Bleeding Smile

THREE

__________

When I was ten and Teller was eleven, he made me his first promise.

It was over the summer and I hadn't seen him in nearly two months. I'd rung his Stepdad's landline between 6:30pm and 7pm like he'd instructed me to, calling during each weekend that I could. My young mind was increasingly worried that Teller and his family had perhaps moved even further away from town.

As soon as I was certain that Dad was still at work and Mom was adequately engrossed in her television show as she set the table for dinner, I grabbed the ripped piece of paper with Teller's number on it out of my ballerina jewelry box and made my way upstairs, sneaking into Dad's office so I could use the phone that was on his desk.

I grabbed the landline, the cord stretching as I pushed Dad's chair back and crawled underneath the desk. I was small enough to sit comfortably and not hit my head as I placed the landline on the floor in front of me, picking up the receiver and dialing Teller's number precisely as it was written on the paper.

It was 6:48PM and I nervously nibbled on my bottom lip, recalling how one time, several weeks ago, I'd been greeted by the gruff voice of Teller's Stepdad and had quickly hung up before he could ask who I was.

Like me, Teller had a lot of rules that he was obligated to follow.

The difference resided in the consequences that would transpire if we broke them. While I usually got a lecture and the occasional slap on the wrist, Teller sometimes went a day without food or showed up with a new bruise on his arm.

I didn't want to get him in trouble, I just wanted to make sure that he was okay.

Someone picked up the phone in the middle of the third ring.

"Hello?" Teller's hushed voice filtered through the receiver. He always whispered over the phone. Thinking about it, he always spoke in a low volume in person too.

"Hi, it's me," I said, unable to contain my relief.

"One second." There was the sound of shuffling and something being moved in the background, and then, "You called at a perfect time."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm okay. Are you okay?"

I nodded, forgetting he couldn't see me. "Can we hang out?" I got straight to the point.

"I don't know—" he began.

"But I have something really, really important that I want to show you!" I suddenly blurted out, anxious that if I didn't say something significant then maybe I wouldn't see my friend sooner. "I need your help with something."

"I'll help you, what is it?" he wondered, and he sounded infinitely more curious and receptive than he was before.

"Uh...." My developing brain scrambled for an answer. "I can't tell you over the phone," I lied. "I have to show you."

"Okay, but I can't meet tonight." As if already sensing my disappointment, he said, "I can come over tomorrow. I'll meet you at our tree when you come back from Church."

"Okay! Night, night."

"Night, night."

I was practically beaming the next day after Service. In the span of that night and the following day, I'd found something that I knew would require our combined attention.

While Mom and Dad chatted with the Sinclairs on their front porch about Father O'Malley's sermon — the Sinclairs weren't able to attend that day due to their toddlers falling sick — I excused myself to the house, expressing how I wanted to change out of my formals and read one of the books I'd checked out of the library with Mom several days prior.