Page 71 of The Rebel of Raleigh High

The room's a decent size. Probably the same size as my room at home. The walls are bare. Dark grey curtains at the windows. A shelf on the wall displays a series of framed pictures, drawings actually, hand sketched in pencil. The same woman features in all of the drawings—dark hair, dark, soulful, wounded-looking eyes, pouting mouth. She looks heartbreakingly beautiful and heartbreakingly sad at the same time. Her resemblance to Alex leaps out of the drawings and grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me, leaving no doubt in my mind that she is his mother.

A large, king bed dominates the room. The duvet cover is plain white, as are the sheets and pillowcases beneath it. “Bought the covers this afternoon,” Alex says awkwardly. “I didn't know what color to get, so I said fuck it and got white. The woman in the store said it'd look clean. Maybe I should have gone with black. Or red.”

“White's good, Alex,” I whisper. Suddenly, the bed feels very big and very intimidating. I've already slept with him. I know what his body feels like against mine. I've had him inside me…but I suddenly find it very hard not to feel shy when confronted with such a large bed. My palms are sweating like crazy. I turn away from it, moving to stand in front of the drawings, studying each one of them closely, trying to calm my racing heart.

“My father drew them. Before I was born,” Alex says behind me.

“Where is he now?” After the harrowing story of his mother’s suicide, I’m almost afraid to ask.

Alex grunts. “Who knows. Prison, probably. He skipped out on us after Ben was born. I hardly remember him. He wasn’t around much in the first place.”

I brush my fingers against the closest drawing, a heavy sadness tugging at me. My dad's always been there, no matter what. I can't imagine what it would have been like to grow up without him. Without knowing that he always had my back. “Not many people can draw like this. He was very talented,” I say.

“His only real talent was letting people down. I barely remember him. I look at these pictures, and I see her, not him.”

“You miss her,” I say softly.

Alex replies, voice dipped low, scraping the barrel of his chest, hushed, like he’s afraid someone from the cruel, harsh world outside might hear him admitting his one and only weakness. “Sometimes, I miss her so much sometimes, I forget how to fucking breathe.”