The Best Thing He Ever Wrote

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

At six fifty I wake up. At seven ten I actually manage to drag myself from my bed, out of the sheets and onto the floor. Sitting here I pull open my sock draw, pulling on an odd pair of white socks. If it wasn't for the different coloured toes, one being grey and the other being black, of course they'd be the same. If the little gremlin in the washing machine didn't take one of each pair of socks, I'd have a million pairs. But instead I have five hundred thousand odd ones. Theoretically of course. I sit here, on the floor, for a few more minutes. Deciding what I should wear to the corner store. Of course any normal person would just chuck on something neat and casual, but me on the other hand, I'm having trouble doing just that.

Nerves. My mind confirms me.

I don't think these nerves are because of work. Finally I stand up; scratching my head I grab for a plain black T and a pair of dark jeans. It only takes me a second from here on to pull the clothes on and rush down the stairs. I open up the bread box that sits in the middle of the chopping board. I grab out a knife, the toaster and take a swig from the orange juice bottle. I push the bread down in the toaster and lean back on the counter as I wait.

I have to pick Olivia up.

I have to make sure Cindy gets on the bus on time.

I have to get to work at nine am. Sharp.

I glance out the window where the wind plays cat and mouse with the trees. The suns fully up too, not one cloud interrupts the perfect baby blue sky. The blue that reminds me of the first yo-yo I got, because when I was eleven they were cool. Of course you'd never see a teenager playing with one, unless they'd stolen it off some poor kid. But that didn't matter if the old kids didn't play with them, it didn't matter if you had the cheap yo-yo. It did, though, matter what colour you had. Of course being a boy with a baby blue yo-you didn't matter, having a florescent orange label on the said that said, Trick Master, and then in smaller writing underneath said, Show your friends what yo-ing is all about, it didn't matter either.

I shake my head back to reality as the bread in the toaster pops up with a soft twang. I grab it out, spreading peanut butter thickly over the steaming toast, no butter. I put them onto a chipped white plate that hasn't finished drying on the dish rack. Cindy is at the table, I hadn't even noticed. She sits there reading some fashion magazine picking at the strawberries that sit in front of her. She looks up at me as I join her; I'm surprised that she didn't spare the time to nag at me for drinking from the juice bottle before. She forces a brief, sad smile, pulling back loose strands of hair behind her ears. I watch the magazine in front of her, a story about a girl who follows her dreams. I think it sounds pathetic and that people just make up stories that sound good to win the prize money. I can only read the first few words and then the words go across each other and my head begins to throb. I really need to get my eyes checked out. I look up again at Cindy as I take another bite of my toast; almost half of it in one go.

I can tell that she knows that I'm watching her, but she doesn't look at me or change her expression. I should say something, like ask her what's wrong. But I don't know how to say it without sounding like I'm trying to council her. I wait a moment longer, until she flips the page.

“How's school?” I ask.

She then looks up at me, closes her magazine and pops the last bit of strawberry into her mouth, “Fine. It's school, its ok.”

I want to ask if there's someone picking on her, “Everything ok?” I say instead

She grunts, “Yes every thing's ok.”

“Ok.”

“I gotta' go. See you.” She stands and collects her school bag from the seat next to her. I feel like a lousy brother not digging in deeper to see what's wrong, because whatever is up with Cindy, it's taken over her body and it isn't Cindy inside there anymore. Once she's out the door, I chew down the last bits of toast and get up, putting the plate in the sink. I do a double check that I have my wallet, phone and keys. A lot of me is annoyed that Cindy is acting this way maybe it's her age, but I don't like it, whatever it is. That little bit of me doesn't care anymore. I go to wait for the bus to leave.