THE WESTBURY HIGH FILES

Ten /Harry

I wasn't practicing. Sitting on my bedroom floor, shoulders hurting and chest heaving. I don't talk to my parents and they don't talk to me. Mostly. They weren't too happy with my lack of interest in doing well in school. In fact, I didn't care in the slightest. Okay, I cared enough for there to be an overwhelming fear of failure. But in an I-wish-this-didn't-matter kind of way. In an I-wish-my-parents-weren't-so-obsessive-of-good-grades kind of way. Be the best student, the best musician, the best son. My goals were big and impossible, and none of them had to do with academics. Which aggravated Mum and Dad. They didn't yell, they'd turn the scenario around. I was in the wrong. How could I ever criticise their parenting? Love was a twisted thing, what you want and what you get, who you love and who you have to love. What you see of your family and who they actually are, are vastly different. Not many can see past the curtain of family; those who can either have the strongest familial bond, or the complete opposite.

I could feel the red puffiness of my eyes. Failure, failure, failure. Weak, stupid, foolish, too young to know better. I held my elbows with each hand, bent over cross-legged. I wished Avery to be there. I willed for time to pass.

            Guitar resting on my stomach, eyes following the slow ceiling fan, playing soft lazy tunes. I hadn't checked my phone, not wanting to disturb Avery on study day.  No one else wanted to talk to me. Perhaps Danny or Tao, but they were probably fooling around and wouldn't check their phones. Perhaps Samarth, but he had many friends to keep him busy. Also, very attractive. He played the footy for Christ sake, girls should be all over him. Perhaps, possibly, he was gay. I was getting my hopes up for something completely unrealistic.

Maths methods Sac on Monday and I hadn't studied, hadn't even opened the textbook. I couldn't care. Couldn't bring myself to care. My parents cared too much about grades and the future. I cared too much about what people thought of me. How I looked, my music, it was obsessive. It was all I could think about.

Am I standing properly?

Is my shirt buttoned, right?

Is my hair messy enough?

Is it too messy?

Oh, god I hope I don't look too proper.

How do I act casual? Is he judging me?

You're a mess.

You're pathetic.

Why isn't Avery here?

Is she with Amelia?

Does she like Amelia more than me?

I saw how she looked at Amelia on the bridge.

I'm the odd one out now.

I'm the odd one out with a crush on a straight boy.

Crush? When did I have a crush. Another stumble into a hopeless romance. It had been lurking in the back of my brain, not paying it much attention, but now I could see. I moved my hand away from the guitar strings, fingers around my phone and bringing it up close to my face.

            'Hey Avery, want to go to the music shop tomorrow. I'm lonely again.' I said. I rarely sent voice massagers, but sometimes what you say is easier than what you write. Avery would be asleep, I thought. Until the writing bubble appeared.

Of course.

She wrote. Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow was today. It was past midnight.

—

            'Harry, you look like death., Avery said bluntly. I looked at her through my fringe. I felt like death.

            'You can say that again., I muttered. My flannel was awkwardly pulled over a t-shirt too big for me. It was uncomfortable but comforting. Like a pile of different textured blankets.