Amaranthine

Chapter Four

© Copyright 2011
All work is property of Leah Crichton, any duplication or reproduction of all or part of the work without explicit permission by the author is illegal.

Disinclination: (dis-in-cli-nay-shun)

that toward which you are inclined to feel dislike

certain degree of unwillingness

In the weeks that followed, I single-handedly unearthed the recipe for absolute madness: Mix equal parts solitude and confinement, top with endless stretches of time, and sprinkle with a bit of tedium. You get a batch of good old crazy. I spent the entire month a prisoner, held captive by the same walls. My world consisted of home or rehab, and neither did much for my social life. Sadly, the only thing that kept me sane was fantasizing about coffee-shop boy. Life, I’d learned, didn’t offer much by way of certainty, but one thing I was sure of was that I would never lay eyes on someone like that again anywhere other than the pages of a magazine. That, and if I was being honest with myself, he made for very intriguing daydreams.

I used my confinement as an opportunity to master the art of the crutches, to become familiar with the hindrance I'd been saddled with. They went from necessary and intolerable to necessary and bearable. I watched terrible daytime television, which resulted in my IQ dropping and my brain acquiring a phenomenal amount of useless knowledge. I read eleven books that I'd found in the library and developed a fear that I was turning into Luke because I actually enjoyed them.

As impressive as the house appeared to be, there were flaws. The kitchen had state of the art appliances and water stains on the ceiling. In the hallway precisely seventeen scratches marred the otherwise flawless floor, and under a cabinet in the bathroom, there was cracked slate tile. The doorknob to the library was loose and rattled. I spent hours in my room dissecting it, trying to find its imperfections, but there were none.

By the grace of God (or my mother's impatience with my growing boredom) the day finally arrived when she decided that I was well enough to start school. I thought this would make me happy, but the night before my nerves were getting the best of me and rather than eat, I stared blankly at my plate and pushed peas around with my fork, spearing them individually on the prongs. Luke was gone, probably to a Nerds Anonymous meeting or something equally geeky, and my mom observed my pea stabbing spree in quiet consideration. “Honey,” she finally said, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Mom, just not that hungry.” Total lie. Nothing was fine. The thought of going to school and the reality of getting there were two very different ideas. I hated being stuck in the house but it was almost preferable to being the new kid.

My mom was at a loss for what to say next so she rose to her feet and placed her hand on mine. “If you need to talk, darling, you let me know.”

“Yeah,” I said, “sure will.”

The next morning my pace could barely keep up with a snail. It wasn’t all because I was still immobilized. Somewhere in the depths of my broken brain, I reasoned that the longer I could avoid going to school, the less horrific it might be. I shuffled around our kitchen gathering a bowl, milk, and corn flakes. With my own personal Breakfast of Champions, I alternated between eating and stirring my spoon around in the milky mush. I had high hopes the food would get rid of the butterflies in my stomach, but so far no dice. 

Luke sat across from me, coffee in hand. “How ya doin’, I.Q.?” He took a sip and cringed. It must have been too hot or too strong.

“Nervous,” I said.

“Don’t be nervous. Things will be just fine. Besides, if anyone causes you any problems, your big brother will come and save you.” He grinned and flexed a non-existent bicep.