Give Me A Chance (boyxboy)

Four

Saying goodbye to Aydin, knowing he's going home, and knowing I'm not, is difficult for me. I have to stand there and watch him leave, knowing I can't follow him. I have to stay here with Liza. I can't have my room back. I can't have all my books. I can't have my disc golf medals, or my academic achievement plaques, because according to dad, I'm no longer Lyam Nicolls.

Liza's waiting for me in her living room, playing Mario Kart on her old beat-up Wii. I heard cursing from outside the door but didn't expect a video game to be the cause. Then again, she always was the quirky sort.

"Bowser, move your fat ass off the road!" she yells, throwing a middle finger to the screen. She cranks the remote to the side. "There's only room for one of us!"

"Liza!" I say loudly, startling her.

"Jesus, Lyam," she says, clapping a hand over her chest. "I didn't even hear the door open."

I sigh. "You were too busy yelling at a giant make-believe turtle," I say, taking off my shoes and placing them next to hers on the rack nearby. I walk into the house, taking account of the obscene differences between her house and mine. I won't even call my house my home anymore, because that's not what it is. It can't be.

At least not now.

But maybe it can be again.

Liza scoffs at me. "There's burgers in the pan in the oven. You'll need to throw 'em in the microwave for a couple seconds," she says.

I nod. "Thanks," I say, reaching for a nearby cupboard and pulling out a plate. I walk over to the stove, and I notice Liza watching me.

"How were tryouts?" she asks blandly, still focused on MarioKart, her tongue stuck out, her eyes planted on the screen. She cranks the remote to the right viciously, nearly throwing herself out of the chair.

"Alright," I say. "A little tense 'cause we knew only half of us could make the team." I grab a bun from the cupboard and the relish from her fridge. She says nothing, intently focused on her game.

I stare at the plate in my hands. Fancy red etchings run across the surface of the plate, twisting and twining with each other before running out of space and disappearing into the air. They look achingly familiar to the plates at my house, the etchings eerily similar.

I feel a rush of sadness, fear and anger. For my parents, for school, for Aydin, for frisbee, but most prominently, for myself. It was because of me that my dad broke my picture and kicked me out of the house. It's my fault I can't go back home. It's my fault Liza and her family have to deal with me. It's my fault I wasn't able to keep my family together. It's my fault that I despise who I am. It's my fault that who I am isn't who I want it to be.

I heave a deep breath silently. Liza is too focused on her game to notice. I grab the counter with one hand to steady myself as the headrush of emotion gets stronger. The plate shakes in my grasp and I feel a pain in my chest, compressing my lungs. A freight train of hopelessness has derailed and crashed into my heart.

I rock on my feet as if I've suffered a physical impact. I feel a tear in the corner of my eye, but I refuse to let it fall. I'm not gonna look weak, not even when nobody's watching. Because knowing I let myself be weak is enough for me to lose my drive to do anything for days. And I can't afford that. I furiously swipe the tear from my eyeball and wipe it on my shirt.

I grab a burger from the stove and, more violently than I intended, throw it into the microwave and slam the door closed. I don't even know what buttons I press, because I'm so angry with myself for letting me get overwhelmed. After how well I did at tryouts, I should be applauding myself, but I can't.