Stitches

Eighth Stitch

eight || Simon

"Simon, my good man," Eddie says.

When Eddie calls you "my good man" then he's looking for someone to talk. Seriously not in the mood right now though. Start a conversation with Eddie and you'll end up stuck for centuries. I try to ignore him and keep walking, but Eddie with his long legs and his long strides catch up with me.

"Simon," he says once more, slinging an arm across my shoulders in a way that he thinks must be friendly, but in reality just causes permanent nerve damage.

"Hey, Ed," I say. I needed to look up to see him. He's at least 4 inches taller than me. "How's it going?"

Oh shit. Bad move. You must never ask Eddie questions like that. You must never ask Eddie questions, period. Because that will result to Eddie talking. And that would result to a conversation with him. And a conversation with Eddie meant him talking loudly in that big voice of his and you stuck there listening to his bullshit and nodding at everything he says with no escape.

"Oh, well. I've been better," he says. "But you see . . ."

And here we go.

I guided him towards the Newsroom, because it was always easier to ignore him when we were walking. As he chattered on mindlessly about how hard life is, I allowed myself to think and rethink how I ever got into this mess.

Eddie was the loud type (obviously). He was like a politician. Too friendly, laughs too much, extremely touchy feely.

He was nosy too, which was why the title of editor-in-chief suited him. He leads Quentin High School's school paper, Fiat Lux. The Newsroom has been his quarters for the past few months, the school paper had loads of deadlines to meet more than anybody. I, unfortunately, am part of the staff.

I'm the literary editor, which is a fancy way of saying I write short stories and poems for the paper.

I was never really that into Journalism. Journalism meant gathering facts, raising awareness, delivering the "truth and nothing but the truth." It was extremely boring. When I watch the news or read the newspapers, all I see is death, murders, car crashes, and taxes rising. It only makes me feel even more miserable. I mean, I already knew how sad and pathetic life was, why need printed media to remind me?

And I, lo and behold, am part of this disgrace.

Writing was my release. A way to scoop up all the rubbish that cluttered my head and throw it all out. Which is probably why I hate rereading my works. They were the trash littering my head. I wanted to get rid of it.

And here was Eddie and journalism, wanting me to write it down and share it with the world.

Maybe that's why Fiat Lux was always a train wreck. It has messed up writers.

And maybe that's why I became a writer. No normal decent person ever does.

30 seconds into my train of thought, Eddie has already talked about his nuances of this morning, (and his week, this month, probably his entire life) and has now moved on to talking about the nuances of the school paper. (Wish it was that easy for me to move on too. Hmph.)

"Seriously, Simon," he's saying. He says it in a way that makes it sound extremely serious, like the world will end because of all the seriousness. "We need a new bloody cartoonist. After Betchie left, the editorial cartoons have looked like shit. Like shit. I've posted the ads everywhere, Simon. Austin can't draw! He's a bloody sports writer he cannot draw, and we should stop forcing him—the bloke's just a space filler and he knows it."

I laugh. "And no one wants to be a second choice."

He raises an eyebrow and laughs with me, "Is that another Stitch?"

"Maybe," I say.

"How's the series, anyways?" Eddie loves to hear about literature (Though I wouldn't actually call my work "literature"). It's the only time he would shut up.

"In progress, I guess. Like always. Wonder if I'll ever finish it."

"You will," he says. "Just need inspiration, I suppose."

As if on cue, I see Perci walking down the halls with her backpack slung over one shoulder and her hair in a messy bun. (It was more messy than bun.) She was walking—or running, rather—towards us. She was a train wreck—clothes wrinkled, dirt on her jeans, mud on her shoes. She was the prettiest train wreck I've ever seen.

I panic.

"Well if it isn't the one and only Perci," Eddie says. "What can I do for you, love?" Eddie calls every girl love. It's a British thing, I guess. It makes all the chics swoon.

"Ed," she says, breathless. She holds up a piece of paper. It was the ad Eddie posted, Cartoonist Needed was at the top printed in bold, with the logo of Fiat Lux beside it.

"Is this slot still open?" she asks.

"Why, yes actually. In fact, we were just talking about it. We are in desperate need of new staff. Would you like to—"

"I'll take it," Perci says.

Eddie and I look at each other. "Really? Well then—"

"When do I start?"

Eddie cocks an eyebrow. "First thing tomorrow, if you want."

"Perfect," she says.

"Well then," Eddie says, "It's a done deal. It's a pleasure to have you with us."

"Oh, trust me," Perci says, tugging at the hem of her shirt. "The pleasure's all mine."

"We're going to the Newsroom, love. Might as well come with us, and I'll show you to your new space," Eddie says.

Perci nods.

And just like that, they were off. And all I could do was just stand there, thinking, What the hell just happened?

Eddie chatters on to Perci, and she keeps silent, tugging at the ends of her hair like she's now noticing how messy it is. (Still pretty, though.)

"Simon, hurry up," Eddie calls.

Perci looks at me funny, like she only now realized that I exist. And maybe she only did know about my existence just now.

And I don't mind, I don't mind one bit.

I walk after them then, praying for a miracle.