pencil shavings

eight: peter

Did you know that laying on a book and relying on the osmosis of information is not, in fact, considered reading, but is, and I quote, 'loitering, sleeping, and slobbering like a ragtag bum;' and that, even if I claim that I have found my true family in the ancient novels section, I can still be dragged from my people at closing time, left on the concrete steps to find a park bench on which I can kink my neck in the most pathetic fits of sleep. Basically, they kicked my sorry ass out of the library.

The library. Even the dregs of yellow-papered words won't have me.

I rub my head with a groan, shoving my glasses up my nose and patting the park bench until I find my beanie and The Odyssey still open near where my head had been. I know that I smell like three days worth of park camp-outs, and that the after-taste of my flaming-hot-Cheetos dinner hasn't left my mouth, but it's the best defense mechanism against uncomfortable conversations with prissy morning-joggers anyway. At least the sky is pretty, if you like looking at dense fog without a jacket, and the smell of fertilizer somewhat masks my own B.O. A lady in workout pants that cost more than my life prances past me, dabbing at the drops of sweat below her mascara. You know, it wouldn't be quite so absurd, except that they actually think they're getting a workout in. The nerve. At least I have the dignity to acknowledge that I'm a jumble of muscle-less limbs.

God, I just love mornings; they really bring out the best in me.

I stiffly drag myself off the bench, rubbing my temples as my neck spasms and I wait for my calf to stop Charlie-horsing.

"Peter?"

My eyes fly open (miraculous considering the sleep still crunched in them). Was it Sam? Oh God, I need her right now-

"Hey, man, what are you doing out here? It's like five."

Matt. Of course. Of course, when I'm at my very worst and my mind can only operate in bitter sarcasm and I look like crap and I feel worse and I'm pretty sure there's a rip on my jacket and Cheeto crumbs are adorning my collar and the only semi decent item around me is a nerd's dream book written in Greek, of course then Pretty Boy decides to come up with his brawny biceps and tan athlete-legs, panting like any other prissy jogger. Did I mention that I really hate him? Because I do. All of them. Everybody. The word is chanting through my head like a toddler: hate, hate, hate, hate-

"Peter?"

God, and he's so nice too. It's annoying.

"I'm fine, thanks."

I finally look up and meet his eyes, wiping the sleep out of my eyes and rubbing my beanie back onto my head. I can almost feel the dark circles around my eyes, the static and grease in my hair, the fabric marks on my cheek from sleeping on my sleeve. I look away again, grabbing my book.

"I'll see you around, Matt," I say bluntly, but he grabs my arm with what I might consider honesty in his eyes. True concern. I have to admit the expression is foreign.

"I-I know you don't like me very much. But you need help, Pete. I can-"

"I said I was fine," I growl, pulling my arm from his grip. "I'm not your summer charity case, okay? And don't call me Pete."

I walk away then, wishing for a nice convertible and some sunglasses to make a dramatic exist. Along with a new life, but that's a given. Matt watches me leave - I can feel his eyes on my back as I go, try as I might to ignore him.

Dan probably needs my help cleaning, and maybe, if the house is mostly empty and the plumbing still works, I can shower.

I hear Matt start jogging again behind me and let out my breath at last.

"Twigs!"

When I slam the door behind me, Dan is munching chips as he lays on the couch, encased in a mountain of beer cans and spilled dip.

"If it isn't the King of Trash himself and his inebriated subjects," I snarl, stil in my bad mood. Glaring at Dan, I gesture broadly to the three passed-out guys on the floor.

"Relax, kid. We'll have it cleaned up in no time."

I roll my eyes. "We're talking about the same knocked out, useless lumps of hungover excuses for adults doing the work, right?"

Dan finally props himself up on the couch, trying to hide his apparent wince. The strain of his patience is drawing lines under his bloodshot eyes, and I shiver at how much he resembles Dad.

"Just go to your camp, okay kid? Just go. I don't wanna fight right no..."

His voice trails as his eyes close and he sinks back onto the old cushions, a piece of a chip on his chin. And he looks so small, so very small, when his unruly hair falls across those closed eyes just enough to flutter with every uneven breath.

I creep to the bathroom, even though there is no chance of them hearing me as they float somewhere far from reality, but I tip toes anyway because I don't like making lots of noise when the house is a rare quiet like this. There's more trash in the hall, more in the sink, and of course nothing in the actual trash can. Idiots.

As I stand in the shower, letting the warm water eat away at all the grim on me, let myself breathe out deeply, wishing. Wishing for control, for my far-away mother, for something else that I know I need but can't recall. For a warrior's call to arms, for the strength to act on that purpose. Because the life of a library's reject is about as hopeful as a win-tin Spartan warrior at Thermopylae.