Finding the Pure Note

A Futile Tug of War

You don't need to hear about my day. Just understand that it was fucking miserable. I gave up, in the end. Most classes I spent lounged across my desk, spinning my phone around on the table like a windmill. I avoided Chelsea, of course, and when the final bell rang at the end of the day, I was at my locker and out before she could track me down.

I tried calling Fletcher again that night. It went straight to voicemail. Rinse and repeat.

*****

I know I'll have to talk to mum soon. We can't exist in this void, where I lurk upstairs, waiting for her to go. Dinner is a tragedy. Only the clink of cutlery on plates, and dead silence. Sometimes she'll mutter something to Hunter, and he'll mutter back. I eat quick, dump the rest in the bin, or feed scraps to Max, and excuse myself. Mum's waiting on me to fold, and I guess everyone knows me too well 'cause it's only a matter of fucking time. I will bend before she does. I plant my flag on this hill, and I will stubbornly fight to the end, all the same.

There's a small window where mum watches telly before hitting the hay at nine-thirty, and sometimes I'll get as far as dad's study, observing her from the shadows. Then I chicken out last second because I get this sense she knows I'm there, and she's waiting to strike. I'm not ready. Not yet.

Hunter isn't playing middleman to mum, or maybe he just doesn't care. Or he's waiting on me to crack, too. When I try and talk to him, it's back to the usual grunts. I grow more fragile by the minute.

When the door closes and mum leaves for the morning, I turn from my spot on the stairs, quietly staring daggers into the door, and jump when Hunter appears in my line of sight, gliding down the stairs as quiet as a ninja, and he glares at me.

"Shit, dude," I exclaim. "Don't scare me like that."

"Where's Fletcher?"

I swallow, jogging after him as he walks quickly down the hallway, towards the kitchen.

"Oh, you know, at home. He can't be here every day."

He looks over his shoulder, his cold, narrow eyes letting me know he can see right through my bullshit. I sigh.

"Okay. We got into a fight. We just need some space, ya know. I'm... Uh, respecting his boundaries.."

He narrows his eyes further. I roll mine, folding. Predictably.

"Fine. He's avoiding me." It hurts, coming out. I continue, my words softer. "I don't know what to do. He wasn't at school yesterday, and I don't know if he'll show up again today."

Hunter absorbs my predicament as he opens the fridge, pouring himself some orange juice. "So you're not gonna go over to his place?"

I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.

"Do the whole begging routine?" he teases.

"I don't think it's a good idea. He probably won't even answer the door."

He tilts his head to regard me and then shrugs. "Whatever, man."

I frown, feeling like kicking Hunter's ankle, but I remember the pain Chelsea's kick did and the memory of that throbs in my shin even now.

"That's it?" I say, crossing my arms. "Just... Whatever."

He turns to face me, holding the glass up to his lips.

"What do you want me to say? This is your shit, not mine."

"You could be a supportive brother, or... I don't know."

He smirks at me. "Yeah, because that's the state of our relationship," he notes sarcastically.

"Fat lot of good you are," I grumble, taking off down the hallway towards the front door. "Come on, we're going. Now!"