Messed Up Vita

Chapter Twenty-Three

An awkward silent car ride later, we arrive at my house, where Linda tells me to finish my homework while she goes back to work. I mutter an agreement, and poof-- she's gone, leaving a sick child alone in the house. I'm not really a child, but she should at least stay to help me with food or something. Neither her or Dad will be home until after six-thirty, and it's only twelve o' seven. 

   I stayed and sat on the couch, guilt eating me up from the inside, making me actually feel unwell. Irony, I think.

   So five hours to myself, I didn't have much to do. I watched TV, but nothing good was on. That lasted for about twenty minutes. Then I started practicing another song, which I looked up on the internet. It was a slow, acoustic version of the original. But I liked it, and it wasn't that hard to learn. My fingers memorized most of the pattern, and my brain worked on memorizing the lyrics. 

   It was When I Look at You, by Miley Cyrus. I didn't particularly like her all that much, but some of her acoustic songs are pretty good. 

   I make some green tea, put on sweatpants and tie my hair in a bun, get my guitar and computer, and I find it's already five o'clock. I quickly eat a sandwich before putting my guitar away-- right after one more song, that is-- and I drape a blanket over myself and rest my head on the pillow. I figure if I'm asleep by the time they come home my sickness will look more authentic. I am tired, but sleep doesn't find me. Instead, I think about random crap that floods my mind.

   I've read somewhere that people's pupils enlarge when they see somebody they love, or somebody they hate. I guess I've never seen anybody's eyes close up to see that. Have Mason's ever done that?

   I'm suddenly thinking about our day together, and why the hell I actually agreed to it. I'm no drop-out student, but I'm no A+ average, either. I've never once skipped a day of school in my life, unless I'm completely sick or out of town. I have to remind myself that Mason stood by and watched as they beat up Joey. He fought back, but he was by himself. These guys had a whole room of people who would help them just for the joy of the fight. And I gave into Mason's plead for forgiveness in a heartbeat.

   Suddenly I'm struck in the stomach with a huge ball of dread. I've forgotten my backpack again! I was so caught up with thinking about Joey and my plans tomorrow I've completely let it slip my mind that I needed to go see if it was still there. Even if by some chance of luck it was there before, it's definitely gone now. Either the janitor picked it up or one of the students. There was nothing really valuable in that backpack but my phone, but I think it's equally as deadly. My phone has a ridiculously easy password. It's "1-3-5-7". All odd numbers.

   I groan and flip onto my side, facing the couch's back. I bury my head between the pillows and the place where people lean against. I could barely breath, but I was just fine with that. It helps me calm down, at least a little.

   There's suddenly a loud ratting on the door, and I start. I lift my head, expecting Dad. But the person who made the noise stayed behind the door, and nobody entered. A guest, I tell myself. Should I answer?

   "Eliot?" a person says, voice loud behind the wooden door. I bolt upright, realizing my state. Hair's messy, homeless person clothes on, and I'm laying in the middle of the couch. Great.

   I know that voice, and I answer anyways. "Come in," I say weakly, realizing I have either to not answer and have him believe I'm not here, or answer and have him see me this way.

   He turns the knob carefully and peeks his head inside. "Guess what."

   "What?" I say, tilting my head to the side as if to say 'you interrupted my sleep now go away'.

   "I found your address," Joey says, a smirk on his face.

    "And that's a good thing?" I ask. "You're kind of a stalker, now."

   "Nah," he says. He pauses. "Can I. . .  uh, come in?" He sounds unsure, and sits behind the door with one hand on the knob. His hair was messed up, his usual hairstyle all over the place and not pointed. His jacket was barely hanging onto his shoulders, as if somebody tried to mug him.

   "What happened to you?" I say after I nod for him to come in. He barely stands in the house, like he's still unsure whether he's allowed.

   "Uh, I got jumped by my brother and his friends," he says seriously.

   I laugh. "So I was partially right."

   He looks at me questionably, but doesn't ask me anything. Instead he dares to take a step forward to put a hand on the back of the couch, which faces the doorway. "I knew you weren't really sick, Eliot. You're a horrible actress."

   I pretend to act offended. "Hey! The teachers fell for it."

   "But nobody else did," he says, stone-faced.

   I pause for a long moment. "Joey, why did you come to see me, then? If you knew I wasn't sick."

   He also pauses, as if searching for words. He gazes around the room, eyes not resting on a single object, but many. "I found your backpack, in the hallway. Some guys were just about to steal it when I said it was mine." He reaches behind his back to the bag I didn't know he was carrying. He hands it to me over the couch, and I grasp it tightly, relief and gratitude filling my lungs.

   "Thank you," I practically breath. "Why's it so heavy?"

   "I got your books," he says, tapping it. A hollow knock sounds in the black textile. "Your homework, I mean."

   I smile up at him. "Thank you, Joey."

   "It was nothing," he tells me.

   I reach out, but my hand falls short. I don't know if he trusts me enough for me to touch his arm. "No, I mean it. Thank you for not being mad at me."

   "Why would I be?"

   "Because I'm an idiot," I huff. "I've ignored you right when we became friends, skipped school, and you still bring my freaking books to me. I'm a horrible friend, if you haven't noticed yet. That's why I never really get along with anybody."

   Was if me, or did I see Joey flinch at my words? I study him a little closer, to make sure. But his face goes straight back to normal, unreadable. 

   "I get along with music better than people," Joey admits, shrugging. "And animals, sometimes."

   My eyes light up mischievously at this new found fact. "Like kittens?"

   "Sometimes."

   I blink in surprise at his answer, then laugh. "And puppies? And llamas?"

   "Calm down, Eliot," Joey says, sitting down on the edge of the couch. I am sitting below him, and have to sit back to meet his gaze. "And yes, dogs. I have two dogs and a cat. It's a full house, in my home. I see you don't have any pets. Right?"

   I shake my head. "No. My step mom hates animals and their fur getting everywhere. I'm not really fond of cats, to be honest, but dog's are chill."

   "Chill," he repeats, a glimmer of amusement on his face. His mouth turns up slightly. Not a smirk, but not a smile. "I love cats. Maybe that's the one difference between us, huh?"

   "What's the similarities?" I ask. "Music." I list  the obvious one.

   "We both have dark hair," he says, pointing to his head. "We're both nearly the same height. We both get into fights. We don't get along with most people. Uh, we both. . . ." But he trails off, not finishing his sentence. "Never mind."

   "What?" I ask, shifting to sit on my feet. "We both what?"

   He shakes his head, mouth pulled into a straight line. "Nothing."

   I sh