Cole's leg bounced nervously as he gazed pointedly at the door. Strungout Steve sat next to him, ruffling his hands through his hair and biting his lip.
"So, what are you majoring in, Cole?" He asked, his voice almost strained. He cleared his throat and winced. Cole's eyes flicked casually towards him before his gaze returned to the door.
"Physical therapy."
"Huh? I would never have pictured you as a nurse. A doctor maybe," Steve gestured towards nothing, eyes far away. "Or a lawyer. But helping old people with hip problems?"
"I've got my reasons." Cole replied, not coldly, finally giving the other young man his undivided attention. His thoughts drifting to the dog tags under his T-Shirt with a sick depiction of a zombie pin-up chick, which winked like a true vixen from beneath his open dark denim button up.
"Don't we all?" Steve scoffed wryly, his lips pursed and a dirty look crossing his rugged features as he stared at the wall ahead. A dark eyebrow cocked, and Cole's tongue was bitten as he swallowed questions.
"You majoring in anything?" He opted for a small harmless question, instead of the intrusive, awful ones.
"Naw. I was going for a performing arts major, once upon a time. Modern dance," His voice drifted, getting lost in nostalgia and older times. "But then I got hooked. I'd rather spend money on hits rather than college."
A rattle suddenly sounded the room, and the boys jumped. They were early to therapy, and the only other person in the room was Emily. The small girl was sprawled on the floor, her hands reaching for her marker with shaky hands. Curiously, the two watched her scribbled with fervid excitement. Suddenly girly script stared them in the face.
Are you saying you're THE Steven Foxwood?
Steve winced and nodded. "Yeah, that's me alright." Emily fanned her face with her hand, her cheeks flushed and her eyelashes fluttering.
"Wait, what?" Cole said, perplexed. The boy beside him gazed at him tiredly.
"When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city. We went to go see a ballet, the Nutcracker I think. But it was very modern, much to daddy's disdain. But I was obsessed. From then on, I practiced relentlessly. Of course my dad hated it, calling me a fairy and saying I should get involved in something manly, but my mom kept encouraging me, god bless her. By the time I was enrolling in colleges, I was considered a prodigy." Steve's hand tightened into a fist. "But I fucked up at a frat party. Tried some weed, which turned into doing it recreationally. I got bored, and dipped into some of my funds to try a gram of coke. I was hooked after that."
Cole blinked and sat back in his chair. "A prodigy, huh?"
Emily nodded, eyes wide as she scribbled on the board again.
He's a modern dance genius! I watched one of his video's on YouTube, and I was stunned. His movements... they're indescribeable. A real piece of art.
Cole grinned. "So, you're a dance fan too, huh? Unique girl, you are." The small girl grinned sheepishly and let her white blond hair fall into her face.
Suddenly, Cole was aware of the full house, tipped by the chatter of Fred and Lexi discussing which character was better to use on the game Diablo.
"I'm telling you, wizard's are way OP."
"And? Demon hunters kick ass!"
"They're not very skilled with close-range! They're better with long range and traps."
Meg was banging her head to her overly-loud music, and the Tanja/Tina girl sat curled up with a book. But Ree was nowhere to be seen. Cole's eyebrows cinched in concern.
The therapist entered, chatting about esteem and blah blah blah, and command that they reveal their worst qualities and why. Ree's foldable chair was empty
What would Ree say? She seems so confident.
Cole wondered. Suddenly he was aware eyes were on him, and he cleared his throat.
"I- uh- I hate the fact that I'm so weak. I wouldn't hate looking into the mirror, and I could talk to my dad without him looking at me in disgust, and I wouldn't hate living."
Cole's head hung, and he clenched his eyes to hold in tears as the next girl went. He grit his teeth in anger and felt disgusted with himself. What was he, a girl? A brief memory bit into his brain.
"Men don't cry, Cole." His dad said, wiping his tiny six-year-old cheeks. "Men can cry on the inside. They can hurt and cry and kick and scream, but you can't cry real tears. You have to be strong."
You have to be strong.
