Set Me Free

Chapter 7

"What do you want to do for your birthday?" Mom asks as I grab the Cheerio's out of the cupboard.

I answer only after setting the box next to my bowl at the table, "I don't know. I wasn't really going to do anything. I mean, I'll probably go sit with Lex for a bit."

"Speaking of, anything new? You seem a tad happier, more hopeful, but you haven't said anything about her in almost two weeks," She takes a seat in the chair beside me. I can sense the caution in her voice.

I glance up at her, finishing pouring my cereal, "She talked to me yesterday, actually spoke to me...and I held her hand under the door."

"Finn, that's great!"

I let myself smile about the progress I've made over the past couple weeks for the first time, "Yeah."

"I am so proud to have you as my son. You are so strong and so determined," Her voice is gentle and loving as the corners of her lips turn upwards. "I know this has been hard on you, but I don't think anyone else could have stuck it out like you have or put in the effort you have. She's lucky to have a friend like you."

I'm not sure what to say, so I just look at her and let her see how grateful I am to hear that through my eyes.

She takes a deep breath as her palms hit the table, ready to change the topic as her eyes begin to gloss over, "So. Is Scott coming over?"

I pour milk into my bowl, "Yeah, he should be here soon."

"What are you guys doing?"

"Working on a project."

She gives me a look, "I thought you finished it?"

"There's more to it," I spoon in a mouthful of cereal.

"What is it?"

"I'm going to get Lex to come out."

"So writing poetry doesn't really come easy to you," Scott starts, popping a grape into his mouth from the bowl on my desk. "Did you ever think of doing something easier?"

"No. She likes poetry, the end." I shoot him him a confused look, hoping he'll elaborate, "What did you have in mind?"

"I'm not saying your poem wasn't awesome, because I'm impressed, really. And you said you could tell she liked it. It's just that you spent every spare minute you could get on a four very-small-stanza poem." He returns with a matter-of-factually look. 

Taking a seat on my bed, stopping my pacing, and prepare to listen to whatever he has to say. My silence is enough for him to know to continue.

He sit up straighter in his chair, a grape held between his thumb and pointer finger, "There's other forms of poetry that might be easier for you."

"I'm listening."

"You were in orchestra, right?" He smiles, as if he's patting himself on the back.

"You want me to play the cello for her?" I ask, perplexed.

"Jeez, I want you to play her a song, stupid! Write one or pick one, it really doesn't matter, but as someone who's really into poetic things, she'll still be into it. Even if it's just a snippet." He shoves a couple more grapes into his mouth, "The point is it'll be more you, at that's what she's all about, right? She doesn't want you to be her, she wants you to be you."

"But, the cello, seriously? How the hell am I suppose to get a chair and cello into her hallway?"

His bubble pops as he lays back in the chair, "Good point. Do you play anything else?"