I'm Sort of Okay with This

Six: Ian

tw: kind of mentions SA

After baseball practice on Wednesday, I passed out on the couch in front of the television. The gardening program my mom had been watching cut to an ad break, and to my horror, one of Dad's commercials flashed on the screen.

He donned a bright green suit and tie, bargain prices listed near his face in bold text. The colors gave me a headache. I winced and changed the channel to a sitcom. If I heard one more word about Kennedy Auto, I thought my head would explode.

I closed my eyes, my body drained of energy. Mom bustled around the kitchen, pouring pretzels into a bowl. She set it on the coffee table and leaned down to kiss me on the head. The flowery smell of her perfume wafted in my nose. It brought me back to the earliest parts of my childhood.

"You doing okay, sweetie?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said.

But I couldn't stop thinking about Cheyenne. I hadn't confronted her about the rumor. I didn't want to accuse her of something she didn't do. I was tangled in a massive fishnet I couldn't claw my way out of.

"I was gonna make sundaes after dinner," Mom said. "But your brother got into the last of the ice cream."

"Oh," I said. "That's too bad."

"Do you think you could do me a big favor and go grab some from the store?" she said. "If you can't, that's okay, but it would be lovely if you could."

"Yeah, okay," I said. "Just give me a minute."

I took a shower, to scrub all of the dirt and sweat from practice off of me. The warmth of the water softened my tense muscles. My mind went blank as I allowed the water to rush down my shoulder blades and stream down my back. Dirt from sliding on the dusty baseball diamond washed off my body and mingled with the water by my feet. I did absolutely nothing, refreshed by the peace of not worrying about baseball or school or Cheyenne or my father.

I thought of Abby. I'd never been that honest about how I felt without being made fun of. I never told my mother about my stress, so as to avoid worrying her. Colin was too young to understand, and I didn't want James or Cheynne to think I was complaining. My life was pretty good, other than my constant nervousness.

After my shower, I changed clothes and drove to a nearby 7-11. The parking lot was empty. A bell chimed as I opened the door. By the Slurpee machine, I spied a figure in a familiar denim jacket. My heartbeat quickened for some reason, but I approached her.

"Hi," I said.

She turned around, a cherry Slurpee in her hand. My eyes landed on her worn jeans, rolled at the ankles, the chipped black paint on her nails. The permanent scowl she wore dissolved, but she rolled her eyes.

"Oh," she said. "It's you."

"Jeez," I said. "Try to sound a little more disappointed next time."

She smirked and took a long sip from the Slurpee straw. "Don't think that's possible."

I chortled. "So what brings you to this fine establishment this evening?"

"I live pretty close by. I had a post-dinner sugar craving." 

"Fair enough."

"Nice shirt," she said, in reference to my baggy Pulp Fiction t-shirt. I looked down at my feet. I'd never seen the movie.

"I've never actually seen it," I said.

"I said I liked the shirt," she said. "The movie isn't even that good."