A/N: Sorry for the James Patterson-like chapters, I'm updating this story bit by bit. Roll in those title suggestions for me, please!
"Okay..." I say hesitantly. Why would he choose this poem, out of everything?
"So, we should figure out what parts to read and how we perform it, right?" Brian asks. I bet he's never done anything like this before. I was in a poetry performance once, a while ago. It was pretty cool actually. My parents were still together and they gave me a huge bouquet at the end. My eyes mist over at the memory. Quickly, I turn away so Brian won't see me cry and swipe away the tears.
"Yeah, let's split this up." I say, turning around again. We spend the next forty-five minutes splitting our lines up. Then we decide to tackle our performance before dinnertime.
"So, maybe we could be walking..." I say.
"It might be easier to just be sitting down." Brian says.
"Okay. So you'll say your lines to me, right?"
"Yeah, and maybe at first we could be turned away from each other, but slowly turn around or something? And at the very end we could face each other?" I hate to admit it, but it's a good suggestion.
"Okay." I say grudgingly. The boy has some pretty good performance ideas.
We rehearsed for a while, but after about half an hour we took a break.
"So, do you live in this big house all alone?" Brian asks me.
"Uh, no. I live with my dad." And his girlfriend, I add silently. I don't have many things to like about Shelia. She's clingy, whiny, and downright stupid.
"No mom?"
"She lives in D.C." I say.
"Oh," is all Brian says.
"What about you?" I ask, "What's your family like?"
"I live with my mom and dad and I have no siblings." He says shortly.
"Spill," I say, and he does.
"My parents fight a lot. Obviously they aren't happy together, so I don't know why they stay."
"And the rest?" I ask. Brian pulls his shirt up about six inches, revealing a scar that disappears into his pants. "Who did that to you?" I ask, surprised to find sympathy in my voice.
"My dad. But my mom doesn't know. You're the only one besides Dad who knows, actually."
"I'm sorry." I say. I can count on one hand the number of times I have said 'I'm sorry'. I can be cruel and unforgiving, and I hold grudges as long as I deem necessary. But I truly felt bad for Brian. "That's why my mom doesn't live with us," I say quietly.
"Come again?"
"I said that's why my mom doesn't live with us. I have my own scars, but my dad found out and filed for divorce."
"I'm sorry." There is a silence.
"We should probably-"
"Let's get back to-"
"Let's, uh, get working again." I say. And so we do.
