The Bright Side

Chapter 1 - Part 3

TRISTAN

It's been three days now and I actually feel better today. The floor has stopped tilting to alternating sides and the headache is quite bearable. I swing my legs out of the bed and wait for the motion sickness to subside before I get up to my feet. Oh, yeah. Much better. Well, at least physically. For three whole days I did nothing but torment myself by playing The Whole Thing With Carrie over and over in my head and breathing past the pain in my chest. I can't think about her and I can't think about the other stuff anymore either. So instead, I start imagining the moves I would have to perform to do a Tre Flip, because that's a really difficult trick for me and it keeps my mind occupied when it wanders somewhere I don't want it to go. By the time I've performed the imaginary trick my pulse is steady, and I'm focused again.

Moving slowly works out fine and I make it all the way across the hall and down the stairs on my own and without feeling sick, although my brains are still swishing a bit. There's bustle in the living room and I turn the corner to the sight of Rory wearing chessboard black and white pants, a white chef jacket and the most ridiculous hat I've ever seen. He obviously has no idea how stupid he looks, turning around in front of Mum, who is simply delighted at his sight.

"Carnival already?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe. A little support won't hurt.

"Ain't he stunning?" Mum beams at me.

"Umm, sure." It's not that he's not good looking; he has brown wavy hair like Mum and strong features that are quite the contrast to his soft, light brown eyes. I guess one could consider him handsome, but it sure isn't the outfit that enforces the impression.

"How are you today, sweetie?" She steps up and pinches my cheeks.

"Fine... well, up until now." I push her hands back. If there's one thing I hate, it's people digging their fingers into my face. I nod towards Rory. "What's with the get up?"

"It's my first day today," Rory replies, his chest swollen with pride.

Right, I forgot. Rory had finished school this summer and is going to take up a training as a cook. Like ...Dad.

"I'm going to get going, Mum." He shuffles his feet around, comparing his watch with the clock on the wall.

"Your shift starts in an hour!"

"I just don't want to be late on my first day," Rory mutters on his way past me, bumping against my cast, making me wince.

He probably didn't do it on purpose, but I still attempt to connect my foot with his bum, rather feebly - it raises nothing but a laugh from him. Goodness, I'm so pathetic. He chuckles on and on while wedging his feet into his chavvy sneakers and I'm about to give kicking him another go, when the doorbell announces a visitor.

"Hi, Mark. Bye, Mark," Rory greets him and slides out the door just as Mark's ragged figure enters.

"Carnival already?" Mark gives me a quizzical look and pushes the one dreadlock that always seems to escape, back underneath the elastic band that holds the mop together.

"Yeah. Kind of." I grin. "My baby brother is taking his first steps down the path that will one day make him chef of our restaurant."

"You're a family of freaks. Working together, living together?" He blows up his cheeks as if he's about to puke. "Sick, mate. Just sick."

Mark has fled from his own home as soon as he turned eighteen; as far as I know they only see each other on holidays, well, except for his sister. My heart starts thumping wildly at the thought of her and I can feel my stomach tying itself into a knot. Why does my brain always find a way back to Carrie? I just want to forget it all ever happened. So again: Pop, scoop, flip, jump, catch.

"What can I say?" I smirk.

"Anyways. I just wanted to check on you before I go, I'll be in Manchester for the next two weeks or something."

He's working in construction, no idea really what that entails; he won't speak about it, because to him work is just what keeps him from doing whatever he wants. What I do know though, is that he apparently makes quite a lot of money and the getting out of Seaford suits him pretty fine, too. Personally, I'd like him around. Especially right now with everything that's going on.

"Oh, ok."

"How are you holding up?" He grabs my shoulder and stares at me intensely.

"Great!" I shoot him a broad grin that feels rather unstable. And again; pop, scoop, flip, jump, catch. I wish I were just half as good in reality.

"So, still in denial?"

"Do me a favour and shut up?" My cheeks are actually hurting from faking.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Mark shakes his head but holds his tongue.

If there's one thing you can count on with Mark, it's that he's not so deeply interested in your life that he'll pry any further.

"You want to come in?" I ask, although right now I'd actually rather have him leave.

"No, I'm actually already on my way." He hesitates in the doorframe. "Call me, if you need anything. Alright?"

"Sure." There's the fake smile again. I watch him take the three steps down to the sidewalk where he pauses.

"I've uploaded the clip, just go through my online profile, you'll find it."

Great. Can't wait to see how I got myself so messed up.

"Take care of yourself, mate."

"Sure."

I close the door behind me, only to find Mum standing behind me with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, kid?"

"I'm much better, Mum. Honestly." It's true, but I can't deny that I'm already exhausted, even though I've only been downstairs for maybe fifteen minutes. Plus, the throbbing in my temples announces the return of the headache.

"Tristan?"

There's no need for me to look at her face to know the expression. Pity mixed with sorrow and eagerness to say something helpful.

"Are you really?"

The possible distractions in our kitchen lure me in and I start to shuffle through the fridge in search for something I can prepare myself and that still won't taste too bad. Cereals. Great.

"I really am." I turn around to her. "Look, Mum. Smiling. Standing. Eating." I point to the bowl I've just pulled from the cupboard. "Almost fine."

"But what about Carrie?"

"Shush!" I cut her off. "Not a word!"

Milk spills over the edge of the bowl as I pour it in forcefully; there's no time to lose now, I need to get away from here. I try to put the lid on with one hand but fail to hold the packet with the cast arm properly, so in the end I just dump the still open carton back in the fridge.

"But..." Mum starts again.

"Not a single word!" I snap at her and throw the bag of cereals on the counter and hurry past her, back up the stairs and into my room. It takes me eighteen imaginary Tre Flips until I've calmed down enough to shove the flakes into my mouth. They're already so soaked up with milk that they practically dissolve on my tongue. I was right. Unconsciousness was much better than this.

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