guy, Will," the Detective told him, a lot more gently this time. He didn't need a degree in psychology to know that some of the pain was being projected onto him. "But whatever happened, you need to tell me."
Glaring at him through tears that dare not fall, the kid shook his head, now determined to remain steadfastly silent.
"What aren't you telling me, Will?" the Detective continued, shaking his own head as he realised why he'd never wanted to become a child psychologist all those years ago. "What are you so afraid of?"
Again, the kid shook his head, unwilling or unable to offer a verbal response.
"Ok, I'm just gonna wait, then," the Detective said, getting more comfortable in his chair as he prepared for another round of the waiting game...
"He knows."
He'd said it so quietly, the Detective almost missed it.
"Who?"
"He knows," the kid repeated, a little louder this time, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Knows what?"
The kid didn't respond.
"Knows what?" the Detective repeated, knowing they'd just reached an important juncture in their brief relationship. "Tell me, Will."
"I... he KNOWS."
"Who knows what?"
He hoped like hell he wasn't about to blow it.
"Justin..." He trailed off. "He KNOWS."
Suddenly, realisation dawned on the Detective. "Wait, how the hell does he know that?"
The kid didn't respond immediately, his initial admission almost more than he could manage.
"How does he know that?" the Detective repeated, picking up his pen and notebook as the kid's right leg began to tremble slightly. "You've barely said two words to the kid."
"Well..." Again, he trailed off.
"Long story, right?" the Detective said, sitting forward in his seat again. He tried to impart an encouraging smile on the kid, watching instead as he began to pick at the hole in his jeans again.
"Yeah, long story," Will finally said, avoiding eye contact as he continued to pick at a thread.
"Well..." the Detective continued, allowing himself a wry smile as he looked at the watch on his left wrist. "Guess what?"
"What?" The kid eventually looked up, not liking the look he was met with.
"I've got all night," the Detective said, granting the kid another wry smile as he set his notepad back down and began to rise fluidly from his seat.
"More coffee?"
It's like a scene out of the movies.
The Terminator's engaged in a gripping car chase, trying to escape the T-1000 as it hurtles toward him in a speeding tanker. Weaving in and out of LA traffic, he tries in vain to shake his evil foe, giving his young companion the wheel as he moves to reload his semi-automatic weapon. The chase continues across an industrial complex, reaching its peak when The Terminator mounts the front of the tanker and shoots the T-1000 in the chest. Taking control of the tanker's wheel, The Terminator jack-knifes the massive vehicle, tipping it on its side as he holds on for dear life. The tanker slides out of control toward a steel mill, a collision that splits the tanker in half and causes it to lose its freezing load. Then, having been thrown to a safer vantage point, The Terminator watches his foe exit the stricken tanker, marching toward his intended target through a chilling wave of liquid nitrogen. But T-1000's efforts prove to be futile, as he comes to a freezing halt, just metres away from a hostile Terminator. And while Sarah Connor and her ten-year-old son watch in morbid fascination, The Terminator reaches for his gun and utters the immortal words...
Hasta La Vista, Baby.
"Hasta La Vista, Baby!" Justin repeats, laughing at the television screen as he uses his thumb and index finger to mimic the shooting action. "Now dance mother fucker, dance!"
"Haha, he doesn't say that, you idiot," I tell him, throwing a pillow at him from across the floor as we watch the T-1000 shatter into a million pieces.
"How would you know?" he asks, poking his tongue out as he swats away the pillow with ease. "Maybe he does."
"Dude, we've watched this, like, a million times already."
"Haha, I know," he says, turning back to the screen in time to watch the T-1000 reform itself piece by piece. "But is this not the best movie ever?"
"Oh for sure," I tell him, but my eyes are no longer on screen. The swatting motion has made Justin's shirt ride up his back, exposing inch after inch of gloriously tan skin; and as he continues to watch the television screen in front of him, he makes no effort push it back down.
It's not the first time I've found myself staring like this at my best friend. Having taken gym class together the previous winter, there have been a million different chances to fuel my ever-expanding imagination. And with a long, hot summer about to start, there will be no doubt a million more. But as every not-so-innocent opportunity re-presents itself, I begin to wonder how long I can hold back the ever-growing temptation...
"Dude, you ok?" Suddenly he's looking at me, blue eyes tinged with concern as I tear my gaze away from the waistband of his jeans.
"Err... what?" I ask, trying to ignore my other 'ever-growing' problem as I keep my stomach pressed to the floor.
"I said, you ok?" he repeats, looking even more concerned.
"Um, I'll be back," I tell him, doing a God-awful impersonation of The Terminator as I roll away from him and race toward the bathroom, careful not to reveal my 'problem'.
"You sure you're ok?" he asks again, hitting the pause button on the VCR as he watches me trip over a pile of clothes in my desperate attempt to escape.
"Yeah, fine," I call back, slamming the bathroom door behind me as I sit down on the toilet seat and try to catch my breath. But despite my best efforts to force them down, the urges keep getting stronger. They've been there for a while now, and as I feel the hormones racing through my fourteen-year-old body, the almost over-powering urge to kiss my best friend simply will not go away. Burying my face in my suddenly sweaty hands, I take a half-dozen very deep breaths, attempting to calm myself down enough to re-enter the bedroom with some semblance of normality.
"Will?" he calls out, making my head shoot up out of my hands; scared witless at the possibility that he's standing in the bathroom before me.
"Yeah?" I respond, thankful that he's still out in the hallway; his soft voice washing over the gleaming tiles as he taps on the bathroom door.
"You ok in there, dude?"
"Yeah man, just taking a piss."
"Ok, dude," he says, sounding unconvinced. "I'll wait in the bedroom then."
Listening to his retreating footsteps, I lift myself carefully up off the toilet seat, moving toward the hand basin as I begin to splash cold water on my face. It's hardly a cold shower, but it'll have to do for now. Straightening my shirt and readjusting my pants, I take a few more deep breaths and make one last effort to compose myself.
Come on Will, you can do this.
And with that I re-open the door; taking slow-footed, deliberate steps as I begin to move back down the hallway.
"Ok, what's going on?" he asks, the moment I walk back through the bedroom door. "That was weird."
"Nothing," I tell him, watching as he takes a seat at the foot of my bed. "Just needed to take a piss."
"You're lying."
"No I'm not."
"Yes you are," he says, looking hurt. "The toilet didn't flush."
"Oh."
"Yeah," he says, still looking hurt as he begins to fidget with the Ninja Turtle bedspread. "So what's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Did I do something wrong?"
"What? No."
"Then why are you acting weird?"
"I'm not acting weird," I tell him, despite the fact that I still haven't moved from the doorway.
"Are too."
"Am not."
"Yes Will, you are," he says, rolling his eyes as he gestures to the bedspread beside him. "Now come on dude, sit down and tell me what's going on."
"There's nothing going on."
"Yes, there is," he says, patting the same patch next to Michelangelo's shell. "Now come on, sit down. We can talk about anything, right?"
"Not this."
"So there is something!" he says, looking triumphant.
"No there's not."
"Yes, there is," he says, with a sense of finality. "Now come on, tell me."
"I can't."
"Come onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn."
"No."
"You know you want to."
"I can't."
"Don't make me force it out of you," he says, trying to look serious. And failing.
"I ca- " Then quick as a flash he's at the door, slamming it shut and blocking my only escape route.
"Yes," he says, holding his hands up with a mischievous look. "You can."
And then suddenly he's throwing me on the bed, zoning straight in on the weak spot under my ribs.
"Give in?" he asks, bright eyes sparkling as he pins me down.
"Haha stop it!"
"Never!" he tells me, fingers dancing along my ribcage as he tries to tickle me into submission. "Give in?"
"Never!"
"You asked for it, then," he taunts, leaning back as I continue to giggle involuntarily. The transfer of weight has given me a brief advantage though, and I begin to squirm as he tries to continue his assault.
"Give in?" he asks again, as I begin thrusting my hips from side to side in an effort to throw him off. But after a brief tussle he takes control, adding more weight to my torso as he successfully holds me down. But with all the added movement and all the extra weight, the friction's created another 'growing' problem...
And it's getting bigger by the second.
"Ok, give in!" I yell, closing my eyes to gain self-control as his teasing fingers come to a halt.
"You give?" he double-checks, his face a little flushed as he leans back on the bed. And somehow, despite the feel of his hot breath and oh-so-close proximity, my 'problem' is back under control.
"Yes. Yes, I give," I eventually tell him, watching as his smile widens in triumph.
"Good, tell me then-"
"Ha!"
With a push of my legs and a twist of my shoulders, I suddenly have the upper hand.
"Give in?" I ask him, going straight for his ribs as he tries desperately to escape. "Give in?"
"Give in!" he laughs, desperate for the assault to stop.
"What? I can't hear you."
"I give in!" he yells, laughing and screaming at the top of his lungs as I continue to tease him mercilessly. "I give in!"
"Good," I tell him, breathlessly laughing as I begin to climb off. "I win."
"Yeah, this time," he laughs, still breathless as we both lay back down on the bed. "So are you gonna tell me or what?"
"No."
"Come on dude. Just tell me."
"I can't"
"Whatever it is, just spit it out," he says, a silly little grin on his face as he nudges me in the ribs. But despite the encouraging words and underlying knowledge that I can tell my best friend anything, the words simply don't want to form.
"Well..." I begin, looking away from him again as I stare up at the harsh white ceiling.
"Yeah..." he prompts, rolling over to face me on the bed when I fail to continue.
"I... um..."
"It's ok, dude," he says, adding more encouragement. "Whatever it is, just say it. I won't think any less of you."
"Ok. Well... um..." I feel his weight shift and suddenly he's right above me, regarding me with a look that's one-part confusion, two-parts understanding.
"Whatever it is, just say it," he repeats, trying to give me added strength with his most encouraging smile. "I won't think any less of you."
Yes, you will.
As if on cue, self-doubt crashes our little party. And suddenly, any remaining self-assurance has been slashed and burned by cutting words and stinging barbs.
"Come on Will, just tell me," Justin repeats, the previous encouragement making way for concern. "Is it your dad again?"
"What? No."
God, I wish.
"What is it, then?" he asks, again nudging me gently in the ribs. "Come on, you can tell me."
"Ok." I close my eyes; trying to recompose myself as self-doubt once again tries to take over. But as I lay there and labour through a handful of deep breaths, things are quickly spiralling out of control. And as I lay there on the bed, I begin to realise that I can't escape my demons. There's no escaping that inner voice...
The inner voice that says you can never speak the awful truth.
The inner voice that says everything isn't going to be ok.
The inner voice that says there's no escape.
There's no escape, Will.
There's no escape.
"Will, what's wrong?" Justin quietly asks, and I realise that, at some point, I've begun to cry. "Please tell me."
But I can't say the words.
I simply cannot say the words.
"Will, you're scaring me." He's leaning over me again, and his eyes have lost all their sparkle. "Please, just tell me what's wrong."
But I stare blankly past his shoulder, lacking the courage to say or do anything more. Closing my eyes to escape my harsh reality, I feel the tears begin to run more freely, a silent monologue that dare not speak its name.
"I can't, Just. I... I can't."
"Please..." he whispers, his own eyes beginning to moisten. I can feel his weight shift on the mattress, and when I open my eyes again, he's right there, only a handful of inches away. "Please."
But despite his tearful plea, I simply cannot say the words. He's right there, pleading, begging with me, and I cannot say the fucking words.
"I'm sorry," I eventually blurt out, closing my eyes again as the tears fall even harder. "I'm so sorry."
And with those words I roll away, pulling my arms against my chest as I bury myself in the Ninja Turtle bedspread. Sobbing quietly against the orange fabric, I can feel he's practically sitting stock-still, either unwilling or unable to move as I continue to cry for the words I cannot speak. For the future I cannot have.
"Will, listen to me."
But just as I'm ready to turn my back on everything, I feel a gentle hand pulling me back, and an emotion-thick voice telling me the words I need to hear.
"I love you, man." I can feel his hand, he's right there. "It hurts seeing you like this." And when I open my eyes, he's right there. "Please, just tell me what's wrong." And since he's right there, only inches away, I lean up quickly and I kiss him.
"I love you, too." And when I lean back and begin to wipe the tears that have suddenly halted, I can see his reaction clearly as his eyes close tightly and he begins to back away.
"Just--?" It's just the slightest of physical movements, but to my heart he's already long out of reach. Forgotten tears return full force.
"I, um... I think I should go." And by the time he's able to look at me again, it's with a look that's one-part pure confusion, two-parts utter fear.
"I'm sorry," I quickly tell him, watching through disbelieving eyes as he gets up off the bed and begins to search for his discarded sneakers. "Please don't leave."
"I... I've gotta go."
"NO!" I yell, practically sobbing as he grabs the first sneaker and moves toward the door. "I'm sorry!"
"Don't apologise," he says thickly, picking the second shoe up from over near the doorway. I watch him kneel down to the ground, a desperate attempt to steady himself as he pulls the sneaker on with shaking hands. "I, just... I've gotta go."
"NO!"
But it's too little, too late.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, closing the door as the first tears begin to fall. "I, just... can't."
And then he runs away.
Thanks for reading, guys.