Just in Need of a Friend

Chapter Two

Carrying my book bag still, I headed upstairs and entered my bedroom, enjoying the darkness until I turned the bedside lamp on. The bare walls contained no positive emotions, and the dark grey on it only added to the darkness. Yesterday’s clothes sat next to the closet doors, rolled up in a ball, and I could almost hear my mother’s voice telling me to put them away. I placed my bag next to my bed and flopped onto my back on the not-yet-made bed. As I stared at the ceiling, my eyes began to drift shut.

            “Jayson!”

I halted. Turning my head, I saw my mother storming towards me. She was not happy.

“Get off of him!” she ordered, as I had been on top of another student, punching him.

I did as I was told and watched the smaller child scamper to his feet, and start to back away.

“You’re not going anywhere either, little man,” my mother spoke to the other child. He had a bloody nose, and a bruise was beginning to form around his eye.

“What do you think you are doing, Jayson?” my mother demanded an answer out of me.

I looked down at my feet, and when I heard the other kid snicker, I shot him a dirty look. He then became quiet and looked at his feet.

“Jayson, I asked you a question.” She was a very patient woman, my mother was, unlike my father who would be dragging me out of the school yard by my ear if he saw me beating another student up.

I point at the other kid, and my voice came out as a near yell, “he said my shoes were stupid-looking!”

“Jayson…” my mother gave me a sympathetic look, “you have to ignore comments like that.”

She squatted and motioned the other child to go to her. Out of her pocket, she pulled a bag of tissues to wipe his face of blood. He winced at the touch, but didn’t move.

“When you get home, put something cold on that, okay?” my mother spoke of the darkening bruise on his face. “Now,” she allowed the child to back up, with tissues held to his nose, and looked at both of us, “you two are going to apologize for what you’ve done.”

The other child and myself nodded, then turned to face one another.

“I’m sorry I said that you’re shoes are stupid-looking,” the other child muffled out, then my mother gave me a knowing smile.

“I’m sorry I punched you,” I replied to the kid.

“And no more of this nonsense,” my mother instructed as the other child began to sneak away.

“I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just that, well, he said that, and I got really mad, and –“

She cut me off, “Jayson, it is okay. Everyone gets mad sometimes, you just need to be able to control your anger and know that punching people is not the right answer.”

I nodded my head; she always made things make sense and gave an encouraging response.

“Now, let’s go grab some ice cream and head home for supper.”

I opened my eyes, and a tear escaped down my face. I never once saw my mother lose her temper, and she was always so understanding. No matter what I had done, she never became enraged. I never liked to disappoint her, so I always tried to correct myself after I had done something that I shouldn’t have. She was a very beautiful person, inside and out. People say that she looked like an angel, so graceful and wonderful. I’ve also been told that I look like her, with my sandy brown hair, light brown eyes, and light skin tone, although, my skin has become slightly darker with all the time I’ve been spending in the outdoors. I don’t understand why my mother ever chose to be with my father. My father is the complete opposite of her. He’s extremely impatient, doesn’t like to listen to explanations, and he likes to take his anger out by doing physical damage. But somehow, my mother was always able to control my father’s mood when I was younger. Of course that’s all changed now; she’s gone, and he doesn’t have any control of anything.

I rolled onto my side and stared at my alarm clock. After about a minute, I figured it was time to go and check on the pizza.

I headed downstairs when I heard a car pull into the driveway. The pizza was cooked and I cut it into several pieces, then took a plate containing a few pieces back up to my room. As I climbed the stairs, I heard the front door open. When I reached the top of the stairs, I heard my father yell to me.

“Boy! Did you cook anything?” he hollered.

“Pizza’s on the stove!” I shouted back. I’m surprised he didn’t smell it when he came in, but knowing him, he probably stunk of oil and grease.

He didn’t say, “Thanks,” or “Good job,” but I didn’t expect him to. It’d be too much like when my mother was here.

I finished my supper quickly and heard the television blasting from downstairs, so I called it an early night and fell asleep, looking forward to the next day.