Messed Up Vita

Chapter Twenty-Five

Three hours later, I'm coughing into my bedspread. Not for an act, this time. I must've caught a cold from the cold weather or something. I have no idea. But I can't tell my parents I caught a cold-- they already think I'm sick. I'm going to have to work this one out on my own. I don't feel like food likes me at this moment, so I'm not going to try. I bury my head in my pillow and try to silence the coughs forcing their way out my lungs.

   I hear a text ring next to my side, and I lift my head to see. It's from Mason, from when I had texted him that I really was sick. 

   "It's my fault :("

   I manage to get my fingers to obey momentarily. "No, it's not. I have to go now. talk later"

   I toss it back down on my side and wrap my arms around myself in what may seem like an uncomfortable position, but I was happy to be in my warm bungalow of covers and felt.

   I get a few minutes in before somebody knocks on my door. "Eliot?"

   "Hmmf," I say, as in "What?".

   "There's a boy here named Joey?" Dad asks, eyebrows scrunching up. I stiffen, and slowly lift my head. Damn it. Why was he still coming here? 

   "Uh, he's a friend from school," I answer honestly. "Tell him to stay out of my room so he doesn't get sick. But let him in." Dad nods and retreats back into the hallway, where I hear muffled voices talk, and then Joey's mellow voice. What the heck is he doing back here? Hopefully he didn't tell them about his previous visit.

   I brush my hair out of my face as I see a person standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He looked more decent than before, and had a different coat on. He must've went home or something.

   "Yeah?" I croak. I lower my voice. "I actually got sick, J- I mean, Death Head."

   He smiles. "You remembered my title. And you seriously got sick?"

   "Does it look like I'm faking?" As if on cue, a cough springs out of my throat. I groan and roll over on my side so he can't see my horrible state. "I look awful. No offense, but why are you here?"

   I suddenly felt the tension thicken a thousand times in the air, like it was similar to humidity. "Well . . . there's something you might want to know."

   I don't turn my head, but I listen closely. "What?"

   He pauses, as if wording his sentences carefully. "I saw Mason. . .  with a, uh. . . "

   "What?" I push.

   "I saw him with a girl," he rushes out. "In the school. Like, they were close."

   "Close as in. . . ? Physically or emotionally?"

  "Physically."

   I sit up and stare at him, wiping my hair out of my face. "I'm sure it was nothing, Death Head. Were they touching?" He shakes his head no. "Then I don't see the big deal. He talks with a lot of people, and that doesn't change anything."

   Joey knits his eyebrows together, forming and even straighter line than before. "Yeah, but they were-"

   "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" I interrupt. "You could've called, too."

   A look of annoyance crosses over his face. "Eliot, you're not listening to me. I forgot to tell you, and I don't have your number."

    "Tell me yours," I say, pulling my phone from my side. He sighs in exasperation as he tells me his number. I quickly dial it into my phone, clicking Save on "Death Head" in my contacts.

   "There," I say, shutting my phone off. "Thanks for coming all the way here again, but I don't think she and Mason are much of a big deal. I really appreciate you coming, though. I do."

   "Eliot-"

    "Eliot, I think it's time your friend leaves!" my dad calls out right after Joey says my name. "It's getting a little late."

   "We can talk tomorrow," I say. "I promise."

   He opens his jaws, but then shuts them and sets his jaw. "Okay." He turns around and walks out of the room without a goodbye.

   "define au revoir!" I call out pointedly. Translated from French to "goodbye until we meet again." It was one of the few things I've learned from our French class besides morts enfants-- "dead children". Somebody whispered it to me in class, and I kept saying it, oblivious to it's meaning, which earned me wary looks from the teacher. I've kept it up as a joke- mainly to amuse myself during the boring hours of class. I keep repeating it in my brain, liking the way it sounds. But not as much as the Latin word, vita. I sometimes get my languages messed up (thanks a lot, Mr. Fielder) and I say the Latin word incorrectly in French class.

   I feel a little twing of guilt for brushing him off like that, but I am also annoyed. Mr. Death Head probably saw something wrong, or might've made it seem more than he said it was. The girl was probably a friend, helping him out with his special homework Mrs. Fern mentioned when walking us into school.

   Although there's a microscopic-size bit of jealousy, I wave it out of my thoughts. Tomorrow, if I'm not sick, I'm going to cut my hair up to my shoulder blades. I've always kind of wanted short hair, but it never really crossed my mind long enough for me to do it. I hold a hand up to my hair, and realize it needs a washing. I'm also donating it, so I can't have Mandy cut it if she wants to. I'm going to have to have a ride to the Locks of Love place, wherever the heck that is, or if it's in an ordinary saloon. I usually have my dad's stylist trim or cut my hair, and I never really put any thought into my hair. Usually I kept it in a ponytail, a simple braid, or down. I never straightened my hair, and hardly ever curled it. Only for very special events, like weddings, for example. 

    I remember one time when my hair was the shortest it's ever been, which was a few inches below my shoulder blades. I had straightened it, and Jayden teased me of being girly. That really ticked me off, and never have I straightened it again. (I punched him in the back when he said that, too) And it's not like I'm missing out on anything. It only damages it, anyways. Split ends and whatnot.

   I turn my head to look in the mirror on my wall. I sit on my bed and gently take it between my fingers. It was down to the ends of my ribs. Lets see, eight inches. . . I slowly travel my fingers up to what I estimate would be eight. But it would be more than that, if I cut it off at my shoulder blades. More like around a foot and a half.

   How much taller Mason is than me, I think to myself.

   I make a motion with my fingers, pretending to cut it. What would I look like? I can't wear it up if I cut it like that, and my bangs might look funny with short hair. I shake my hair back into a messy crop and stand to my feet, grabbing a loose towel from previous showers off the floor. I sweep it over my shoulder and grab more clothes before walking into the bathroom.

   "I'm taking a shower!" I croak out to them, and I clear my throat, hating the sound. Nobody replies, so I shrug and step inside. I turn on the radio sitting a few feet away from the shower, and then turn on the water. It comes down like cold rain, but eventually turns warm. I slip off my clothes and step into the hot water, letting it stream soothingly down my skin. I quickly wash up as I listen to a random station from the radio. I think it's old country. Not bad, and quite relaxing. I find myself humming along as I rinse the conditioner out of my hair-- probably for the last time.

   When I turn the water off, coldness covers me uncomfortably. I grab my towel and wrap myself in its warmth, grateful. I think I'm really coming down with a cold or something, because in the next moment, I find myself steaming hot in the bathroom. I quickly dress, wishing I'd chosen shorts, and sniffle about a million times.

    I brush through my hair and towel-dry it inadequately, but I hardly care. I'm nearly sleep on my feet, and I manage to stumble back to my room without collapsing. I fall onto my bed, no covers or pillows, and close  my eyes. I sigh and let my sleepiness take over once more.