Nathaniel Jean's Senior Year

7: Nathaniel Jean's Struggle Within a Struggle

I was surprised by how excited I was when Friday came around, when Lucas didn't have rehearsal and I would get to drive him home.

When he saw me approach him in the locker room, he shouldered his duffel bag and grinned, flashing that goddamn dimple. "You miss me?"

"No," I lied.

     He didn't say a word to me as we walked through the parking lot to the car—he never did. The moment we were sat down, though, he turned to me and asked, "How are you feeling? Not in general—I don't care about that. I just mean about the conversation we had Saturday night, if you even remember it."

I remembered it clearly. Parts of that night had fallen from my mind, lost and unimportant. Lucas' words, though, had stuck. I'd made sure of it.

"I'm . . . I'm trying," I said, and I really meant it. When I started feeling down, right as I climbed into bed, I would repeat his thoughts like they were my own. Sometimes it helped; sometimes I actually felt better. Sometimes I fell asleep with a smile on my face, and on those nights, I got a good rest.

Other times, the second side of me won, and I felt shittier than ever. I didn't sleep well, sometimes I cried, sometimes I punched pillows. Those nights made me want to give up on ever finding what Lucas had.

"Good and bad, huh?" Lucas said, and I mentally cursed his uncanny ability to look into my mind. "You'll have a lot of that. Just don't lose hope, alright? Remember you've got a friend."

I nodded, and Lucas smiled. He changed the topic after that, to trivial things like weather and picture-lighting and white shoes.

The big surprise came when I pulled into his driveway and he said, "Come inside."

I hesitated. A part of me—a really big part of me—wanted to go in with him. To spend time with my one real friend and talk about real-friend shit. But if Shawn ever saw me voluntarily hanging out with his brother . . .

"Nobody's home," Lucas added. "Shawn started these overnight soccer camp things right outside town, from Friday after school to Saturday morning before your club games. And my parents both work really late on Fridays. The house is ours for the taking."

He sounded kind of nervous, like he was afraid that I just didn't want to go inside with him at all. His insecurities didn't show often, but when they did, in moments like these, he seemed so much more human.

"I'm in," I told him.

We ate first, because soccer practice was a bitch. Lucas, thank god, found leftover lasagna in the fridge—no more burnt bagels. We shared the meal over more casual conversations. Small-talk usually bored me, when it was Trevor or Damien or Cameron talking. With Lucas, though, everything was interesting

"Okay, first thing's first," he said when we made it to his bedroom. He kicked off his shoes and went straight for his laptop, tossing it gently onto his bed and climbing on behind it. He laid stomach-first, propping himself onto his elbows, and I stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before he patted the spot next to him and I realized with some embarrassment that he wanted me to join him. When I did, he turned to me, head in his hands, his eyes sparkling, and said, "It's time I introduce you to your fellows."