Finding the Pure Note

The Memories Stay With You

Next class was English, and you know what that means, right? Sorry, Sean. Fletcher is my number one priority. To be fair, I sent Fletch a text saying that I was gonna be back late so he should head straight to class. After my smoke, I kind of let life crush me. As you do. One of those, I can't be fucking bothered/please don't make me face this shit moods. You teeter on either one.

Now is different. Now I know I want to see him, and I need to explain. Explain so much... If he'll listen, if he'll still love me after.

I'm last to class, and Mr. Quinn pouts sympathetically. Clay Hudson late? Never! I mumble an apology which he laps up, but I know he's gonna want an explanation. Any crap will do.

I see Fletcher beaming from our usual table and I move to him. Just in one smile, one display of Fletcher-ness, it's like a beam from a lighthouse, cutting through the fog, removing the brooding thoughts. Fletcher was like that. He didn't have to do much, or anything really to cheer you up.

"Hey," he whispers, and I return the greeting as I take my seat. Mr. Quinn was in the midst of some stirring speech about Othello's need to glorify himself to the public, the completely gripping context to his disastrous affair with Desdemona. Truly page-turning stuff, I'm sure. The room was held in a bored silence, Sean didn't seem to mind my absence, not that I tried looking his way, and I could feel Fletcher fidgeting from my seat.

I knew he was bursting to ask where I was, but he kept his mouth zipped. Well, as much as a kid with Tourette's can manage. Every tic, every outburst thought or neck spasm inevitably drew narrow eyes, but for the most part, everyone in the class learned to look past it. Stressing 'for the most part' there. Instead, he asks another question.

"Are we still good for later...?"

"Yeah." I smile. "'Course."

His cheeks light up with colour and I feel my insides turn. Your smile is everything; it's always been the best damn sight in the world. Fletcher deserved the world, and I'd give it to him if I wasn't such a selfish prick.

When it came time to break off into work, we could upgrade our conversation from hushed whispers to soft murmurs, and then to a respectable talking level. Littered through all that were his tics, and the looks wouldn't end. You'd think they'd be used to it after fricking months in the same class as him, and others longer than that. I turned to tell him to ignore it, but he was already one step ahead of me.

"It's fine, really. I'm used to it."

I purse my lips. "I'm not. And I won't let them make you feel uncomfortable."

His mouth curves into a smile.

"They've been doing it a lot since you... uh, moved tables."

That's a light way of putting it. Chelsea's right; Fletcher needs to just call it what it is.

He's uncomfortable, that's obvious, but he's trying harder than I am. He asks if I'm working on a song. When I tell him I am, he asks what it's about. I freeze up but I don't feel like I can or should wriggle out of this, as intimate as that request is. That's the thing with Fletcher, he'd make everything about you, and you felt greedy taking up all that time. I tried to turn it around when I could.

"It's, uh, about not feeling right, not feeling yourself, whole... It... I don't really know how to explain this well." I avoid his eyes, aware how close to the truth, his truth I am. Songs, stories, art, in general, can be extremely personal, and as much as you want to share it with the world, you still don't want people to see that side of you. The raw truth: pain, fucking heartache and dissatisfaction. Human emotions that are uncomfortable; they're not safe. Some people share everything, but I belonged to the more secretive, fragile side. I'd probably feel embarrassed showing dad, even as close to death's door as he was.