Glass Sneakers

12th ♕

12th ♕

The next day, Art and I were sneaking around a clothing warehouse at noon. It was easy imagining this whole thing with just us two. But we weren't by ourselves most of the time, especially outside the palace. We had people who followed us everywhere.

And whenever I thought of telling Art personal things, I always got conscious of the other ears that would hear. I knew they were going to keep it to themselves and would never dare say anything about it to anyone, still, we always had an audience. Sometimes, it was the whole kingdom. Other times, the entourage, who nowadays played the who-got-the-better-sunglasses game.

Anyway, we didn't go here to film a special episode or anything. We had no other people with us, like cameramen or photographers or a whole pack of media personnel. All around us were boxes, hangers of clothes, and darkness. But at the end of this dimly lit room, there was a light on. Someone had skipped lunch; it was Darcy, who had disappeared yesterday without notice.

As of this moment, Pete was suffering from a disease called heartbreak. That was what had brought us here, stalking the love of his life, as Pete fondly called her. More goosebumps, yes. If someone would ever call me that, I'd probably punch the guy in the face and ask him if he had a death wish.

Which was also why Pete had said it was near impossible for me to keep a relationship. Or to start one, which he had recently taken back. He had already concluded that I'd started one with Art right now.

Pete had also mentioned that I lacked romantic genes in me, and I suffered from philophobia, i.e. fear of falling in love. He said that if I wouldn't be cured soon—or find ways to alter my genes, really—Art and I would break up, when I wasn't even sure if something had already started.

Very tragic.

Not that it could beat Bridge's story.

"Remind me again why we're doing this?" Art ask, slipping carefully behind me.

"I told you that since I had messed it up, I would pay for it. It's called being responsible." I peered again, hiding behind the steel door of the warehouse. We had lost yesterday because I lacked practice.

"Can't we just call her?" Art proposed.

"She didn't return any of Pete's calls," I said.

"Maybe she's busy."

"Probably. That's why we have to ask her in person. Why are there so many boxes in here?" I replied, finding a way past the pile of boxes.

"It's a warehouse, George." Art started moving boxes, placing them out of our way. Since that was the case, I thought that I could be of some help myself. I helped him pick up the boxes that were in the way.

Suddenly, I heard him chuckle.

I turned my head to him. Curious, I asked, "What's making you laugh?"

"Nothing," he replied, shaking his head. After a second, he added, "You're seriously one of a kind, no? Like you won't just sit there and watch me. You will lend a hand and share half of the work, even if it involves manual labor."

"I'd gladly hold the door for you as well," I informed him.

He smiled. "Same here."

Since I grew up with my dad mostly elsewhere, Mom no. 2 and I did all things together. Supposedly, if there was a father figure in the house, they were the ones who should have done this. Well, if there was one around you.

Mom no. 2 couldn't really afford calling up plumbers, electricians, or carpenters, so we did the repairs by ourselves. I could efficiently use a hammer, screwdriver, and saw and all sorts of things you'd see in a hardware store, although it was not something I could brag about these days.