The Exchange Student ➵ phan

Chapter 7

"Oh my god." I turn another page of the family scrapbook, Lyda next to me, a least another 5 scrapbooks collected on her lap."No way." I turn another page and there's the 15th picture of a ginger haired Phil, hair short and spiked with way to much hair gel. His eyes are crinkled around the edges in an overexagerated smile that makes me want to curl up in a corner and cry at the sheer hilarity of it all.

We're currently propped against my headboard since I could barely sit without Lyda's help, my sickness hit it's peak as of yesterday and the idea of moving from my bed forms bile in my throat. I turn the page again, catching a glance at Lyda and seeing her eyes are watering. It makes me sad, she tries so hard to talk with Phil and get him to understand he only has one set of parents. Yet he ignores her, the person who means most to her in the world goes out of his way to hate her. It makes my blood boil. But, then again, when does Phil not piss me off?

I turn the page again to a 5 year old Phil, grinning obnoxiously at the camera, sporting a bowl hair cut cut straight across the middle of his forehead, he's wearing a green and white soccer uniform yet it's obvious to see he's sitting along the sideline. Not that good at sports from a young age, the one thing we've got in common thus far.

Lyda turns the page for me, giggling at a picture of 2 year old Phil between his almost surprisingly younger parents. I can barely fathom how much younger Mr. Lester looks in these old albums, not a speck of grey in his hair and a large smile lightening his eyes like they still do Lyda's. It makes you wonder-not on purpose or in a rude way-it simply makes you think. His sudden spike into ago could only have been product of raising Phil, making them both look so worn and torn. Yet my parents raised two kids at a time and all that happened to them was the absolute hatred of each other, both too stubborn to even consider leaving one another for god knows what, dive bars and sympathy scotches.

Phil's hair is even worse in this picture, the person cut a bleak, straight line on the left. Than accidentally shot upwards to the top of his scalp on the right. It makes me laugh. The rest of his face is covered in chocolate from the cake in front of him, the candle '2' blown out and balanced atop his head by his father. Lyda laughs to, but a choked noise follows that she quickly breaks into a cough.

"Sorry about the fire alarms, they've never done that before." Lyda confesses, shuffling around a bit and setting the albums next to me. The scrapbooks had been her idea of making me feel better, saying a little laughter was a cure for all mental pains. I smile and nod, Having decided days ago to not tell her the actual reason for the alarms "mishap". She's so broken up about Phil already, best not to make it any worse.

"It's fine. Just startled me. In L.A. we got earthquakes so tomato tomato." I shrug, shifting to the side so Lyda can pull herself off the bed. I turn the page, this time flash forwarding at least 13 years to somebody completely different from present Phil.

The boys hair is black cut in a style similar to Phil's but what sets the true difference is his eyes, where Phil's are dull and evil this boy's eyes are like looking up at the sun from under the sea. Blue with defiant shards of green and even a bit of yellow tucked behind them, it's not only the color that's has me mesmerized, it is the pure, raw feeling running throughout them. The excitement, as if he's ready to jump on the next adventure at every moment. The happiness, everything he'll ever need is so close to him and he knows it. The compassion, the perpetual joy of living, the daring, the life, everything about his eyes is like a portrait hung in the Lourve Museum. Winning awards centuries after the artist has gone and disappeared into the likes of history forever.

"Who's this? Does Phil have a brother?" I ask Lyda, turning the picture towards her. Blushing, why am I blushing? He's cute, I'll give him that but he's not-I got nothing, he's cute, I like him, wouldn't hurt to ask. Lyda turns to me and surveys the picture with a wide grin. Oh no it's spreading. My entire face is hot and I try hiding it behind the thankfully large book.