Forever Mark

by Jessyca Thibault

  I jumped. A sound that I’m pretty sure was classified as a squeal escaped my lips before I could stop it, or the arm that I flung out to the side. My fist collided with something solid.

  “Ow,” a vaguely familiar voice said. “You know, we really have to stop meeting like this. I seem to get injured whenever I see you.”

  I turned and saw the boy from yesterday sitting next to me, the one who had ridden his bike into a trash can and hadn’t wanted to have sex with me because he was probably gay.

  I just looked at the boy and blinked. I had seen him all of twice counting this exchange and he was acting as if we bumped into each other on a regular basis. I didn't even know his name.

  Finally, I just said, “I'm pretty sure both occasions were your fault.”

  The boy laughed. “I'm going to assume that is your form of an apology.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You can assume whatever you want, but I'm not sorry.”

  The boy grinned at me. It was a sort of half grin – his mouth quirking up at one corner. It made me uncomfortable. I had no idea why.

  “You sure?” he asked, rubbing his jaw. “You did hit me kind of hard. Do you usually go around punching people that sit down next to you?”

  “Do you usually go around sneaking up on people?”

  He shook his head. “I did not sneak up on you. I tapped your shoulder so you'd know I was there.”

  “I don't like to be tapped on the shoulder,” I said.

  The boy nodded. “I'm very sorry then.”

  I narrowed my eyes. I couldn't tell if he was making fun of me or not.

  In response to my unasked question, he held up his hands. “Honestly, I didn't mean to scare you.”

  “I wasn't scared.”

  “Do you always squeal when you're not scared?”

  “I did not squeal,” I said through gritted teeth. I could feel my cheeks burn beneath the cover-up.

  “Your cheeks are turning red.” He was grinning again.

  I wanted to punch the other side of his face. “That's because you're pissing me off,” I said as I gripped the armrests on the chair.

  The boy removed the baseball cap on his head, unleashing his mop of messy, dark brown hair. He twirled the hat in his hand. I looked back and forth between the boy and the hat. I wanted to throw them both across the room, but he seemed to be a bit heavier than I could manage. I would’ve happily settled for flinging his stupid hat through the sliding glass window that separated us from the file wardens, though.

  “You seem tense,” he said.

  “Do I?” I asked sarcastically. “You must have that effect on people.”

  He laughed. “Are you always so unpleasant?”

  “Are you always so annoying?”

  The boy smiled. “Actually, most people find me rather charming.”

  “I don’t think you know how to read people,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest. “Either that or you hang out with a lot of socially deprived and desperate individuals.”

  He laughed again. “You know,” he said as he put his hat back on his head, this time backwards, “even though you're not very nice, I still kind of like you.”

  “My life is now complete.”

  “We should be friends,” he said, ignoring my sarcasm.

  “I don't like friends,” I said.

  I could feel the boy looking at me, but I just stared ahead through the receptionist's window. “You don't like very many things, do you?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “That's a shame,” he said. “Life is so much more fun when you like things.”

  I didn't respond. He sounded like my mom and from experience I’d learned that when dealing with this breed of human if you just ignored them they usually went away faster than if you tried to bash them in the head with your doom.

  This boy was obviously the exception to the rule, because he just kept it up.

  “For example,” he continued, and I could feel the smile creep into his voice, “I like shoes, so I usually remember to put them on before I leave the house.”

  I looked down at my bare feet. I didn't know what to say, but that wasn't exactly an issue because the boy kept chatting away.

  “Don't get me wrong,” he said. “My feet like going commando every now and then too, but riding a bike is much more fun and a lot less painful when you're wearing shoes.”

  I looked up at the boy. “You done?” I asked.

  He grinned. If he wasn't careful, I was going to knock one or two or several of his teeth out. We’d see how charming his grin was after that.

  “Yep, I think I made my point,” he said.

  “Lovely.”

  I turned my eyes back towards the reception area, looking forward to some peace and quiet.

  “So are you going to tell me why you aren't wearing shoes?” he asked.

  I groaned and turned, glaring. “Do you ever shut up?”

  He nodded. “I'm pretty quiet for a good eight hours each night.”

  I rolled my eyes but said, “It's a long story.”

  He nodded again. “Fair enough. Does this long story also explain why there's dried mustard on your pants?”

  I looked down and, sure enough, there was a yellow splotch of dried up mustard on my thigh. It stood out like caution tape against the black fabric.

  Warning: Beneath this mustard stain sits an unstable teenager.

  “Damn it, Mom,” I said under my breath. She could’ve taken five extra seconds to find me some unblemished dirty pants. I put my bare feet up on the chair and hugged my legs, squeezing myself into a ball. I felt like I was under a microscope by my mom, by my teacher, by my therapist, by this boy I didn't even know. All I wanted to do was make myself small enough to where I'd just disappear.

  From the chair. From the office. From the world completely.

  Actually, no, that wasn't all I wanted. Flipping off each and every person and place on this planet before I disappeared completely sounded nice too.

  “Hey, um, I'm sorry,” the boy said softly. “I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Sometimes I say things without thinking. It's something I'm working on.”

  I didn't say anything. I didn't particularly care about this boy's issues and in my experience when someone said “I'm sorry,” they were rarely ever truly sorry.

  “Sooooo,” he went on cautiously. “What brings you here two days in a row, if you don't mind me asking?”

  I glared at him. “Actually, I do mind. I don't see how it's any of your business.”

  “You're right,” he said. His expression wasn't angry or defensive. It was something else... Regret? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t used to people regretting things they said to me. Usually they assumed they had the right to say whatever they wanted, so I didn't know what actual regret looked like. “It's none of my business. I'm sorry.”

  “Stop saying that,” I said as I stared at my knees.

  “What?”

  I looked up at him. “I'm sorry. People throw that around like it fixes things. It doesn't fix things. A person can't just say they're sorry. They have to actually be sorry and they have to do something about it,” I said.

  My eyes went wide. I hadn't expected to say that. I never talked that much at once, especially about personal feelings, especially to boys. My interactions with boys were strictly physical. Emotions made things messy and so I always steered clear of them.

  Always.

  Except for now, apparently.

  Chapter 8

  A Fragile Flower

  A fragile flower

  Beneath a suit of armor

  Shield and sword ready

  Ready to fight anyone who dares to get too close

  Armor protects the fragile flower

  From everything outside

  But when someone crashes through

  Makes their way past the armor

  That is when the danger comes

  Because a fragile flower is vulnerable

  Sh
e can be

  Stepped on

  Stomped on

  Beaten into the ground

  She can shrivel up and become nothing but a memory

  A memory of a once sweet, delicate flower

  A fragile flower is defenseless

  After someone gets through the suit of armor

  The only thing standing

  Between the fragile flower and destruction

  Is the other person’s intentions

  And they might not appreciate

  The smell of flowers

  I felt naked, like a piece of my soul was peeking out for the boy and the rest of the world to see. I didn't like it at all. I looked back down at my knees and didn't say another word.

  “That,” the boy said, “was probably the most honest thing I have ever heard someone say.”

  I didn't respond.

  “But for the record,” he continued. “I did mean it. I never say that I'm sorry without meaning it and I always try to fix it.”

  For some reason, I believed him, but only sort of. I was still very skeptical. I looked at the boy and, for a moment, we just stared into each other's eyes. Neither of us spoke, but it felt like so much was being said. It was weird.

  Finally, he opened his mouth. “You have beautiful eyes,” he said.

  I turned my head away. I hated being the one to break the gaze. I felt like it showed weakness, but I couldn't help it.

  I cleared my throat. “You know, I could say the same thing about you.”

  One of the corners of his mouth lifted up. “You think I have beautiful eyes?”

  I ignored this and turned my face away so he didn't see my mouth twitch into an almost-smile. I didn't like smiling. When I turned back around my face was all-business.

  “You were here yesterday too. Why are you here two days in a row?” I asked.

  I didn't expect him to answer – I’d refused to answer when he asked me after all – but he did. I really shouldn't have been all that surprised. He seemed like the open-book-pour-your-guts-and-intestines-out kind of guy.

  “I had a session with Dr. Windemere yesterday, but today I'm here strictly on book business.”

  Huh, so that was her real name.

  I was sure Dr. M had a plaque or diploma or something in her office that stated this, but I never cared enough to pay any attention. She’d always been Dr. This-Is-A-Magical-Land-And-You-Are-A-Majestic-Unicorn to me. “Dr. Windemere” just didn't have the same ring to it.

  I decided “Dr. M” would stay. I knew it was slightly hypocritical of me, being that I insisted on being called Carson. Given the choice between the two options I was fairly sure my therapist would rather be called Dr. Windemere as opposed to my (highly inventive and whimsical) nickname, but it wasn't like I ever called her Dr. This-Is-A-Magical-Land-And-You-Are-A-Majestic-Unicorn to her face. I never called her anything actually. I just spoke. Barely.

  “Book business?” I asked.

  “Dr. Windemere said she had a book I might be interested in reading, so she asked me to stop by and pick it up today.”

  I nodded. I thought it was downright weird, but it wasn't exactly my place to say so. Plus, I was sitting in mustard pants and wearing no shoes, so I was really in no position to verbally judge. I had no problem thinking it, though. I mean, I barely exchanged words with the woman during scheduled sessions and he was coming in voluntarily to exchange books with her. The kid was kind of odd. Unless of course “she has a book I might be interested in” was code for “we're gonna do the dirty deed on top of Dr. This-Is-A-Magical-Land-And-You-Are-A-Majestic-Unicorn's desk.”

  Nah, my life was a lot of things, but a poorly produced TV movie was not one of them.

  “You think I'm weird, don't you?” he asked, smirking.

  I wondered if the last book he read was on mind-reading.

  “Not at all.”

  Lie.

  “Yes you do,” he said. “You just think you're being nice by not saying so.”

  “Okay, I think you're weird.”

  “Ouch,” he said. He put his hand over his heart like I’d just pierced him with an arrow. “So much for being nice.”

  “I'm not a nice person.”

  He shook his head. “I don't believe that. I think that's just what you want people to believe, so they stay away.” He paused. “You're like a porcupine,”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Did you just compare me to a studded rodent?”

  The boy laughed. “What I mean is, porcupines are all prickly and scary on the outside but on the inside I'm sure they're as sweet and cuddly as golden retriever puppies.”

  “Or they could be man-eating pit bulls on the inside,” I pointed out.

  “You shouldn’t stereotype pit bulls like that.”

  “When I was ten my neighbor’s pit bull got loose and killed a squirrel on our driveway. There were bits of squirrel everywhere. There’s still a blood stain.”

  “That’s extremely unfortunate,” he said, shaking his head. He actually looked a little broken up over the squirrel’s death. I couldn’t decide if I found it sweet or pathetic.

  “I refuse to be so pessimistic though,” he added. “Not all pit bulls are squirrel-murderers and I’m sure porcupines are sweet and misunderstood creatures.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you,” he continued, “are probably just a big softie that likes to scare people away by making them think that you're not nice when you’re really very nice.”

  “Whatever you say,” I replied coolly, though my insides felt a little antsier than what my outsides portrayed.

  He grinned, obviously deciding that he had hit the nail on the head with his strange porcupinian logic. “So,” he asked, “since I told you why I'm at the therapist's office on two consecutive days, are you going to tell me why you are?”

  I’d suspected that was coming. I let out a deep breath.

  “Apparently I am in dire need of counseling.”

  “Dire need?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “That sounds intense.”

  “It's a long story,” I said.

  “Do you have any short stories?” he asked.

  “Sorry, fresh out.”

  “You'll have to work on that,” he said. “Next time we run into each other I expect an actual story – one with a beginning, middle, and end.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “And how do you know there will be a next time?”

  “Oh, I fully intend on seeing you again,” he said as he stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his hands behind his head as if he was reclining in an armchair in his living room instead of sitting in an uncomfortable seat in the waiting room of a shrink's office.

  I watched him curiously. I couldn't help but notice the way the muscles on his tattooed arms flexed beneath his t-shirt. The old woman who’d been giving me nasty looks earlier was giving him equally nasty looks. Apparently she wasn't a fan of his let-me-make-myself-at-home attitude.

  “What if I don't want to see you again?” I asked.

  The boy furrowed his eyebrows. “I guess that's a possibility, theoretically. But like I said, I'm charming. You won't be able to resist my charm.”

  “I'm doing just fine resisting it now.”

  He laughed. He started to say something else but at that moment, Dr. M opened the door to her office. She looked around the waiting room until her gaze fell on me.

  “Carson,” she said. “Would you please join us?”

  I got up from my chair and felt a hand graze the skin above my wrist. This time, I didn't squeal or throw a punch when I turned around.

  The boy smiled at me. “I'm Kellen, by the way.”

  “Carson.”

  “Carson,” he repeated. “I like it.”

  “Glad you approve,” I said before I went to meet Dr. M at her door.

  I heard the boy, Kellen, laugh. Dr. M looked over at him as if she just noticed he was there. “Oh, Kellen,” she said. “I'm so sorry. Do you mind waiting here a little while longer
?”

  I looked over at Kellen. He was still lounging in his chair. “No problem,” he said with a smile. “I'm in no hurry.”

  The last thing I heard before Dr. M closed her door behind us was Kellen beginning to whistle in the middle of the waiting room. The last thing I saw was the grumpy old lady looking like she wanted to throw her magazine across the waiting room towards Kellen's face.

  Chapter 9

  They Say

  Trip

  Stumble

  Fall

  Get back up, they say

  Hands scraped raw

  Knees bloody

  Out of breath

  Try again, they say

  Scared

  Tired

  Anxious

  It’ll be worth it, they say

  One step forward

  Twelve steps back

  A sideways leap

  Stay on track, they say

  They say this

  They say that

  But it doesn’t matter

  What they say is just words

  Words without understanding

  Words without experience

  Empty words

  And I say

  It’s a lot harder

  Than they say

  By some miracle, while wearing pants with a mustard stain and sitting barefoot in the big therapy chair, I’d managed to convince Dr. M on that Thursday afternoon that I was not out of control. I'm still not totally sure how I’d managed to do this because let's face it, things had looked pretty bad.

  When I’d walked into the room and sat down Dr. M had informed me that she and my mom had been discussing my recent behaviors. I had been about to call foul on account of doctor-patient confidentiality, but before I could say anything Dr. M had assured me that nothing from our sessions was brought up and that my mom had just expressed some concerns. I’d wondered how long that list of concerns was since my mom had been in the room for a good half hour before I’d been invited to the pow-wow.

  Dr. M had then held up my scissors.

  “What is this, Carson?” she’d asked.

  I’d thought that was a rather pointless question, to be quite honest.

  “It looks kind of like a teacup,” I’d said. “But I could be wrong.”