Page 8 of A Wistful Symphony

It’s been a month since we last saw each other, Westcott.

Missing our last appointment with Dr Cameron didn’t strike me as much.

Maybe you changed your schedule, or you were on a holiday.

But then half-term ended, and you didn’t show up at school.

There’s a rumour running through town like wildfire that the reverend caught you with some boy and you two had a huge fight.

I was quite surprised that your perfect reputation could be tarnished but ended up feeling sorry for you.

I know how hard a parent’s rejection can be.

There’s a change in you that stands out to the most oblivious eyes.

You should be as much a fish out of water in this place as I, but there you are: skinny jeans, local band T-shirt and bomber jacket, wavy hair premeditatedly messy, and an unlit cigarette dangling on the corner of your lips.

You seem strangely comfortable in this place, while I’m … well, it’s obvious.

“I do have a social life, Westcott,” I retort, stuffing my hands inside my pockets so you won’t see them shake.

“Is that so?” You size me up and down, your grin somewhat wider.

You can see the lie right through me, while I can never put my finger on you. Maybe that’s what bothers me most.

“Wait. Hold still,” you say.

“What—?”

Before I can finish, you amble towards me.

Carefree steps, without a hint of hesitation until you touch the tip of your cigarette to mine.

I stand there, shoulders tense and spine cold as your warm breath brushes my cheek.

Amidst the awkward closeness, I notice your eyes.

Not the striking shade of hazel that matches your hair, but your abnormally dilated pupils.

You must be on something, which explains the sudden lack of inhibition.

Today is indeed full of surprises. Who knew Mr Golden Boy did drugs?

After a couple of pulls, the ember lights your cigarette, and you move away.

“Thanks,” you say, blowing smoke into the night like it’s the most normal thing. You could’ve asked for my lighter, held out your cigarette with your fingers, or done absolutely nothing. But you chose to barge into my personal space uninvited. And I let you.

“So.” I clear my throat. “Where’ve you been? Did you drop out?” I try engaging in some sort of conversation, but it comes out blunt. Small talk was never my forte.

“No,” you reply without looking my way. “I’ll come back eventually.”

You take another pull of the cigarette and blow out slowly, letting the smoke hang in the air along with the unanswered question. When you turn back to me, a smirk lightens your expression. “Did you miss me?”

“No, that’s—”

“Come on, let’s get a drink.” As you jerk your head towards the house, your gaze lingers on me.

At my state. And despite hating to be near anyone during a crisis, I remember our last encounter in the shrink’s waiting room and think you, of all people, might understand.

“Or something stronger,” you offer. “How about it?”

“God, yes, please,” I breathe. Right now, I’d take alcohol, weed, drugs, a bash to the head with a shovel. Anything that would shut my overdriven mind.

As you clear a path through the dancing bodies, the hall of noises and lights goes back to frightening.

You’re gonna catch pneumonia or flesh-eating bacteria if you brush against them.

My hand goes reflexively for the flask in my pocket, but it’s empty.

I focus on a slightly overgrown curl on the back of your neck.

That curl is my anchor, turning everything else into a haze as it gently brushes your collar.

Before I know it, we’re by the table serving as a bar.

You lean on the stained metal surface and talk to the punk serving drinks with striking familiarity.

Do you come here often? He pours some mix into two cups and a small plastic bag glints in your hand.

I swiftly look away. I’ve never done drugs before, and don’t know how my medication will mix with whatever you’ve put in there.

Should I back out? Maybe. But you seem so cool and at ease that perhaps I should give it a try.

For once in my life, I wish to feel good at a party.

“Okay, here you go. Are you sure about this?”

“Definitely.” I most definitely am not.

“No worries, it’s just something to make you more relaxed. And possibly more fun,” you add with a devious half-smile.

“I seriously doubt that, but can’t hurt to try.

” I look down at the cup. Vodka mixed with something sweet, by the smell of it, with the tiny remains of a pill dispersing at the bottom.

“Cheers,” I say, and toss it bottoms up before I can think too much.

Not a smart choice, since the alcohol scorching my throat makes me cough.

“Easy there.” You take a sip of your drink, hiding a laugh. “Are you here by yourself? This isn’t your kind of place.”

I cough again and inhale deeply, trying to recompose myself.

“Mum asked me to chaperone my cousin because she’s underage.” It floors me how my eighteenth birthday suddenly made me the adult. It sure doesn’t feel like it. “She wants me to stay away, so I’m pretty much alone.”

“Feel free to stick with me, then.”

Do you actually want my company? After what you just saw?

“Okay,” I answer tentatively and raise the empty cup. “Just out of curiosity, what was in this?”

“Molly.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Might give you a bit of hallucination, but no worries. I’ll protect you if any monsters come.”

“Wait, what?” I turn to you, eyes wide but only find mirth in yours. “If that happens, I’ll kill you, Westcott.”

Your stomach trembles like you’re repressing a giggle. “You can try.”

“Damn sure I can. You never saw me in a fight.”

What the hell am I on about? The only thing I’m good at in a fight is getting my arse kicked.

“You must throw one heck of a punch with those skinny arms and smooth pianist hands.” You laugh with squinting eyes and flashing teeth, which makes you look adorable. Wait, what am I thinking?

“Hell no, these fingers are worth gold. I wouldn’t dream of jeopardising them.” I raise my hands to illustrate the point. “I’m more of a kicking guy.”

“Easy now, Van Damme.”

“Seriously, my leg muscles are good. I walk and bike a lot, because I don’t take the bus; I mean, people sweat on those seats all day and no one ever cleans them. It’s a heinous health hazard.”

You chortle, holding on to your stomach with tiny tears glistening at the corners of your eyes.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re uptight and use big words even when you’re high.”

“That’s preposterous.” I stop for a second, realising what I just did, and we both burst into laughter. It comes out so easy and spontaneous that it feels I’ll never get a hold of myself. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that with someone.

Our giggles linger until a voice makes us halt.

“Fuck me, look who’s here. Didn’t know you went to parties, Neat Freak.”

Jamie Benson is the biggest idiot of our year.

Copper-headed, crooked nosed, and built like a rugby player.

Since my OCD became common knowledge, making my school life a living hell became his favourite hobby.

It’s no wonder, since Benson’s crackhead parents should probably win the ‘how to raise a bully’ county award, but that doesn’t make me hate him any less.

He stands with hands inside his pockets, sniffing weakness like a bloodhound, with his stupid-arse minions flanking him.

“Maybe he took his Purell out for a date,” one of them says.

“Or maybe he thought he was gonna score with preacher boy here,” scorns the other.

“No way, Lowell, you mean besides being a nutcase you’re also a f—?”

The slur bursts out effortlessly out of Benson’s mouth and I grit my teeth.

He jerks his head, leering at you. “Did you know preacher boy here was found at the church with a cock in his mouth? That’s one hell of a way to do charity.” He laughs out loud. “If you’re lucky, he can do the same for you.”

Even in this dim place, I can see the colour fading from your face. You stand perfectly still, gazing through those arseholes as if they weren’t there, or as if you weren’t.

I never bothered standing up to Benson before.

Retaliating would only get me a fist on the nose, and it’s not worth the risk.

In less than a year, I’ll be out of this town and Benson will still be a stupid dickhead who lives with his folks.

But saying those horrible things to you is something else entirely.

It makes my blood boil. He has no fucking right.

“Yeah, maybe that’ll get the stick out of your arse.” One minion chuckles.

“No, moron, he’ll stick it even deeper! That’s how their lot like it.” Benson slaps the other’s head, joining the choir of laughs.

You clench your jaw and step up, but I put a hand before you. Hearing these things sting, of course, but not as much as you’d think. After three years of constant bullying, one learns to develop a thick skin.

“So what if I like it? What’s it to you?”

And out of the blue, I come out to the biggest arseholes in school.

Shit. Fucking shit. I wasn’t supposed to say that.

To be fair, my sexuality was never a secret.

It’s just that I have enough problems without going around advertising it.

Now the cat is out of the bag—or should I say the closet—and all I can think is , what the fuck have I done?

Benson comes closer, looking down from a menacing hands width away. I gulp a lump of saliva as a chill runs down my spine.

“You’re a sad, disgusting little bastard, Lowell.” He extends his arm to somewhere behind me and takes a beer bottle from the table. “Have fun sucking Westcott’s cock.”

Benson turns around, guzzling the beer with his mutts on his heels. When they’re far enough, I release my breath. “Shit, that was a close one,” I whisper, feeling what little courage I’ve gathered evaporate and my knees turn to jelly.