Needle and Thread

12

There are days when the rain pours and Harry smiles, his mouth stretching as droplets splinter across his face like broken shards of glass. Then, there are others when the sun shines, its light dripping through cracked curtains like a burst egg yolk, and Harry lies in bed, inexplicably numb. Each morning, he awakens to discover what kind of day faces him. There is no guaranteed way to predict the weather, just as there is no way to foresee just how Harry will be feeling on any given day.

Today is one of those sunny days where wallowing in his sadness seems favourable to all other potential activities - school included.

It's Monday -the Monday after the party- and Harry is feeling particularly sorry for himself. If he could blame it on Mr Cane's beer he would, but even that would be too far a reach when the cause of Harry's misery can be found in the very same place as his unfortunately sharp memory.

The imprint of Jj's lips still burns, branded into the crevices of Harry's mouth, an ineffable scar.

God, how could he have been so stupid? How could he have kissed Jj like that? Like he was desperately thirsty, and Jj was a beautiful oasis in the middle of a withered desert. Like he was a boat being tossed across storming ocean waves, and Jj was his only anchor, his only tether to safety. Like he had never been kissed before and he was hungry for it.

That night was far from Harry's first kiss, but it felt like it. It felt like he was free falling, tossed from a plane without a parachute or a soft landing. There was no sticky film of lip gloss, no vanilla scented body spray, no soft curves or lace ruffles. Jj tasted like raspberry vodka. He had smelled like the very same aftershave he's used since he hit puberty. He had been a solid weight against Harry's body, all hard lines, pressing them against the rough bark of the nearest tree trunk. Boyish. That's how Harry would describe Jj if he were prompted. A boy in every way.

And that's the very root of Harry's problem, isn't it?

Squinting into the morning sunshine, Harry groans and hides his stinging eyes. He wants nothing more than to roll over and bury his face into his pillow, like he is an ostrich and his bedding is a mound of sand. He wants to avoid all responsibilities. Above all, he wants to avoid Jj.

Unfortunately but rather expectedly, Harry's grandmother cares little for what her grandson does and does not want, particularly on a school morning.

"Up. You're going to be late," She commands sternly, shuffling into Harry's room like a long coming storm and ripping open the curtains to let in an onslaught of terrible golden sunlight. "And remember, no car this morning. You'll have to take the bus."

There's no use in denying his grandmother, no matter how badly he wants to, so Harry rolls out of bed and proceeds with his usual morning routine.

By the time he's showered, dressed, and munching on a dry slice of toast, dread has decided to accompany Harry at the breakfast table. After everything that happened with Jj, he forgot all about the state he had left his friendships in.

Harry's phone lies somewhere under his bed, wherever it landed after he dropped it there on Saturday morning, and he hasn't felt like retrieving it since. There's a chance Luke or Alex have tried to contact him over the course of the weekend, but the thought of reading their messages makes Harry feel sick. Everything about that night makes him feel sick, and Harry is someone who has never dealt well or gracefully with ailments of any kind. When he was younger, he used to run into the house crying about scraped palms and knees, or twisted ankles, or a sore tummy from eating too much ice cream when his father came to visit.

Speaking of Harry's father, he hasn't called in a while. It's understandable that his work keeps him busy, but it would be nice - especially at times like this - for Harry to hear his dad's voice, or see his pixelated face over a poorly connected Facetime call.