The Three Lettered Word

chapter four: those plastic stars

Chapter Four

"Samuel, could you please stop eating the lemons? They're for the drinks, not your odd stomach!" Reluctantly, I put down the slice of lemon I was about to start eating as my mother teetered into the room less than gracefully on her high heels.

I eyed her choice of footwear curiously, and the way she was struggling to walk in them and sighed, stirring the salad around with the prongs, "Mum, I don't understand...why are we making a big deal out of all this? I feel kinda ridiculous, and you can't walk." 

"Oh shush with your negativity and teenage moodiness. I think you look really handsome, honey." My mum said, putting the dish of sausages in the middle of the table. She straightened up and tugged on her dress indignantly, bending her knee and putting a hand on the table, "And, young man, I can walk." 

"Just not very well." I added. "And mum, I don't understand why we have to dress up all nice. I don't wear this sort of shirt and these trousers feel weird and do I really have to wear the tie?" My mother sighed and tottered over to me, picking up said tie. She reached out, paused instinctively for me to relax into her ensuing grip, before she came closer and turned up my collar. She looped the tie around my neck and slowly and carefully did it up, making sure not to brush my skin too much, or too sharply. "And your dad and sister have been away for a long time. I wanted to surprise him with a nice meal. You've missed your dad and your big sister, haven't you?" 

"I have." I said, musing on the fact my dad was a professor at the university my sister attended, and that term hadn't actually or technically started for them just yet, "But we could have gone to a restaurant instead, save you the trouble."

"Now that would be boring, and expensive for that matter. Besides, I like an excuse to try and look beautiful. Right, kiddo, can you set the table and put the lemons and ice in the drinks? But don't eat any." She tightened up the tie and kissed my nose, before staggering back into the kitchen. But I always thought my mother looked beautiful anyway, no matter what she wore. She didn't need to try harder to look prettier or whatever. My dad loved her with every fibre in his being: pyjamas, tracksuit, jeans, wedding dress. She was lovely anyway. 

I sighed and put the four drinks carefully down in their places, pushing a slice of lemon on the edge of each glass. Tipping a few ice cubes in each, my fingers got cold and I hurried about trying to get it over with. As I warmed up my hands by rubbing them on my thighs, I remembered how Jack was virtually invincible against the cold, and how he could eat ice cubes and not flinch or complain about sensitive teeth, and never really have to wear gloves when handling snow or ice. I would call him Jack Frost, because he loved the snow and ice and cold, and I didn't have a very wide humorous development.

Stop thinking about him. You sound obsessed. 

I figured I was just shocked at how he was now part of my life again. I was shocked at how my emotions were all muddled up inside me, and how I was so confused and hurt but relieved and happy...although I was definitely conflicted about how I felt whenever his pale blond hair would catch the sunlight streaming in through dusty windows. God, I almost had to remove myself from maths during the middle of algebra.

Pale hair, pale skin, and yet the most colourful thing in the room. It wasn't just the flag of his sexuality that was brighter than everyone—and everything—else.

The slam of a car door sounding from outside the living room window pulled me from my thoughts of ice and candy-floss hair, and I jumped, almost knocking a glass of water—lemon and all—from the table. The sound of the door opening and the thumping of footsteps was soon met with the image of my older sister bounding through the living room door, various bags falling off her shoulders and her marvellously orange hair billowing out behind her.