White Lies

Part 1: Chapter 2

Thomas's POV:

   "Thomas?..."

   I didn't respond.

    "Thooomas?!"

   Nope.

    "Thomas Wendell Perkins!"

   Oh no, the dreaded middle name.

   Finally, my mother decided to get in touch with her inner banshee and screeched, "THOMAS!"

   I sat up in bed, "I'm coming! Yeesh lady.." I finally got up, whining to myself, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Except, the sleep didn't seem to want to leave. It never did. Hence the dark circles under my greenish eyes. I lifted my arms, stretching, letting out a yawn before dragging myself to my closet, "Let's see here.." I always had a bad habit of taking out clothes that took my interest for the day and forgetting to put the ones I didn't wear back. In fact, the same applies to moving my bed sheets in any which way or picking things up and placing them elsewhere, so on and so forth.

   This explained why my room always seemed slightly disheveled and why I tended to have many bruises and scratches from tripping over items I didn't even know that were there. Did I bother to try and fix it? As the straight A, responsible, sensible boy I am? Pfft. Oooof course..

   ..Not.

   Ahem. Anywho. I proceeded to take out ten pieces of clothes, trip over the corner of a rug that had folded over and drop everything as I faceplanted. I sat up, feeling my eyes start to sting. "Don't cry...", I thought. You really have to believe me when I say "straight A". I am smart, just.. Only academically.

   I gathered up what I wanted to wear, brushing an arm over my now teary eyes to wipe them, and threw what I didn't onto my bed. I slipped off my pajamas and got into a pair of boxers before I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. And it wasn't pleasing. With my skinny body and tousled, dirty blonde hair, nobody would want me. Especially with these weird, blotchy patches that were scattered over my torso here and there. What was worse was that every so often they'd get so itchy and irritated, and like the big baby I am, makes me want to cry.

   That's how I usually deal with issues anyways. Cry it off. My parents always said I did the same as a child, even more excessively back then. At small things too, like a bug flying around or bumping my arm ever so lightly on something. Nowadays, it's lessened, I can deal with little things. It's a form of anxiety in a way. And my messy, hazardous room did not help at all.

   I quickly slipped on a white button up and slid on brown, skinny jeans, tucking my shirt in before throwing on a black sweater, a grey, horizontal stripe through the center. I stepped into my loafers before grabbing my heavy bag, already dreading carrying around its contents all day.

   Opening my bedroom door, I was greeted to the scent of breakfast, calling, "Morning!" No response, like always. I walked down the stairs, seeing my mom setting down my food, peeking into the living room to see my dad snoring away on the couch. I looked back to my mother, repeating, this time stressing, "Good morning". My mom only waved to the dining table, "Mhm, eat up. I have a meeting early today, I gotta go in like.. Five, ten minutes. Wake your father up before you leave".

   I took my seat, "Sure mom..", before digging in, thinking, 'At least Ramona will give me a proper hello'. Ramona was a tall, tan girl with an auburn bob and thin, almost violet-ish blue eyes. She was quite pretty in the face, and I admit I probably would have liked her if the closet wasn't my best friend. Funny enough, she was the only one to know that, but more importantly, was more of a mom to me than my real one.

   She was in her first year of college, but had went to my school the year before. I'd met her then, and she picked me up every morning and drove me home. Fortunately, she still does, since my school is on the way to hers. Every morning I long for the doorbell to ring to be able to sit in her car and just talk, and every morning I dread pulling up to school and have it end. Just because I'm good in school, doesn't mean I enjoy it.

   Eventually, my mother left and the doorbell rang. I stood, going to the living room and shook my dad's arm, "Hey, get up". He mumbled, rolling over. I shook him more, "Dad, get up!" He groaned, "Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first time, just.. Five more minutes.." I only shook my head, sighing, "Fine, be late for your job.. Not my issue..", and opened the front door.

   Ramona's big smile and warm aura greeted me. It was like a breath of fresh air. She waved for me to follow, which I happily did, as she spoke up, "Morning Tommy".

   I beamed, "Morning Ramona!", which only got me a small chuckle from her and a mumbled, "Cutie".

   I made myself in the passenger seat, immediately reaching over and turning up the radio. Oh... Ohhhhh... The song started with a gentle, "Everybody... Yeah...".

   OHHH YESSSS.

   Ramona's eyes met mine, lifting our hands, we touched them together, "Rock your body... Yeah.." She sat back, "Everybody..", as did I, "Rock your body right.."

   And we shouted, "BACKSTREET'S BACK ALRIGHT!"

   ---

   We finally reached school. Not even a minute into the song. I had my back against her shoulder, asking, "Am I original?" She gave me a drawn-out, "Yeah". I leaned my head back, again, dramatically, "Am I the only one?"

   "Yeeeahh".

   I draped myself across her lap, "Am I sexual?" She laughed, "And almost late for school".

   I instantly sat up as she shut off "Everybody" from the Backstreet Boys off. We loved listening to old boy bands, completely un-ironically. I quickly gathered up my things, "Sh-Shit! Thanks Ray". I gave her cheek a light peck before slipping out, hurrying to the entrance.

   School.

   As I pushed the front doors open, I shut my eyes, taking in a long breath.

   Ah yes. Raw, warm, and humid. Internally crying teenagers. The scent of Hell.

   Send help.