Becoming Brett

32. Anger

Wes smacks me as we walk, our group a large mass as we navigate to the music room as quickly as possible. Thanks to Sawyer, Wes is having an attack. Or well he's close. I rate his attacks on a scale: ten being terrible, one being mild. He's at about an eight.

I came to meet him at his locker, Sawyer had his arm draped across his shoulders as Wes tried to all but climb into his open locker door. I couldn't move fast enough through the sea of kids and by the time I got there Sawyer had sauntered off and Wes was tic-ing nearly non stop.

It took mere moments before the group was huddled around, putting space between Wes and everyone else just incase he needed it.

Most everyone that goes to school with us knows Wes or at least of him. But it's amazing how many still stop and stare or gape like they've never seen him before when his tics are bad. So I divided up jobs and barked orders, and started down the hallway to get Wes to solitude and collectively we made our way to the music room where Wes could tic out. He chose the piano rather than letting them run their course. Savannah is still beside him as he plays, his tics still consistent even though he's managing to play as if he wasn't.

I take a seat in one of the chairs in the middle of the room, keeping my distance from James who parks himself off to the side to eat his lunch with Ellie. Laurel doesn't let me sit alone long, picking a chair beside me.

Neither of us talk but we're both watching Wes. I'm watching to gauge how he's doing. I don't know why she is.

Sometimes I wonder if Wes would want to come with James and I, to a big city where he could blend in more. Maybe in a big city no one would take notice of his tics, having seen crazier things on a more consistent basis.

The thought of Wes and I not staying close is something that's makes me apprehensive about leaving. We've been friends for so long. I know everything there is to know about Wes. But if we no longer live within the same city limits and distance creates a wall between us would he become someone I used to know?Who are we if we aren't friends?

Or maybe if he knew about me, about James and I, he'd want nothing to do with us.

I'm left with the same thought though. I don't know who I am without Wes.

"Are you going to say something to Sawyer?" Laurel asks suddenly.

I break my gaze from Wes just as he tics, the piano never missing a note and fix my eyes on Laurel. She's got Wes' denim jacket on, playing with the worn edges subconsciously as she stares at him. Wes told me not too long ago that he likes seeing her in his jacket. He asked if I thought it meant anything.

It does but I just shrugged my shoulders indifferently. "No."

"So you're telling me that you're not going to say anything to Sawyer? Nothing?" She hisses at me.

I let myself relax back into the chair even though I can feel my frustration building. I get where Laurel's coming from. But Wes doesn't like to rock the boat and neither do I. Plus it's Sawyer, maybe Wes would consider it if it was anyone other than Sawyer.

"Why not?" She pushes.

I roll my eyes, tired of having the same conversation with every single person that ever becomes friends with Wes. A headache is starting to bloom, a full ache forming behind my eyes and I yank my glasses off my face so I can attempt to rub the tension out.

"Wes doesn't want to."

I'm blind when I open my eyes without my glasses on. Even Laurel's fuzzy beside me, just blocks of colors that blur into other colors.

"Look what he does though." Her hands fly up in the air exasperated. "You're his best friend. You need to stand up for him."

I slip my glasses back on and meet Laurel's sky blue eyes with a hard gaze. She's challenging me and it makes me angry. My defenses amping up because she doesn't know Wes. She might think she does but she doesn't have a clue. She wasn't there from the beginning. Watching as his tics ramped up and his OCD became so crippling he wouldn't leave his house. She wasn't there through the side effects and the anxiety that riddled him as he tried to manage everything.

Laurel doesn't know Wes.

I do.

I bite back all the things I want to yell at her, standing from my chair without a word. Anger ripples through me causing my jaw to clench and my footsteps to fall heavier then normal as I burst through the doors to the music room.

The piano follows me out into the hallway and as the doors click shut I stop. My chest heaves with a rage I didn't know I had. It's blinding and terrifying and I'm not sure how to contain it, pacing the floor with my hands gripped in my hair.

I can't put my finger on exactly what it is. It's  not just Laurel prying or Wes not standing up for himself. Or even Sawyer. It's everything and nothing but I definitely know I'm angry.

The doors to the music room swing open, James stepping into the hallway. I continue to pace, waiting for the click of the doors to happen so I know they're shut and it's just James and I in the hall.

And then I unload.

"Laurel's in there telling me I need to stand up to Sawyer." I snap. "Who does she think she is?"

"I don't..."

"Don't defend her! She doesn't even know what she's talking about." I shout.

I can't stop myself as I pull up anything and everything that'll defend my actions at the moment. All the so called wrongs that Laurel's committed, not that there really is any. I'm just trying to find a cause for all my anger and it's easy to pin it on Laurel.

James stands there, leaning against the doors he came out of, watching me pace. Letting me rant until I'm all ranted out. And even then he waits. He waits until I breathe, until I finally slow my pacing.

"Brett." He says my name so gently, so kind. "Why are you actually mad?"

His question halts me, our eyes locked. He wears blue a lot, I've always wondered if it's on purpose because he knows it looks good on him. Doesn't matter, he always looks good no matter what he's wearing but of course today he's in blue. A light blue that makes the different hues of gray in his eyes more vibrant, the black blacker and the steel crisper, like polished chrome. His arms are folded across his chest, muscles defined as he rests nonchalantly against the doors.

I'm mad for a lot of reasons.

Too many to put into words but I know at the root of them I'm mostly mad I can't just be me. I have to be what everyone else wants me to be.

I hate it, I hate hating myself. I hate not being able to talk about James. I hate not being able to touch him or hold his hand in public. I hate not being able to kiss him whenever I want. To seek him out when I need comfort. I hate the stifling closet that I'm bound to.

And while my mind is clouded over with all the things I'm mad about, all the things I can't do, I let go, seeking the comfort I want but rarely get.

Bounding up to James with an overwhelming amount of false confidence I kiss him in the middle of the hallway. Where anyone could see.

—————————

Double update for @fantasydreamer528 birthday today. Everyone wish her a happy birthday. 🎂🎁🎈🎉🎊