Hot tears carve shallow paths through the red dust on my chapped cheeks.
I slowly heave a laboured breath… and march on.
Cy limps over to me, leaning on the borrowed crutches, favoring one leg, then the other. He's got the crutches jacked up too high, they don't rest in his armpits right. Once he reaches my locker he awkwardly comes to a stop. He situates himself in what he must believe to be a flattering position. Pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, he flashes me that sad gap-toothed smile.
Fractured metal sinks deep into my chest. The tears flow freely now.
Heavy sobs wrack my battered body. Each one drives the shrapnel further. Still I march.
Alone underneath the bleachers, gazing up towards the stars above, I whisper a little prayer. A cry for help.
A voice from behind answers:
"Hey, Jesse? Are you okay?
It's Cy. Suddenly, I'm aware of my appearance. My mascara has flowed down my face in smudgy, black rivulets. My upper lip is shiny with snot. I turn to him with red, puffy eyes, wringing my hands.
"Cy. I was just… sorry I'm-"
"Nah, don't apologize. It's fine, you did great." He closes the distance between us in a few long strides.
"How can you say that?! I nearly killed Mrs. Roth. I ruined the art show… I just need to face it, I'm a fre-"
I'm interrupted by his lips on mine, and just like that, everything's okay.
45 seconds later he pulls away and my eyes open.
"I don't think you're a freak, Jess, I think you're cool."
My march becomes a trudge. The sun beats down on my neck.
Vultures circle the desert road. My vision swims. Only five miles more.
Cy
Hey.
Do you wanna talk?
not really…
it never did that before.
I've been making little guys like that for years but they've never tried to hurt anyone.
it's like something set it off
but enough about me!
how've you been?
Sorry! I was on call with some friends.
You know me
always scheming lol
But seriously, I want you to meet these guys
Can I pick you up tomorrow afternoon?
My tongue is heavy, rough, and foreign in my mouth.
I am wilting, melting, broiling. Piping hot human flesh in a sweating skin-bag.
My cheeks burn as I climb into the cab of Cy's ute. My mother's words ring in my ears. I wipe my nose on the back of my hoodie sleeve. He must notice my red, puffy eyes, because he puts a comforting hand on my thigh. I wonder how much of the porch argument he saw.
"If you wanna talk about it, we can."
I silently shake my head and we drive on.
…
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, we're in a fast food drive-thru, and Cy is asking me what I want for dinner.
The sun has set.
I order a steak sandwich. It's piled high with oily mushrooms, caramelized onions, charred green bell peppers, and gooey mozzarella. It's the kind of sandwich you regret having eaten so quickly, even before you take the first bite. We drive on.
As we