the long way home [ h.s. ]

Seventeen | 17

seventeen | 17

☓

For the next few days, we talk to each other often. In the morning on the way to school, and then after. Harry and I have started the habit of walking home. It takes a while, but I think he likes having that time to talk to someone, and so do I.

He frequently asks me questions about myself; I'm able to pry a few things out of him, but it takes some effort, and his responses are few and far between.

Despite his general quietness, he grows more open each day. It's a special thing to see; his smiles growing a little wider, his laughter a little louder, and more frequent than ever before.

He has such a nice laugh.

When I speak to him, it doesn't matter if his eyes are on me, or not-- I know he's listening. His lower lip draws inward, and little creases stretch across his forehead.

And there are these little phrases he says, like I never would've guessed, and Thanks for telling me, really.

He's like those seashells that you can whisper secrets into.

And in return, when pressed up to your ear, you can hear the faint little echoes; the scarcely detailed pieces of his own life that never seem to surface fast enough.

☓

When I get home on Wednesday afternoon, I find my mother in the kitchen. She stands with her tall frame slouched over the countertop, rolling out what looks to be some type of dough, up to her wrists in flour.

"Mama," I say with slight surprise, as she's home earlier than usual. Crossing through the kitchen, I put my arm around her and kiss her cheek.

"Hello, pumpkin," she chirps. Her wavy mahogany hair falls just above her shoulders. "How was school?"

"Oh, the same, mostly."

"How's Harry?"

"The same, as well," I grin.

After Harry and I went out to the diner, I told my mother about him. She thinks that her and my father met his dad once, at the parent-teacher conferences; it wouldn't surprise me, especially since Harry and I are the same age, and we probably share a lot of teachers.

I've always thought it was funny that we've never had a class together.

"Did you walk, again?" she asks.

"We did. It's not as far as I thought-- from here to the school? Of course, I don't think I could do it without the nice weather we've been having. It's got to be about thirty minutes, minimum."

She nods, her attention still focused on the rolling pin.

"You know, his father seemed like such a nice man," she tells me. "I only spoke with him briefly, but he was very genuine-- He struck me as straightforward, but gentle."

"Harry's like that, too," I smile. "He's a good friend, Mom. I wish I would've reached out to him sooner."

She looks at me with warmth in her eyes. It's a soft look; a sweet look.