whatever ;; tradley

The Part Where Our Doomed Friendship Begins

I didn't go straight home from school that afternoon as I usually did. Well, actually, I kind of did - I still had to drop my little sister off - but right after that, I headed straight to the Simpsons' house. I figured it was only a matter of time before Brad's annoying neighbor bombarded him with attention or people started posting cheesy support messages, like "stay strong" and "kick cancer's ass" on his Facebook page. Because honestly, I knew that was coming. And even after just meeting Brad once, I could tell he wouldn't be happy about it.

After Mrs. Simpson opened the door and invited me in, she offered me a glass of wine - to which I politely declined. Being honest, she looked as if she'd had a few glasses herself. But when her son was dying, who could really blame her.

I darted upstairs to Bradley's room and knocked somewhat frantically, but still as politely as possible, on his door. That same soft voice with a Brummie accent answered. "You can come in."

Hesitantly, I opened the door. "Hi ..." I said softly, my tall frame barely making it in through the door. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you, if you were sleeping ..."

Bradley did look as if he'd been sleeping. His hair was slightly messy, he was wearing sweatpants and an old, raggedy T-shirt of some random indie band I'd never heard of, and he was lying on top of his bed. I noticed, for the first time, that his leg was propped up on some of the pillows and looked almost swollen, or possibly wrapped in bandages. I wondered if that was the leg that had the cancer in it.

"I was just resting," his voice sounded slightly hoarse. "It's okay. I have the whole day to sleep, anyways." I figured he wouldn't be returning to school anytime soon.

"Oh, well -" I scratched the back of my neck, "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you I was coming over - I just - I wanted to tell you, um-"

"Tristan," Bradley's voice was soft but assertive. "What is it?"

"The whole school knows you have cancer and it's completely my fault," I blurted out, my hands shaking with the words.

Bradley's demeanor shifted, and looked at me straight-on, and it wasn't anger that I saw; more like sadness, or devastation. "What?" He questioned, blinking quickly.

I sat down in one of his chairs and rested my head in my hands. "I was trying to ask Mr. Grimshaw - the science teacher - about cancer, because I told him you'd been diagnosed, and I was too stupid to realize your neighbor - that nerdy blonde girl - was in the room too, and she told her friend, and they screamed it out loud in the hallways, and it's just all my fault. I'm sorry."

I looked up to see Bradley swallowing a lump in his throat, looking down at his hands and twiddling his thumbs. He still looked more sad; but I could maybe see a little bit of anger that he was trying to fight.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," I said softly. I didn't. He obviously didn't want people to know about it.

Bradley looked in my direction. His eyes looked a bit wetter than usual, but other than that, he had kept his composure. "You - you didn't know. It was a mistake." He looked down at his hands again.

"I'm still really sorry." I was.

Bradley looked over at me again. "And I forgive you. You obviously cared enough to ask Mr. Grimshaw about me, so ..."

I paused in my tracks. Sure, I'd rather Bradley not have disgusting bone cancer that could kill him, but it's not as if it kept me up at night. Mostly, I just felt guilty for basically outing him and pushing him out of the cancer closet, if you will. It felt wrong to make him believe I had emotions about this kind of stuff. But at the same time, it felt wronger to tell him that to his face. So I just nodded, instead. "Um, thank you. I still feel awful about it."