Tuesday
5:41 PM
home
I open the door to my new house, welcomed by the sound of the clinking of glass plates, Nickelodeon playing loudly in the living room, and my two-year-old brother making up words. "I'm home," I say louder than everything else, hoping my presence just might be acknowledged.
"Good, you're just in time for dinner!" I hear my mom shout from the kitchen. I glance in the dining room and see that my whole family is home. This is rare. I set my books down at the foot of the stairs and enter the dining room, sitting down just as everyone bows their heads to say grace.
Yeah, I basically have a huge family. I have two older brothers, two younger sisters, and a baby brother. So yeah, it is very rare to have them all in my central vision. Even with my baby brother, Adam, flinging peas onto my sister while everyone mutters an "Amen," and even how he's too cute to be scolded for it, I love them.
"So how was practice, Brendon?" my dad asks as he begins to cut the food on his plate.
"Good," I respond. "We have a game tomorrow."
"Forecast says it's gonna rain for the next couple of days," my sister, Caroline, informs me.
"Perfect," I mumble, taking a sip of milk.
And my mom looks up at me like she's remembered something. "Oh, Brendon, have you seen your old friend Ryan at school yet?"
I'm sure my face must have turned as white as the liquid in my glass. My mom adores Ryan. My whole family does, not to mention my sisters. "Yeah. But, um... He kind of changed," I lie. Ryan's exactly the same as he ever was. Small, weak, vulnerable.
"That's too bad," my mom says. "You should try talking to him again, just to see. He was always such a sweet boy." My dad nods in agreement and my little sisters look dazed, their forks missing their mouths as they obviously try to remember all the times Ryan came over. Even though he was usually hidden in my bedroom after school. At night, under my covers.
I cough loudly. "Pass the potatoes?"
A football game can't possibly stress me out this much. So it has to be how Mrs. Wilson reads my name consecutively after Ryan Ross' when reading partners to our English projects. He hasn't said a word to me since, and I don't think he ever will. We might as well just each do a project on our own and use the better one, with the least number of words out of our mouths as possible.
I see him at lunch, though, sitting on a table and writing in a notebook. Before taking a deep breath and going over to him, I observe his posture. How he hunches over himself and uses his sleeve to cover his words. His lips are in a pout, concentrating heavily. I begin to wonder what he's writing. He is such a good writer; I can give him that. I start to walk over to him, hoping he'll be able to talk to me, but someone gets there first.
He doesn't look familiar. But only a few people here do. He looks like the kind of boy Ryan would like. And there's no doubt in my mind that Ryan still likes those kind of boys.
Yep. That smile confirms it all.
Still, Ryan's eyes glance over at me quickly, and somehow, in them, I see that same look in his eyes. That look that is only served with that smile and exclusive to Ryan Ross. That look that he always used when he pouted and whined like a scared puppy, cuddling up to me. Suckering me in. I get so lost in those eyes staring at me that it only seems impulsive to run over and wrap my arms around him. Bury my face in his neck that smelled like melted sugar. But I don't. Because love dies. Miles? Years? They're all serial killers.
And plus, the boy with the bright eyes and the black hair has his hand on Ryan's shaky knee. I back away slowly, gradually leaving Ryan's view. We'll talk some other time. I try to leave but his eyes are like traps and I'm tied down. Through my oblivion of everything but George Ryan Ross, I run into a girl.
I look at her. "I'm so sorry," I try to say kindly, as she looks a little hurt.
She bites her lip. "It's okay."
Normally, this is where the victim of the everyday collision walks away. But she stays. She has long, brown-ish red hair and sparkling eyes. Really. The sun reflects in them like a big camera flash. She looks at her feet kind of shyly and then says, "Good luck tonight."
I'm an addict for dramatics; I confuse the two for love ->
So... yeah =/
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