Chapter Text
Sometimes, your mother smells strange. You can’t quite put your finger on it but it mostly always is accompanied by her chewing gum. So maybe it actually is simply the smell of bubble gum. You find that her chewing is just as strange as the peculiar scent. She likes you standing up straight, she likes you eating without your elbows on the table, and she likes your habits not to include chewing gum. You still see your older brother with a variety of colourful gum packagings, but you trust yourself to always turn down his proposed stick of gum.
However, when your mother is smelling strange and chewing gum, that is when you like her the most. She’s happier than usual, spends less time downstairs working, and will hold your hand all the way to the bus stop. You can tell this is when your brother likes her the least. You can also tell the looks other parents shoot her at the bus stop are not very friendly either. It’s never made much of a difference to you, you like to hear your mother’s laughter.
You had not liked it the last time she had been acting strange. Your mother’s laughter is wonderful. But it had been your first time hearing her crying and you had not like it at all. And whereas in those specific moments she tends to see you more and pay you more attention, she had not seemed to be able to concentrate on anything very well that last time. You’d tried to approach her to comfort her, but your brother had stopped you.
You trust your brother’s word. If anything, you trust it more than your mother’s because he is the one who pays you the most attention. But you believe it would have been better had you gone with your instinct for once and had ignored his words of warning.
It was the last time you’d seen her altogether. Her spine collapsed into a slouch, both elbows on the table as she had fixated the bottom of her glass, tears streaming down her usually composed expression. There was no bubble gum perfume to disguise the smell, but your brother had not said a word when you’d pushed for answers.
She’d been gone for almost a month now; that was what you’d heard him say to one of his friends over the phone earlier this week, anyway. He’s graduating in a few months, you know so, your mother had made a big deal out of it. You’d graduate kindergarten, and he’d be graduating high school at the same time, and she was happy about it. You don’t think he’s gone to school for a while though, and you know the paperwork on the dining table where you’d last seen her has nothing to do with his schoolwork either. You’d only missed a few days of school yourself, but you’d prefer staying home. He’d made you swear not to tell anyone of your mother’s disappearance, but your crying fits at school were even more shameful without the excuse of your missing mother.
Your house is the biggest on the street. Your mother used to tell you so proudly when she walked you to the bus stop, pointing at your home. Your brother tells you the same thing when he walks you, but he doesn’t seem quite as enchanted by the idea. He stares darkly at the empty driveway. You knew the house was too big for the three of you to begin with. Neither one of you had friends over. And now it really only was the two of you in the oversized house.
This morning is no exception. He glares at the house, as if it were a problem he wished could go away. You keep your eyes on the pavement. He holds your hand, but he always does. Your mother did only when she was giggly and chewing gum.
Approximatively a dozen of kids waited at the stop at the end of your street for the school buses. Most of the middle school and high school ones weren’t accompanied by their parents, about half of the grade school students were, and you and the only other kid who would step into the bus heading to the kindergarten both waited with a parent. Or that’s how it used to be. Unfortunately for you and your brother’s secret keeping, Mister Egbert happened to be very fond of your mother. Out of all of the parents, they were the very friendliest one towards the other. Good friends, even.
He had not let her absence slide very lightly. His daily inquiring had drained any excuses your brother had up his sleeve. And so, despite the intimidating sport shades your brother wore in spite of winter’s continued presence, and despite the way he crossed his arms solidly, Mister Egbert still approached him, smiling politely.
“How are you two boys faring? Miss Strider is still hard at work as always?”
You turn you attention away from what is sure to be yet another strained conversation. Though you’d accepted not to tell anyone about your mother’s absence, you preferred not to tell flat out lies. As such, you avoided as best you could to speak of the subject. You spot his son instead, busy laughing at the young grade schooler with the unfortunate thick hair her mother attempted to brush out every morning under the bus shelter.
You’re not a big fan of John Egbert’s. Maybe his father was cruel in buying his glasses, but they were much too large for his face and gave him a constant bug-eyed look. You’ve seen him take his glasses off to wipe them clean before, and the difference had been shocking. He’d also lost his two top front teeth, and that had been back when your mother had still been around, you remember, and yet despite his boasting of being the first to lose baby teeth, no new teeth had yet shown any sign of growing in. His voice carried far too, so any thoughtless comment he made was made much louder than anyone else’s.
Possibly the worst of all though, he stared at you a lot. He also talked to you a lot, and always stuck close to you at school. It hadn't always been that way, in fact up until a random point in time, he’d never even looked twice at you. It had changed without much subtlety. And if it had been annoying before, the added bit to his repertoire on asking about your mother had pushed your distaste for him even further.
Still, you found yourself looking in his direction often. When his eyes found yours it felt like validation. Validation of what? You had not yet pieced it together. The validation was quick and resounding this morning, his laughter had ceased as soon as you had looked at him, and your eyes locked automatically a few moments later, knowingly.
You retreated immediately, glancing upwards towards Mister Egbert, in time to catch the quick progress of the conversation you had not noticed was at such a heated point already.
“Is that so? Because John’s told me Dave cries at school every day.”
You try to glance back at John, but he’s still staring at you, and you instantly find yourself feeling trapped in the situation. You slouch, distantly thinking of what your mother might say of the poor posture you’d been adopting as of late. Your brother’s radiating tension and you do not want to find out if it is aimed at your now exposed daily show of weakness.
“With all due respect, Egbert, I think I’m in a better position to know my brother’s situation than your six year old.”
“I’m glad you’re able to make that age argument. Don’t you think your mother is better suited to act like a parent to your brother than you are yourself?”
Their voices weren’t particularly loud, but with the silence that had spread to the bystanders, they were embarrassingly clear. Nervously, you glance over at John, he frowns at you and you can’t help but to frown back.
“No. And neither would you if you knew even the first thing about her.”
You frown up at your brother now. You’d slowly realised while at school, by listening in to conversations, that a lot of the things your brother did, even when your mother had been around, wasn’t particularly correlated to the role of a brother. You had not thought much about it. Your mother was alone, she had a lot of work. Most children weren’t in that situation. Mister Egbert was alone too though, you’d always thought he must have understood your mother and your household.
Your brother’s hand wraps around your upper arm and your posture shoots back up to proper. John takes a step out of the shelter, and his father opens his mouth to say something. Your brother cuts him off however, and the force in his hand is a sure indicator of his irritation even when his tone fails to indicate as much.
“Thank you, but no thank you. We’ve had enough of your meddling.”
You were guessing there was a threat in those words, but what threat it could be, you did not understand. You were thankful however that your brother chose to storm off, dragging you along and away from a painful day of school. You glance over your shoulder as he swiftly walks away and switches his hold of your arm for the hold of your hand. Mister Egbert seems to have followed after you for the first few steps. But he stood still now on the sidewalk, looking strangely small from the distance you’d already gained, his briefcase hanging close to the concrete. John waves at you once he notices your gaze, small fingers spread out as he gestures energetically, but still glumly. His frown still the same as before.
An apology was crawling up your throat, but you did not manage to voice it. Your brother’s grip was still strong, though it was more comforting now than it had been before. It remained steady, unshaken all the way to your house. Still, no words were exchanged as you pulled off your boots near the front door. He marched into the house instead, disregarding the snow he was bringing inside.
By the time you join him in the vast living room, he is already seated, arranging and rearranging the paperwork on the dining table. His posture too has suffered, his hands shaken with tremors as they supported the weight of his head.
“Can I stay home today?” You ask meekly, trying to make sure you could abscond back upstairs to your bedroom.
His answer seems random, unrelated, as he doesn’t tear his eyes away from the mass of papers.
“I don’t know what to do, Dave. She hasn’t left us any contact information, or any accessible funds. I can’t pay for these bills, not by a long shot.”
Had it not been for your name, you would have been unsure you had been supposed to overhear the words. Much like you did not like referring to him by his given name, it was also rare for him to use your name. You did not know how to reply, could not even understand what it was that had his voice hitching and his eyes tearing up.
“Can I do anything?”
He turns towards you, as if surprised you had been there all along. And just as you felt the pressure in your throat was too much to fight against, he steals your haphazardly formed apology.
“I’m sorry, Dave.”
You don’t understand the sorry, but you understand the sentiment it was born from. It was the same driving you now as you step towards him, ignoring the fear you felt at hearing your name twice.
The hug is not a good one, but it’s the best you’ve shared, or the best one you remember yet. He doesn’t stand up to accept it, nor does he return it, but his posture is telling of him accepting your small gesture. Your face is pressed to his chest and your arms don’t quite reach all the way around. But this had been the way you had wanted to hug your mother on the last day you had seen her.
He sends you off to your room eventually, and on the way up the stairs, you do peek in between the balusters of the staircase and understand that your hug could not have changed anything then, and did not change anything now.
The idea doesn’t come to you immediately, but rather as you sit on your bed and stare out your window. The sky is baby blue, streaked with the black of the overhead power lines. The same as always, even though now everything is so different inside your home. You pick your small schoolbag off the floor, where you’d left it upon entering your bedroom. The contents are scarce, the school agenda taking up most of the space.
The spine cracks as you open it to the very first page, where your mother had drawn out important information. Your home address, phone number, emergency contacts. Your brother’s cellphone number was listed first. Mister Egbert’s information was listed second. You could remember her taking note of it at the bus stop, pink fuzzy pen in hand as she had scribbled it all down. Your fingertips brush the loops of her calligraphy, wondering if the numbers she scribbled down for her work were just as playful. Your brother had snickered back then, something about your mother getting Mister Egbert’s number, but it was comforting to see it now.
Your brother was adamant about your secret keeping. But Mister Egbert was listed second as emergency. Your brother was first, but… He did not know what to do either. It was only the natural order of things.
Just the same, your heart raced as quickly as the patter of your feet as you sought out the upper floor’s phone. You paused once there, holding your breath and trying to sense where your brother was in the house. Surely still in the same spot.
You dial the number painstakingly slow. It picks up on the fourth ring. The woman’s voice scares you with sudden enough of a quality for you to hang up the line. Quicker than the time it takes you to understand it was a receptionist’s voice. You’re too scared to call again, so you dial the number written just below the previous one. At this time of day, he was surely already taking care of business. His briefcase had been a strong indicator. You ignore that.
It doesn’t take a full ring.
“Yes, Jonathan Egbert speaking.”
You make a face at the phone. Did John have the exact same name as his father? Was his name John Junior? Or even worse, Jonathan?
“Hi, Mister Egbert.”
You were not so sure it was as strong of an idea as you had previously thought it might be. Your voice was but a whisper to the receiver.
“Is this Dave?”
The tone of his voice lets you know he had been either expecting your mother, or your brother, but not yourself. You stand up straighter.
“I’m sorry to bother you, are you at work?”
“No, no. We decided to follow Dirk’s example and to take a day at home.”
You frown when hearing your brother’s name. You shuffle your feet already, trying to decode the truth behind this claim. Why had he stayed home? You stay quiet too long for his liking, and he prompts you to speak.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, my mom listed you as emergency contact.”
“Yes, I seem to remember.”
His words were as cordial as always, but you don’t confuse them for cold or for detached. The pink ink shaping the numbers are enough of a push to go on and to continue in your hurried whispers.
“Mom left. I don’t think Bro knows what to do.”
You keep your eyes trained diligently on the pink ink and attempt not to berate yourself on the use of familiar language. Remembering the quality of your brother’s voice as he had spoken to you earlier is enough to put your guards down however and you don’t think much more of it as you wait for the answer, for the life ring. There is some shuffling on the other side of the line, and you start feeling faint worry.
“Do you two know where she has gone to? How long has she been gone?”
You exhale.
“No… Maybe a month?”
He wraps up that conversation in the time it takes to utter two sentences. And that easily sets the rest of the day up to be a motion of blurs. It is a race against time as soon as you hang up. Down the stairs you go, crying sorry to your brother as soon as he comes into view. His confusion is not long lasting. The man you’d called over wastes no time to actually show up at the door, John in tow.
Thankfully, you are in no way part of the screaming match between the two adults. Though you don’t like to refer to your brother as an adult; your mother too had shared that opinion, saying he could only be considered adult once he had his high school diploma in hand. It only takes a few moments for your brother to order you back to your bedroom in a fit of rage, but you don’t think much of it. You are happy to swerve away from the confrontation, and almost happy that John had naturally followed your steps upstairs.
You aren’t as thankful once he asks you why your brother is so angry in that voice of his that carries and echoes throughout the rooms of your house. You glare at him momentarily, obviously choosing not to answer in the vicinity of the conflict.
The first thing he does upon entering your room is take up the seat you had taken earlier on your bed and gape at your window. The sky is baby blue, just as his eyes are, and the power lines are a dark, black contrast, just as his mess of hair is. You don’t like it, you feel the urge to push him off the bed, but rather you take the chair matching your desk, facing him in a bored fashion.
The silence has an estimate of zero chances of survival when faced with his presence.
“Don’t look so sad. Maybe she’s fine? My mom is dead for sure, that’s way worse.”
You give him a look of incredulity, but he’s still watching the sky.
“But I don’t have a father to count on.”
“Well, how about your brother?”
Your look is unchanged, but so is his. You decide to stop paying attention. Thankfully, with your door shut you can’t hear much of what is going on downstairs. But you are definitely worried.
“Dave?” Unfortunately, you aren’t the best at not listening, and you give him enough credit to turn your head back in his direction. “Sorry, what I meant to say is that I understand. I know it sucks.”
He laughs. It isn’t a mean laugh though and you relax, slouching in your chair. Maybe it was a stressed, apologetic laugh. One of someone who was used to being told he was saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
“Thanks.”
“But you really miss her, right? That’s why you’ve been sad and stuff?”
“Duh.”
He only takes a second to squint at the sky, and you are thankful you are viewing him from the side, as to see his natural eyes squinting rather than the larger vision his glasses give of them. He seems to be mulling over why it was that you were replying in beat to his question with strong single syllables.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nah.”
You smirk when he whips his head around to glare at you. His glare falters and so does your smirk.
“Are you sure?”
You shrug. Your throat feels tight again and you press your lips into a tight line.
“I’m a good listener, I swear.”
You bet he’s not, but you only bother to shrug again. You decide to switch seats and end up sitting next to him instead, staring out the window in hopes that he would return to doing the same. He doesn’t and you feel completely scrutinised as a result.
“You have nothing to say at all?” He urges you again.
Amazingly, when you shake your head instead of shrugging, he drops it completely, remaining silent. Time doesn’t really seem to drag or anything after that. But the horizon you can see through your window soon becomes painted with shades of peach and of midnight blue. Your worries have reached a cap a while ago already and they have yet to settle. And when the knock finally comes at your door, you have reached the conclusion that only the sight of your mother at the door could quell your worries altogether. It isn’t her, and somehow your heart manages to drop a little bit at the sight of your brother.
“Hey, kid. I’m going to help you pack an overnight back, alright? Lil’ Egbert, you can scram, your dad’s waiting for you downstairs.”
John squeezes your hand before departing, and you try not to let it show that you had noticed at all. He’d zipped out of the room quickly, but you watch your brother slowly, not bothering to stand up as he seemed to be moving purposefully through your room.
“You’re not sending me off alone, are you?”
He pauses at that, putting down the things he had already gathered onto your bed.
“Listen to me, Dave.” You flinch at the repeated use of your name, but he settles both of his hands over your shoulders, demeanour serious. “I’ll always be by your side. And I mean it, got that?”
You say nothing of the obvious restraint not only in his expression but in his forearms. Maybe it was because he had settled his sunglasses over his cap, showing off the fatigued air in his mystifyingly close to golden irises, but he looked completely exhausted.
You don’t do much to help out because you too are tired and are feeling emotionally detached. But you are docile enough when he tells you you’d be staying over at the Egberts’ household, for a little bit anyway, because he did need help to figure things out. You aren’t the happiest person in the world, and never had you missed your mother as much as you did now, but you do not say a word about it.
The rest of the day flows by in some way that is too distorted to allow much flow really. Your brother would return in the following days to get more of the belongings you would be needing. The Egberts had headed home as you had packed up. And you had made the walk back to the bus stop, their household being the one adjacent to it. The last of the arched street, the house standing right by the bus shelter where the yellow school buses passed every morning and afternoon.
Your brother does not hold your hand, he has his bag in one hand, and the folder filled up with paperwork in the other. You walk with your spine straight, but with your eyes riveted on the cracks of the pavement. No one comments on the largeness of your house. You don’t know how these things work, but you wonder if this house will remain yours with your mother out of the picture.
And then dinner is served. Something that looks like the spokesperson of the food pyramid, with well defined sections to the plate. Sometimes your mother’s food wouldn’t look like food at all. Sometimes it was more like a radioactive flan. More often than not the spices were way off the chart. Your brother usually took up kitchen duty to spare your tastebuds. But it had always been interesting. You don’t find much interest in the food here and spend the diner time staring at the white walls and the odd figurines here and there. Later on in life, you will often compare this place to a waiting room, what with the carpeted floor and intimidating white walls, but as it is you can only tell that you prefer your own home.
You don’t complain. You don’t try to. And your brother does not voice any business or arrangements with Mister Egbert. They can’t, not with John’s chattering, which mostly revolves around what the two of you might have missed at school today. That had just about been the last thing on your mind until then.
Your brother volunteers for the dishes, and Mister Egbert leads you to the second floor. The guest bedroom is downstairs, and you frown when you’re told that that will be where your brother will be sleeping. You will be sharing John’s room, but it will be a remarkable opportunity for the two of you to bond, you are told. You are also shown the bathroom, how the shower works, where the towels are; everything you could have possibly asked is systematically answered in the presentation.
You can tell John tries to remain quiet, but he can’t help but pipe in with comments and remarks on everything around the house. You kind of want peace and quiet. You kind of want a room alone. Which you have at home. Some outside help is great and all, but you don’t see this temporary transition as necessary. Or at least, you want to be in your brother’s room downstairs. He doesn’t waste words, he analyses and picks out the best words. John has too much to say. You want to be alone.
Mister Egbert senses this and sends John away for a shower as soon as the tour is over. The both of them disperse, one descending the stairs surely to speak to your brother, and the other grabbing his set of pyjamas and heading to the bathroom. You make sure the door is shut, and breathe in slowly, and breathe out deeply. You change into your own pyjamas, crawling into bed immediately. You try to set up some system of borders for sleeping tonight, but eventually give up, curling away from where John would be sleeping.
You accept it when the tears come. After all, you had not been granted the solace of school to be able to cry away from home today. This was an acceptable substitute. Besides, it was already dark outside, and the room was dark as well. There was no one around to berate you. So you cry, a lot. Silently, but without stop. Your cheeks are soon wet, and yet the tears keep coming. Even when you hear the faraway roar of the shower come to an end, you cannot calm down or slow down.
You miss your mom. You don’t think she is coming back. You don’t know what has happened to her. Her car is gone, but nothing else is. She did not say goodbye. She had simply cried at the dining table. She’d always been able to cheer you up when you had been upset. But you had not been able to do the same for her, and now she could never do it again for you.
So when the door opens, light from the hallway streaming in, you do not turn away from it. You do not roll away, do not cover your face, do not still your breathing to put up the pretence of sleeping. You continue crying, knowing full well no comfort would come. Maybe, had you been less proud and allowed yourself to cry in the presence of your brother, he could have reassured you. That was not going to happen. Crying in front of John was allowed because he was around at school. And he stared you down constantly, even when it was time for you to go through your daily meltdown.
Today was not much different. He stood in the doorframe for a good minute, not shutting the door, as if allowing for the light to expose what it was you were crying over. He still had not spoken by the time he sealed that light away and walked around to what now had to be his side of the bed.
“You’re sad?” He whispered in a way that made his voice sound less peppy, less space consuming. Ultimately, it was what kept you from answering with a sarcastic bite.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am really sad.”
You felt him sit next to you, and from the way he touched your shoulder, you were certain he was still busy staring at you. You were still not rolling over though, instead concentrating on the outline of the doorknob in the dark.
He says, “I love you”, so you do end up rolling towards him. And then he kisses your left cheek, your right cheek. You recognise that this is how his father bids him farewell every morning. Tells him he loves him, then kisses both his cheeks. You frown. Your mother, she wouldn’t behave in this way. She would tell you, ‘See you kiddo’ and ruffle your hair before you stepped into the bus. You decide to ruffle John’s hair in whatever returning gesture you could think of.
It works because he smiles brightly. Missing front teeth and the rest of the smile you’d never truly liked until now. You don’t try to think of what was the purpose of his approach. You accept it as nice, as caring.
He gets under the covers and you’re starting to think that maybe the crying would soon recede and you could fall asleep and forget about today. You say nothing when he kisses your cheek again, nor when he accidentally kisses your lips. You even kiss him back when he kisses you again in the same manner a moment later.
Then he asks you, “Are you still sad?”
You shrug, but it means yes.
He tells you, “Yeah, I’m still sad about my mom.” He shrugs and you get the feeling your own shrug might have looked the same. Dishonest. “But I am still happy you’re here.”
You don’t understand him. You don’t understand the situation. But you feel grateful, almost relieved. You’d stopped crying. You roll away after he kisses you one last time, and once again look intensely at the doorknob. You couldn’t remember being kissed before. It had been nice enough, strange maybe. You decide not to bring it up with anyone come morning. Maybe he was trying to be your friend. Maybe he’d wanted to be your friend?
Your mother is still the last one on your mind as you drift away to sleep. You wish you could go through a day without thinking about her because you still had not. And John had not sounded very promising with the words of his own mom. But you wish she could be off your mind, if only just for a day. You wish you could keep yourself from thinking about it.
And that’s how you fall asleep.
-001-
The first thing you’re able to take in is the noise. As if dozens of conversations had started at once. Kindergarten had never been quite this loud. And you’d already found that a little too busy. The second thing you notice is that perhaps you should not have stopped walking. The person who pushed past you, shoving your shoulder as they go, has you taking a step back. It’s not in your habits to flinch frequently, but you still do, hand moving to grasp your hair nervously. The third thing you notice is that colours around you were dark, muted. You feel the weight on the bridge of your nose, and assume you must have thought it was a good idea to go out with one of your brother’s pairs of sunglasses today. You move them up to rest over your head, blinking at the school hallway.
Your glasses drop back onto your nose.
“What are you doing now? Maybe don’t go into transe in the middle of the hallway?”
It was John. He’d pushed your glasses back down, and was pulling you out of the rush of students by the arm, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. It was John, you just knew. Even though his glasses were nice, and even though his two top front teeth were what had to be oversized. Even though he was tall, and his voice much deeper. But he didn’t seem to be taller than you. The conclusion might have been quick, but it was a terrifying one all the same. You were older. You were not sure quite how old, but you were not six years old. You could not remember being anything older than that though? Breathing became slightly harder to maintain. On more than one occasion, as he finds his way to his locker, you trip in your own feet, positive your legs were just too long to work.
You only realise once you’ve stopped attempting to walk that he’d been babbling on about God knows what.
You test your theory and interrupt his speech with the shy question of his name. Your own voice still sounds familiar in your ears and that was of some consolation.
“What? Don’t give me that kicked puppy look. I’m just saying, sometimes you’re spatially unaware. You’re special though, so it can’t really be helped.”
He wasn’t looking at you, putting books away in his locker and zipping up his winter coat, which came as some surprise as he pulled it out of his locker, what with the bermudas and short sleeved shirt attire he had on beneath.
“Are you just going to stand there? Because, I swear, you’ve given me such a hard time for not wearing full legged pants, you better put a coat on.”
You were stuck on his claim that you were special though. Not thinking of it as anything that could be of any other connotation than a positive, loving one, you smile softly. You remember, last night, or maybe forever ago? How he had said he loved you. And you remember not answering to it at all.
You clear your throat, feeling unconfident with your overgrown body and with the busy hallway. “John? I love you too.”
“What?” He doesn’t have time to finish his syllable, and you don’t have time to lean in and kiss his cheek because he pushes you away by the shoulders, giving you a shocked look in between the crazed ones he sends right and left.
“What the hell?” He looks annoyed now, and you automatically shoot your eyes downwards, trying to understand the pattern in your shoelaces and just why you might have picked those out.
“Ugh, your sense of humour has only gotten worse.” He sounds like he’s in a bad mood, and you don’t feel anywhere near comfortable enough to tell him there is a huge chunk of your memory missing.
He closes his locker, turns towards you and crosses his arms. “So you really aren’t wearing a coat?”
Your eyes sting, but you don’t want to move the sunglasses to rub them. John had just set them back into place immediately when you had moved them earlier. You were already feeling small enough, despite your newly gained height, you were not willing to put yourself in another position where he could belittle you.
You turn towards a locker anyway, shakily, and try to force your memory to spit out some combination of numbers.
“Uh… The locker to my right, Dave?” Your name isn’t even all that reassuring. You’d already known you were yourself, there was just something terribly useless about your mind, you did not need the confirmation of your identity. You needed to remember not to attempt opening the locker to his left and rather attempt opening the locker to his right.
You try to laugh, but the small sound does not get a chance to form at all. His composure had immediately morphed into one of joy and of excitement.
“You’re from the past?”
Though he’d whispered, his words could not have been louder. You glance around you, absolutely sure saying that you loved him should not have been more secretive than the idea that you had skipped an entire period of time.
For some reason, you think of answering ‘no’, but he keeps speaking so you can’t put your word in anyway.
“That’s great! I was going to turn fifteen and I just dealt with ‘present you’ all year long. Like, what? Is fourteen year old me so annoying you don’t want to travel through time to see me?”
You wish you were finding this just as amusing as he was, but you’re worried. You don’t know what he’s talking about. And you did not want to be in this place. Fortunately, he seems to notice your discomfort, and wraps an arm around your shoulders, all the while unlocking your lock for you.
“No wonder you’ve been looking so pitiful, there is no way in hell you are fifteen year old Dave. How old are you?”
When you fail to answer he blurts out number after number until you interrupt him with the correct number. Six it is. Not fifteen.
His laughter might have been contagious, more than one person looked towards you, smirking at his enthusiastic outburst. But you aren’t laughing. If anything, you once again feel like crying.
“What? That’s adorable. You’re not going to cry, are you? You were such a crybaby at that age.”
That cleanly cuts out your likelihood of bursting into tears and you moodily pick out random belongings out of your now opened locker.
“Oh come on, don’t be that way. You used to travel all the time back then, what time is it now?”
“First time, you meanie.”
He still laughs, but it quickly ends, and he takes the randomly matched books you’d pulled out of your locker and sets them back down.
“You’re serious? You don’t know what is going on?” You nod your head. The tears escape your eyes, as much as you do not want them to.
You’d been too busy concentrating on your shoelaces to expect his full-body hug. The hug is the best hug you’ve experienced. Easily. And somehow, it felt familiar despite the strangeness of the situation.
“I’m so sorry. I should have been more supportive. I’m sorry about your mom too..”
You blink once, and the last of your tears escape you. You’d forgotten about your mom.
“Did she come back?” You ask, without yet thinking of asking how justly he had identified what was your last memory in this moment of time.
He pulls back and you are momentarily caught up in the way he looks at you. It’s fleeting and he breaks into an apologetic smile quickly, sorting your things for you and once again pulling you away by the arm once the locker’s shut.
“C’mon, let’s go sit down. I’m hoping we still have some time.”
The formulation of his words only suggests more questions, so you let it go.
“So, by the way, memorise the path we’re taking so this can successfully become our, current for me, but future hangout spot.”
He doesn’t seem to care or to listen to your words of protest. So you follow, actually completely detached from your direction, orientation, and whereabouts. Granted, the hangout spot is a solid one. What seems to be a ghost staircase, adorned with a window that might as well have acted as the wall, given its size. He sits down at the plateau of the staircase, gazing fondly out of the window. You watch him, ignoring as best you could the urgency that was building up inside of you.
“So. When you went to bed last night, did you think of anything specific?”
You shake your head, but he rolls his eyes.
“It’s ok, you can tell me. Well, technically, you don’t need to.” He finally looks at you, crossing his arms and turning serious. “I don’t remember it super specifically, but something like wishing you would stop thinking about your mother. Am I right?”
“Wish I could get through a day without thinking about her. How did you know?”
He smiles again, and his teeth were not as strange as you thought they might end up being after their prolonged absence in replacing the initial baby teeth. “Well, you told me. We’re best friends, so you tell me everything.” He waggles his eyebrows, you stare.
“Best friends? But you’re loud.”
He laughs, as if to prove your own claim. “You love me, you said so earlier, you were all over me!”
“Well, you said it first!”
“No, I really didn’t.”
His smile is confident, happy. You glare.
“So what? I thought of that last night and now I’m old as heck?”
“It’s ok, you can say hell, I won’t tell your bro.” He laughs again, but you successfully maintain your glare. “Well, nothing. You’re special, like I said earlier. If you go to bed with a specific time, or a specific requirement for time, you’ll live it in your sleep. Or something like that, we’re still working out the science behind it.”
He winks at you, but you still don’t see any way of feeling amused or entertained by your predicament.
“What?”
“Look, all that matters is that you’re fine, you’ll wake up soon, and you can tell me about it. Actually, you have to tell me about it. Because we’re best friends, remember?”
“But we aren’t.” You definitely were not best friends. Somehow, John was sort of well liked by everyone else in kindergarten. This put a lot of classmates, and teachers even, higher up on the list of his potential best friends, than you could possibly be. Besides, you did not have the time for a best friend. You were fine by yourself.
“No, trust me. We’re best friends. I know you know it too!”
You look out the window, distracting yourself. You hoped he was right and you would wake up soon. You wanted to see your brother. You wanted to actually sleep because this was not restful in the least.
“Do you think this is the first time I’ve gone through a day without thinking about my mom?”
He hums in contemplation and it isn’t nearly as annoying as you imagine it could be. If anything, it is a little reassuring, given the surrealism afflicting your situation. “Well, it doesn’t really work like that. There is no chronological priority in times that can fulfil your request. Or anyway, that’s what we’ve concluded so far.”
You nod in acceptance because you don’t really think or want to think about catching up on this many years of unlocked knowledge.
“But, honestly. I’ve been with you every day since your yesterday. And it is really conceivable. It might be, yeah.”
You nod again. Maybe there was some good in that. You weren’t alone, John was saying he would be there for it all, even if you don’t understand most of it.
“It isn’t a bad thing. I think about my mom a lot too.”
You pull up your sunglasses, and he lets you this time. You do nothing but observe his eyes, looking for the hint of something you did not know of.
-xxx-
You try skipping breakfast. Your brother pulls you aside and explains to you the importance of eating and of how feeling upset or feeling sad should not get in the way of that. You pretend to understand and to agree. It’s not that you’re not in the mood to eat because you’re too sad. It’s that you’re not in the mood to eat because you’re not in the mood to sit down. Restless is the appropriate word.
But you sit through breakfast, move the pancakes around the plate, cut up pieces of it and pile them into small groups and take a few rare bites of the cut up strawberries. Your brother nods at you encouragingly whenever your eyes cross. Mister Egbert seems completely drawn into his newspaper. Whereas both John and you had been granted another day at home, he was ready to head out for work. And John was midway through his third plateful, speaking quickly and profusely. He looked different than in your dream, but still, you could tell they were one and the same.
Whatever conversation his father and your brother had was foreign in your ears and you successfully tuned it out. Things did not seem so bad in the supposed future. Maybe it was best to dissociate yourself from such things for now.
Breakfast comes and goes and you are still unable to calm down. You are still sad, but you are mostly excited, energetic. Mister Egbert leaves, your brother stays at the table, and his expression is only slightly less worried than it had been at home. You think about asking to go home, you think of sneaking out and slipping under the sheets of your own bed at home. Ultimately, you don’t think sleeping would be successful. You simply return to John’s bedroom. He is chattering away, and you only belatedly think of the kindness he had shown you, now overshadowed by your alleged vision of the future.
Once inside his room, you ask him, “Are we best friends?” Which might have been ironic seeing as you had cut him off, without much interest in what it was he was actually saying.
“Duh!”
“We are?”
“Yeah.”
He is dead serious. Your energy is a bit lessened by this quick, few worded exchange. You didn’t actually want to reveal what you had experienced all that much. Mostly because you had not quite understood most of it, and neither had his future version it had seemed like.
You try with, “I think I time travelled in my sleep.”
He believes you immediately. You are shocked.
“Woah, that is so cool? Where did you go? Who did you meet? How was it? Tell me everything!” And maybe you would have, but it was made impossible when he pushed with a considerable increase in questions.
His continued flow of conversation soon went into different options and possibilities of what it was you had meant to express in that one sentence. So you give him a second sentence.
“You don’t want proof?”
His eyes are wide, wider than they could have been in your dream. Too wide with those unfortunate glasses.
“Was I there?” He doesn’t allow you the time to answer or to nod. “What was I like?”
“You had teeth,” You explain blandly, not able to come up with a different answer.
He seems satisfied, happy. “My front teeth? That’s great! Please tell me you time travelled to next week.”
“You were fourteen.”
“Oh no. No, that’s really not what I wanted to hear.” He hangs his head, immediately sulky. You actually laugh, without even a hint of sadness.
“C’mon, they’ll probably come in before then. I’m just saying, you had your teeth.”
“And we were best friends, huh?”
You shrug, but he clearly takes it as a yes.
“Well, I believe you. We’re best friends. My teeth grew in. Why not?”
“I want to prove it.”
“Well, alright.”
You sit down as he heads towards his nightstand. You curl your fists, putting all your efforts into concentrating on any detail that might be of some importance. He sits down next to you, posture bouncy and lighthearted. The object he’d retrieved had been a deck of cards. Your confidence dwindles.
“Ok. Here. Tell me what are the top five cards of the deck.”
“What?”
“Well, if you can travel through time, you can travel to now and, since this has already happened, you’ll know which cards are on top. Simple math.”
“What! No it’s not! What if I can’t travel backwards?”
“Do it or I’ll know we aren’t best friends in the future.”
You gape at him and then down at the cards. You could potentially try guessing. But it was not a good bet. The odds would not be working in your favour. You swallow audibly. And are then stopped by a sharp pain in the back of your skull, you whine as you clutch the back of your head.
“Dave?”
You jump in fright, turning towards the door, where John had just emerged, not sitting on the bed as he had been a second ago. And as a matter of fact, neither are you.
“Oh, are you back to normal?”
“What?”
“You enumerated the entire deck of cards. The whole thing. It took forever, it was so boring. Like, I was sold after the first three.” He sits back down, and you look out the window. It didn’t seem as if you had lost any considerable amount of time. “Oh, and you asked for a glass of water, you said your head would be hurting afterwards.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, it is.”
You sit back down as well. The glass of water quickly becomes history, the note that had been in your hand and now on your lap however… It was hard to believe the cursive writing there was yours, but it must have been. The complete order of the deck of cards.
John notices your staring and snorts in amusement. “Yeah, you wrote that down like a maniac. You said it took forever to memorise.”
You shake your head, laughing, also somewhat happy.
There is a note at the end. The first time trying to read it is a challenge. It becomes easier after the fourth time. You read it over that day many more times than you do the order of cards;
hang in there i know things are hard
but a friend is a friend
it is worth memorising i promise