Get Me To A Church

CHAPTER 3: NORMAL

           "He's just ignoring me now, like nothing happened," I said.

           A month after I'd given Travis a place to stay, he'd stopped talking to me. It was a hell of a lot better than being punched in the face or called a fag, but it still irritated me. I'd not only let him stay at my apartment without Dad's permission, but I'd also discussed his issues with him. He'd never even said thank you. I reminded myself to be empathetic, though — he could've been beat up by his dad again and so maybe he wasn't in the mood for talking again, or maybe he was too nervous to reach out again. I didn't know.

           Larry scowled. His arms stiffened in his pockets. "I knew the prick would do some shit like this."

           "Maybe his inflated ego's not letting him to talk to you again," Ashley suggested.

           Todd held up a finger. "Or maybe he's too awkward. Asking for help would be courageous of him, considering the way he's been raised. He's a boy with a very traditional dad; most likely he's been taught that men shouldn't be vulnerable."

           "I didn't really expect him to hang out with me every day, anyways," I cut in. "I said he could call me if he wanted to get away from the pressure or his dad."

           Larry reluctantly unclenched, but I could tell that he understood our points. "Okay, I get it. Man, it must suck ass having a dad like that."

           "Maybe something happened," I said. "Should I check on him?"

           "I think that sounds like a good idea," Todd said. "If he won't come to you, then you should come to him."

● ● ●

           I sat next to him at lunch that day. He tried to act all high and mighty before, but he sits alone. I always felt bad for him. Someone who calls people names and glares at them all day would have to be really unhappy. I guess some people take pain differently; I've crawled through mounds of shit and back, and though I've scarred — mentally and physically — I've still gotten through. Travis, on the other hand, hides with a mask that's supposed to make him look like a tough guy. I guess we're a little similar, in a way.

           I slid my dubious-smelling tray next to him and took a seat. Everyone turned around to look at us except for my usual table with my friends. He glanced up at me, then focused really hard on his food. The bruise on his chin looked more purple and swollen today, which made me wince.

           "Sally Face," he acknowledged. He hadn't touched any of his food. "Why are you sitting here?"

           "Just shaking things up."

           "...Okay."

           All of the kids staring turned to their friends. Some kept up their conversation, some whispered about what I could only assume was Travis and I.

           I had to carefully select my words. If I was off-putting or offended him, he wouldn't tell me the truth. We as humans can be pretty stupid — I caught Travis in the bathroom crying, and he still tried to tell me, and himself, that he was fine. He'd probably tell me that again, even though I already knew that his dad was abusive. I would tell the cops in another circumstance, but they couldn't be trusted. I had a suspicion that the ones in Nockfell were all fake; when Mrs. Sanderson was a murdered, I told them that Charley did it and Larry was a witness. They didn't even stop to interview Larry or Charley or anyone. Once they found a culprit, there was no trial. They just left with Charley in handcuffs and never came back.

           Travis was looking at me funny. I think I'd been staring too long.

           "How's your day been?" I asked, trying to be normal. (For once.)