House of Lincoln

23

I'm outside. I hear a voice. Not God's, but one equally as angelic. It's like a mother's tone, calming me with her uttered reassurances. But the words are not English, and I can't understand what they're saying to me. It's too far back in my mind to identify. I'm on the steps of the school, waiting for the final bell to ring. After I doze off for a minute in my arms, I'm awoken by the shriek of the school bell. School was over, and down the steps past me poured crowds of students in their cliques. Some headed off together in the same car, some kids drove their own way home and some were driven by their parents. The person I've been waiting for finally comes out amongst the remaining few kids who were late to leave for whatever reason.

Clyde waves to me. "Hey, Lincoln! Why weren't you in class today? Are you sick?" He looked at me waiting for an answer, but I didn't give him one. He pressed further. "Lincoln? What is it, buddy?" It irritated me. I don't know why; I did want to see him. It felt like it was my duty to find him. Almost an obligation. "I'm not sick. In fact, I've never felt better." (That was true. I was genuinely smiling for the first time in ages.) "I want you to walk with me." He asked where to, and I told him the park. He checked his phone for the time and nodded. "Okay. But I have to be home by four, so I can't stay too long." I told him that was fine, and we started walking. On our walk, he asked again why I wasn't at school. I told him I was writing something. He asked what I was writing. I told him an essay. He looked confused. He asked me if it was an essay for school. I told him it wasn't, and that it was my personal project. He asked why I skipped school to write it. I told him I had to. He looked at me like there was something that worried him, and he stopped asking questions about it.

"It's a nice day," I said. He agreed. "Yeah, I guess it's going to rain later tonight though." Our small talk died out into silence. Clyde seemed very uncomfortable. We didn't talk for the rest of the walk. When we got to the park, Clyde asked me why I wanted to come. I told him I wanted to get out for a minute and have a nice talk with my friend. He asked me why. I found that weird and irritating. He still looked uncomfortable. The thoughts that burdened him bubbled to the surface and he finally said with a low breath: "What are you writing about, Lincoln?" He was scared, and I could tell because when he gets scared, his eyes get really wide like a chipmunk and his hands get fidgety. He was rolling up the bottom of his shirt and balling it up nervously. His question made me laugh, and that made him even more tense. I didn't answer him, so he asked again.

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"Why do you want to know?" I asked. Clyde stepped closer as if to intimidate me into telling him. It only made him look silly and pitiful, like a scared, sad, sick dog, waiting in line to be euthanized. I knew nothing I could say would cease his line of questioning, so I gave in. "Why don't I show you?" Clyde didn't say anything, and he just waited for my move. I started walking past him on the route to my house and he followed behind. It was me leading the way carelessly, relaxed, unbothered, and then it was Clyde following behind, quiet, steady, and suspicious. He stared at the back of my head the whole time. I could feel it. It was burning into my skull this stare. This juxtaposition of moods marched their way down the street and now arrived at the house. I stood in front of the steps up to the door, asking myself if I'd forgotten to do my Algebra homework. Had I eaten today? Yes, I did. I had a bowl of oatmeal.

Clyde yelled out from behind me. "Show me." I got my focus back and we went inside. Clyde pinched his nose. "Oh gosh, Lincoln! What's that smell?!" I laughed and pointed to the corner. Clyde looked over and saw the body of fur that laid limp on the carpet. My cat passed away a few weeks ago. The poor guy. I'll miss him, for sure. I guess I had forgotten about him and got used to the smell. I didn't remove the body or bury it because I felt like that would be wrong. I wouldn't want to be buried if I was dead. Besides, usually my parents would take care of that, but they just walk right by it like it's not even there. I picked up their habit, walking over it, sometimes even on top of it, and not even noticing. Clyde didn't dwell on it, but he did put his hand to his mouth like he felt sick. I led him up to my room.

My door is covered with sticky notes on the outside and inside. The entire door is ridden with yellow squares so much so that you can't see the door itself behind them. If you peeled off one of the sticky notes, two more would appear behind it. Clyde's reaction to this was drooping eyebrows. He looked awfully cautious and even a little defensive, like he was getting ready to fight whatever stood on the other side of the door. There was sweat glistening on his forehead, dripping down to his eyebrow, around it, and underneath, then proceeding in a determined shot down to his lip, where he licked over to prevent dryness. I asked him if he was ready. He said yes, so I 𝕡𝕦𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕠𝕠𝕣.