The Love Cure

Peter Pan and Wendy

Before...

"Cherish, they're dead."

The words rattle around my brain like the solid metal ball of a pinball machine, hitting nothing for a few seconds, not grasping any denotation because these words can't possibly carry the same meaning they've always carried.

They must have changed.

My mother stands before me with her hands clasped behind her back. Her doe eyes are red-rimmed and her mouth, which usually carries a smile bigger than our hometown of Chesterfield Falls, tilts into a frown that quivers against her brown, but pale, skin.

The world has slowed to allow time for this moment to be added to my final film. My final film contains moments in my life that shake me to my core–be they good or bad. We all have a final film. It's the reel of our lives we see as we die.

That surreal tapestry has been permanently etched by this moment.

"It's me, you, and Lulu, now, baby. But we're still a family. We will ge-..."

Her red lips continue to move, but I can't hear a word of what she says past the consummation of my mental abilities. With gelatin-filled legs, I stumble to my feet. She draws herself up, her arms extended for me to collapse into.

Except, I don't.

With blade-sharp eyes, she tracks every shudder from my body. She frowns as I step around her.

Like a zombie devoid of brain function, I creep across the oatmeal carpet in my forest green room to the window overlooking the side of the house. Without turning to her, I say, "Momma, I need time alone."

I push the light brown sheer covering the double window opening to the side. My fingers slide the lock free, and I glide the window up. She doesn't stop me.

A swoosh of air bellows into me as the outside enters. Strands of my curly, midnight black hair fall across my shoulders and fan out as the wind whips at me.

I step through the window to the small slant dominating the side of the roof where my bedroom lives in our beautiful, chaotic house. This is my place in the world.

It's the place I go when I need to dismantle the world and be alone. The roof slant protects me from life inside the house and from living inside my head.

I lean against the cool asphalt shingles, and my eyes meet the evening twilight. The sky is ablaze with varying shades of red, yellow, and gray that give the illusion that fire reigns down on me.

Empty of purpose for the moment–I watch. I simply exist until a soft rustle sounds beside me and sends my eyes scurrying to the source.

My next-door neighbor and best friend, Josh, scrambles toward me. His light brown skin glows as the evening touches his firm jaw and full lips. He's still dressed in his clothes from school, dark jeans, and a white t-shirt. Usually, by now, he's changed into basketball shorts and a plain tee.

His parents must have told him the news.

He doesn't utter a word as he squats beside me. He bends his long legs so his knees are elevated and he plasters his hands on top of them. For a long moment, we don't speak. He shares the silence with me.

Josh breaks the quiet first as he clears his throat. "I know there isn't anything I can say that either your Mom or Lucinda haven't already said. So, I'm not here to try and say any of that." He pauses and I turn and watch as his Adam's apple bobs up and then down with a hard swallow.

I release a deep breath and stare back at the fiery sky.

He clears his throat again like he's announcing he has more to say. "You're my best friend and I hate to see you hurting. Truth is, I'm kinda hurting too. I loved them, too. So, even though I'm a guy and I'm not supposed to cry in front of anyone, I don't mind if you see me cry. If you don't mind crying in front of me."

I turn and stare up at him again. Big dollops of tears run down his face, across his cheeks and he doesn't wipe them away or turn his head so I can't see them. His lips curl to the side as he stares down at me like he might be a tad embarrassed about me seeing the tears.

I've lost all words, so I avert my eyes back to the sky. Without looking at me, his head angled toward the burning sky, he pulls my hand into his. "We don't have to say anything, but I need to touch you. To know you're here and for you to know that I've got you. Like I know you've got me. And we can fall apart together. And hopefully, we can help each other piece it back together later... If that makes sense."

I don't say anything. I don't squeeze him, so he knows I understand. He already knows I do.

At the tender age of thirteen, my friend I've known all my life and have always liked, I love. I know it in the deepest parts of me. I don't ever want to lose what we have.

He drops my hand and digs into his pocket. After a few grunts, he pulls out two Butterfinger bars and hands one to me. The chocolate has melted a touch from being tucked into his jeans.

I don't care.

We don't speak as we eat our candy bars and watch the twilight sky as nightfall breaks through the blaze and drops us into darkness.

We hold hands and we cry.

Now...

My heart taps out a rhythmless beat as my cell quietly dings another incoming message. Another one I'm not going to respond to because I'm consumed with trying not to fall apart. It's not the easiest task, but crying isn't ideal. Too many cell phones to capture the whole fiasco.

I take a steadying breath and glance around the brightly lit classroom. We're pushed into fifteen groups of two, but my partner didn't see the point in coming on the last day of class for seniors. I can't blame her.

The dingy shades that cover the abundance of windows that line the far left wall are up. A view of the student parking lot exposes row after row of beaten-up, dusty, hand-me-down vehicles, with a sprinkling of newer cars on this side of the lot.

Delicate rays of sunshine pour in all around us like subtle fingers tickling our insides with a reminder that in just a few minutes we'll be free from high school forever.

I inhale a breath of anticipation and quickly release it. My summer will be complicated.

The scent of earth, stale donuts, and sweet perfume permeates the air in the classroom. Opening the windows was a wrong move by Harold. It's an enormous distraction. Most of us keep glancing out the windows, then at our phones, and not the whiteboard he's using to provide information.

My phone beeps again, reminding me I've not opened my last incoming message. I know it's Josh. For the first time in all the years of our friendship, I don't want to talk with him.