10 More Days With You (REWRITING)

Chapter 8: Hunter Davidson

It's Monday, and I'm going to apologize to her. I'm going to try and make things right today. I know I can. That's the only thing that gets me out of bed. The confidence in myself. I haven't had this confidence for so long. It feels so good.

I change into jeans and a plain white T-shirt and run down the stairs, an unusual spring in my step. I cook a stack of pancakes while listening to HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON'T by Fall Out Boy on loop. I swear to God I'm going to overplay this song one day and that day will be the saddest of my entire existence.

I flip each fluffy light-brown near-perfectly-circular (dear God, I must be going insane) section of pastry onto a plate and serve it onto the table. I retrieve the glass bottle of maple syrup from the fridge (yeah, we keep it in the fridge, bite me). One of the only benefits of living in a small Canadian town: real maple syrup. I mean, Aunt Jemima's my gitty fam, but she only makes that high-fructose corn syrup stuff that's commonly known as diabetes in a bottle. Wait, maybe that's the Tim Horton's Creamy Chocolate Chill (another benefit: Tim Horton's!).   

(I promise I will not dump on every single brand in existence, sorry😁)

"Wow," My mom says. She has just entered the kitchen, wearing polka-dot pajamas and fuzzy slippers. Her messy hair is tied in a braid that falls down her shoulder like a river. I have always envied the flow of a river. It doesn't have to figure out who or what it wants to be. Its purpose has been decided for it. It doesn't have any room for choice, but it's destiny is all it has ever known, and you can't miss what you never had. It will forever flow smoothly, forever be at peace. So technically the exact opposite of me. "You only cook pancakes when you're in a good mood. Why are you so happy?"

"First thing," I try to lift a pancake onto my plate by trapping it between my fork and butter knife. "I only know how to cook pancakes, so I only cook anything when I'm in a good mood." I accidentally drop the pancake onto the table. "Second thing," I pick the (very hot) pancake up with my fingers and flop it onto my plate. "Is it such a bad thing for me to be happy?"

"Yes, definitely," Mom replies with a sarcastic smile. "No, it's just that you haven't cooked in a long time."

I reach across the table to take her hand. "So I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts."

I let go and replace her warm, loving hand with a cold, glass bottle of maple syrup, pouring it onto my pancake in the shape of the Twenty One Pilots symbol, |-/ inside of a circle (which I can draw perfectly, since I'm crazy, like our math teacher, Mr. Vatten). After the symbol is finished, I lean back to admire the masterpiece. Beautiful. While my mother isn't looking I pull my phone out of my pocket. Mom has always frowned upon me taking pictures of band emblems on pancakes, so I try to hide it as best as possible. I even have a folder in my photos app labeled "glorious masterpieces" (yes I'm very aware that I need professional help), so she can't catch them if she ever finds my phone unlocked again (it's a very bad habit, I know). But unfortunately, my ringer is turned on. So the sound effect is loud and clear for the both of us. Mom looks up from her iPad, which she was probably using to read the Cosmopolitan Magazines she thinks she can hide from - wait! That's my iPad!

Mom fixes me with a glare. "I thought I told you not to take pictures of you syrup designs."

"Mom," I say with mock imitation. "I thought I told you not to read sex-based magazines with hot photoshopped models. Jealously isn't a good look on you, Mother."

"Sweetie, it's not a sex-based magazine with hot photoshopped models," She tries and fails to defend herself.

I grab my iPad from her and open the magazine app to the recently read section, dying to prove her wrong. I look at the most recent reads, to triumphantly prove that it is - nope, never mind. It's Time Magazine. I sheepishly set the iPad back on the table in defeat.

"I don't even know where you got the idea of sex-based - are you talking about Cosmopolitan?" She asks, almost in disbelief.

I nod.

"Oh, those are your father's."

I give her a disgusted look. She nods in agreement.

"Well," I say after shoveling down a few bites of my pancakes. "I gotta go. Don't wanna be late for school."

I kiss Mom on the forehead as I walk past, grabbing my backpack off the stairs on my way out.

I could take the bus, but I prefer to drive. Like high school, buses are cliquey, and I don't need any more of that. So, as much as I hate to, I drive the cherry red Mazda 3 my dad bought me as a "don't tell Mom I cheated on her" gift. He had actually bought me a pretty nice silver Toyota Camry before the Mazda, but he had to get me the newer car after the time he trapped me in the garage with the Camry and many heavy metal objects including an aluminum bat, a yellow crowbar, and many car axles.

I absolutely hate my father, but it seems deliciously ironic that I'm driving his "don't tell" gift when Mom and I are in a whole other country than him, and he's probably broken up with the woman I caught him on the couch with. He's probably hooked up with some other woman. And in fact, he's probably trying the other part - helping a woman cheat on her unfortunate not-so-significant other.

I pull into the school parking lot, preparing my apology to Leah. I grab my bag off the passenger seat and get out of the car, locking it behind me and stuffing my keys into the frontmost pocket of my bag.

I'm significantly late, possibly about twenty minutes into first period. By the time I've opened my locker, the second period bell rings. Wonderful. That's the third time I've missed English this week, and Ms. Miriam is going to feed me to the class lizard (oh yes, we have a class pet. A class for grades eleven and twelve has a pet lizard).

I'm immediately swarmed by wannabe goth rebel guys I started hanging out with. I hate these guys, but I need some friends that feel the same way about school rules as I do.

Leah is making her way down the hall. Alright, here's my chance. She walks past me, and......

Oh God, please tell me that didn't happen. My friends are oohing as if she got me good, and she really did.

No matter how many times I say the words in my head, they can't change the brutal reality of my unforgivably stupid mistake. I have started a war I don't wanna win and don't wanna lose, ripped apart each fibre of my chances at even a friendship with Leah. The reality is:

I tripped Leah Thatcher.