My shoulder is your's

Summer

My alarm pulls me from my slumber, the horrid screeching causing my ears to ring. I sit up slowly and take in my surroundings, the same cream colored walls, no posters, nothing . I'm fine with that. I check the time, it's 10. Our foreign exchange student will be here in 4 hours.
I throw off the covers and walk into the connecting bathroom.
I strip out of my clothes and step in the shower. The water burns my skin, it stings, I welcome the pain.

I look down at my upper outer thigh, there lies rough tissue in diagonal formation running down my leg vertically and ending about six inches above my knee. I run my fingers down them, the feeling making me cringe. I stopped hurting myself three months ago, the start of summer, the start of the wearing shorts and swimming season. The last thing I needed was for me to bleed in the water because of an open wound. Now I itched to cut again, to feel something other than nothing. Sometimes when I'm lost in the past, I can feel the sting of the blade going through my skin.
I finish with my shower and get out, I walk up to the mirror, I swipe the condensation off and study my face, the small bump on my nose, the tiny scar that goes through my right eyebrow. My hair, kept short, is dark brown, almost black and curls atop my head, I look like my father except younger, with less broad shoulders and my eyes are hazel with green specks around the iris, his were brown.
I try my best to dress, usually pulling on whatever I can get my hands on. I put on a pair of khaki shorts and a t-shirt
My mother calls for me, I tell her I'll be down in a moment and quickly grab my phone. I check it as I head downstairs and see that it is now 11:34, I suppose I lost track of time in the shower. I tend to do that a lot.
Our house is nice, not big but far from small either. There's nine bedrooms, and seven bathrooms. Four of the bathrooms are in the middle of two guest rooms, connecting them. The interior design of the house is old and Spanish style, my mother loves it.
      I make it downstairs where my mother has laid out bacon, eggs, and fresh-squeezed lemonade.
     She's sitting at the head of the table, I walk up to her and give her a kiss on the head then sit across from her. "Good morning Mom. It smells delicious." I mean it too, but I don't really have an appetite. I don't eat besides when my mother cooks for me or when I go out with my best friend Sunshine, I tend to forget otherwise.
"Good morning, Sweetie." she looks up from the magazine she's reading about Home Goods. "You were in the shower for a while, are you okay?"
"Oh yeah, I just wanted to look extra presentable for our guest," I say smiling, she looks at me over her glasses as if she's studying me. She looks back down at her magazine, she bought it.
"Okay honey, Claude will be here in a couple of hours so can you make sure his room is presentable while I run to the store please?" We've gone over it many times but my mother is very particular.
"Of course." I take a bite of the bacon, tasteless, I take another, and another, and another, it's all gone. I then move on to the eggs, tasteless. When was the last time food had taste?
We talk for a few more minutes then she heads off to the Supermarket. It was my turn to do the dishes. I do them then head off to Claude's soon-to-be room which is across from mine.
His walls are painted white, the walls bare no photos or posters, my mother wanting him to decide how he wants his room. In the center of the room, against the wall, is a queen-size bed with yellow bedding, right next to his bed is a white nightstand. The windows are open letting the breeze in, it's a beautiful summer day. I close the windows. I check the closet, the drawers of the nightstand, and then the desk under the second window, they're all clear of stuff. Then I check the bathroom, it's clean too.

Mom returns an hour later with groceries, "Claude should be here in thirty minutes." she says "thank you for trying this out for me, I think it's good that we're going to have someone else here around your age, isn't this just so exciting?" she practically squeals. I smile, "very exciting mom, do you need help putting away the groceries?" I smirk humorlessly at the baguette as I pull it out, no doubt her attempt at making him feel at home.
"Yes, thank you."
A half an hour later, the house is cleared of everything dirty, the doorbell rings. My mother squeals excitedly, "He's here!" and rushes down the hallway through the kitchen.
I sit down at the table and listen as she introduces herself to our new guest at the door.
I hear the sound of laughter and a baritone voice with a slight French accent say "Aw hello ma'am." She laughs and exchanges a few words with the driver before shutting the door, I hear footsteps coming from the foyer, I plaster on my practiced smile and stand. They come into view, stepping onto the carpet of the living room. A tall figure stands next to my mother, his hair is light brown, its slightly long and pushed back with gel, making it look wet. His eyes are dark green, that's all I spot from here. That, and his straight strong jawline and mature nose.
My mother says something, I'm staring I realize and mentally shake myself out of my stupor. I walk forward and hold my hand out. He shakes it with a smile, "Nice to meet you Milo." I plaster on a hopefully genuine looking smile. "You too, Claude." His hand, rough and warm.
"Oh, please call me Monet, I'm not too fond of my first name."
"Oh sure thing." We stop shaking hands. My mother says something about me showing him to his room so he can get some sleep because he must be tired.
"Ah, thank you ma'am for hosting me." she smiles and shakes her head.
"Thank you for letting us. And call me Marlene, we are after all going to be living with each other for a while."
He sets two suitcases on the ground, "Milo will show you to your room, I'm sure you're tired."
"Yes thank you." He replies. I pick up one of the suitcases, it's heavy but not too much so. I motion towards the stairs, "it's up there."
We walk upstairs, when the sound of his footsteps stop abruptly, I turn, looking at him as he admires the golden framed artwork on the walls.
"This artwork is beautiful," he stops at the next painting that my mother's friend painted for her two Christmasses ago. It's of a woman and her child, they're reaching up to grab an orange from an orange tree, there is a basket that sits beside them, perhaps they're bringing it to the market to sell, or maybe it's for there family.
"Thank you" I pause, wanting to talk to him some I ask, "you like art?"  I slowly walk forward with my back towards him.
"Ah yes, I got it from my mother. She did after all name me after her favorite artist." He walks up next to me. I raise my eyebrows, "do you paint?" I ask looking up at him.
"I love painting, just not very good at it. What about you?"
"I used to."
We get to his room where I set his luggage on his desk while he walks to the window, pushes open the curtains and opens it. I watch him as he leans out and inhales.
"I like your house " he says before shedding off his sweater not fit for 80-degree weather. "I'll let my mother know you approve," he grins.
"How big is your backyard?" he asks with that same foreign accent that I'm not used to, he turns around and looks at me, I avert my gaze before we make eye contact.
"We have an acre of land. My mom wanted room for her parties and her fruit trees."
"Wow, what kind of fruits does she grow?" his attention is fully on me now. I smile sheepishly.
"Lemons, apricots, oranges, and peaches we used to have a plum tree until we found out I was allergic. After getting blotches all over my neck everytime I ate them, it was pretty easy to figure out."
He chuckles, "Ahh, I love apricots."
I nod, "yeah they're nice." yeah they're nice? You sound real stupid.
There's a moment of silence before I say, "Well I'll let you rest, I'm sure you're tired." I walk out the door, pause, then call, "Dinner is usually around six but I won't be surprised if you're still resting by then."
"Thank you," he calls just as the door closes shut.

My mother isn't in the kitchen or the living room so I assume she's in her office, I decide to go for a swim.
I quickly grab my towel and make my way to the pool. I apply sunscreen. I stretch my hamstrings, my arms, and dive in. A time passes, I've lapped the pool ten or twenty times, the sun threatens to blind me as it peaks through the trees above the pool. I spot a movement beyond it, and watch as Monet strips out of his shirt. I look away, then swim away.

I push myself out of bed and leave my room. I notice that Monet's door is closed, I press my ear against his door trying not to make any noise, I concentrate and hear light snoring. I figure then he won't be making it for dinner.
I head downstairs and see that my mother is cooking what I figure is dinner. It looks like enchiladas.
"¿hola hijo dormiste bien?" my mother asks in Spanish.
"Si, do you need help?" I sit down at the table and crack my knuckles.
"Ah si, cut some green onions and when you're done with that can you fetch some oranges please?"
I'm already chopping before she finishes, "Of course mami."
"Good boy." she leans on my back and kisses the top of my head, "so do you like Monet? Isn't he nice? Handsome too." I look at her,
  "he's okay I guess."
"You guess? I'm sure you'll be good friends." I look at her, I try to smile but grimace instead.
"If you say so." I say before finishing up the green onions. I smile at her and then head to the garden.
We eat dinner, Monet doesn't appear.
I tell her about the conversation he and I had, to which she replies, "City life is hard sometimes."
After dinner we watch a romcom, then call it a night. I walk upstairs and press my ear against Monet's door, I hear the shower running. I head to my room.
I pull off my shirt and shorts, I lay down and stare at the ceiling. Sleep doesn't find me, not after an hour, not after two, but after three hours of scrolling through my phone. Grubby hands and screams fill my sleep, nightmares that leave me breathless, a weak little boy he calls me. So scared and useless.