Mailboy (Wattys 2015 Winner)

17. Can't Stand It

Mailboy

“Ay shorty, it’s your birthday, we gonna party like it’s your birthday.” -50 cent 

(shout out to me, because I turn 15 on Sunday aka the 24th)

beth is to the side

-

Zoey Willow Hunter

        THIS morning, at the mail house, something felt wrong. There was a nagging in my chest that made me question if I had forgotten something at home. Everything was with me; my cracked phone, my earphones, the house keys and most importantly; an extra hairband in case my hair felt like a monster sticking to my skin.

I was sitting on the porch, earphones on and head bobbing to the music. I tried not to lip-sync to the music too much, in hopes of avoiding looking like a complete lunatic.   

“Hunter,” acknowledged Nico, taking one of my earphones out.  

I made an exaggerated grimace, tucking in a loose strand of my hair. Instead of tying it up in a ponytail as I always did, I had it in a French braid. Of course, the darned thing took me more than half an hour to perfect, because clearly there always had to be a strand of hair that never looked right in the braid.

“One simply does not interrupt my listening to music,” I said, shaking my head at him.

No answer came to me. This caught me off guard.

Nico B. Forrest not having an answer to me? What a shocking morning this is!

I eyed him cautiously. “Are you okay?” I said, putting a hand on his head, to test if a fever was present or something.

“I’m fine,” he said, not looking at me, “let’s get going already, yeah?”

“Nico, I’ve lied and said I’m fine enough to know that you’re lying,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest.

Something was seriously wrong with him.

“We’re going to be late,” he protested instead, putting the mail bag on.

I rapidly snatched the bag from him and threw it on the ground. Shrugging, I gave him a look that meant that if he didn’t tell me what was going on; I would probably break his nose again. Well, maybe not.

He picked up the bag, glaring at me, “Fuck off. I’ll go deliver the mail by myself.”

What just happened?

Two nights ago we were acting like we were friends, now he was cussing me off? Either Nico was bipolar or he just had a serious problem.

“Nicolas Forrest, don’t be an asshole. I will not allow you to be pissed off or sad for some reason and let it out on me,” I said, grabbing the collar of his shirt, “Now, talk.”

Nico’s eyes scanned mine and he pursed his lips. Taking my hands off him, he leaned against the porch. He heaved a sigh, scratching his head. This caused his hair to look even messier than it did. He looked like he had when he came to my island; tired and deprived of sleep.

“Today is…my birthday,” he announced.

I frowned, “then what the fuck are you acting up about? Birthdays are supposed to be happy occasions.”

“Happy birthday!” I added.

He took a deep breath as if to speak and then didn’t. He repeated his actions again, until my level of patience was reaching its peak. Nico, for the first time ever, looked miserable.