pencil shavings

nine: sam

"Your favorite pancakes for a super awesome day! And I made you a protein shake, and - oh! - try some turmeric eggs! Ten-out-of-five, guaranteed. Should I make waffles too?"

The lights in the kitchen are all on, turning the gentle morning sunlight into an all-consuming artificial solar-flare as the dense odor of comfort food bloats the house. As Mom and Bryan bumble around noisily, I have to take deep breaths to calm the claustrophobia.

"Mom, I don't eat breakfast anymore, remember? I walked to Mocha's this morning." I say it as gently as I can, but it doesn't matter since the microwave starts beeping. Mocha's is my favorite coffee shop and the birthplace of many of my outlandish stories.

She looks at me with wild recognition, and nods. "Yes, right, right. Sorry! Love you, Samantha. Have a great day."

My lips turn up because I know she really means it. Bryan hands me a sandwich for lunch, and I give him a side-hug despite having already made myself soup.

It takes all my patience not to snap at their inability to understand me, but it's nice to know that they're there, at least. They're trying, and we may be a broken bunch, but they always there, holding the super-glue.

When I at last get up the nerve to walk back into the classroom, Peter is there in the back seat again in his same lump-form.

"Hey," I say, biting my lip to keep my smile from getting weirdly big. It's been a while since I've had someone to say 'hey' to. I try to ignore how sad that is.

Peter raises his head, and I can't mask my surprise. He looks terrible.

I mean, his hair is washed, his collared shirt pressed, the grey sweater obviously clean, but his eyes blink dark, void of yesterday's playful green sparks.

"What's wrong?" he rasps, coughing a little as he sits up in his chair. He's so thin.

"I-" The words don't come out. Peter, what happened to you? But I just shake my head and force back my slight grin. "You don't exactly look like competition for Elvis, Peter."

He smiles weakly and stretches his long limbs over the back of the chair. "Oh, don't worry about me - I just hate Tuesdays. And to speak to your concerns, I think Mr. Presley would deign to negotiate a truce on such an agreeably demoralizing day."

We both offer smiles that don't meet our eyes and drop the subject.

And we both ignore his tremendous lie.

Matt comes in later with a flirty grin, laughing at something the guy next to him said. Peter becomes noticeably stiffer, but that jerk at the door ignores us both, leaning idly with his buddies against the board.

"My theory lies on the premise of their being descendants of extraterrestrials," Peter huffs, then draws his face up like a tweedy professor.

"But, Good Sir," I play back, "How would you account for the animalistic tendencies? The pack-obsession, the adherence to a dominant member, the physical antagonism, the strange grunts, et cetera?"

"Ah, yes - feral extraterrestrials."

I pretend to wipe away a tear in admiration. "Brilliant."

Peter actually laughs now and it makes my heart want to explode like the Fourth of July.

"You know, I wanted to be a scientist and a historian once," he finally blurts.

I bite my lip. There's hesitation on his face, but the words hover there, honest and open. And that is progress. "As in, you wanted to become both?"

Peter nods, lost in thought. "I wanted to be Dr. Westin, renowned researcher and professor of ancient history." - he shoots me a grin - "so a stuck-up PHD with glasses and preppy sweaters, and, when I feel that my authority is under question, the occasional lab coat."

"Well, you're halfway there."

He looks sheepishly at his sweater. "I guess some dreams are harder to shake than I thought."

I punch his shoulder. "Oh, come on, Peter. Even someone as stubborn as you can't 'shake' childhood dreams." I get up then and lead the way into our classroom, smiling to myself as he lets the words funnel down from his ears.

"- see you, man."

Matt ambles into the room, riding the confidence-high of being with his cronies. But it takes all of two glances from Peter and I to make his gaze wander away uncomfortably.

"So," I chirp, pulling my knees to my chest. "Backstories are done?"

They nod faintly, but I can still feel the tension between them - us all really. And it makes me upset.

I can't specify why, but something about this project makes me feel like we really have to connect. Which seems lame, but then again, how can we write anything good if all our good ideas are trapped behind apprehension? I watch as Matt finger combs his hair and Peter fiddles with his shoe laces. Inspiration, we need inspiration... And then I smile.

"Let's get out of here," I announce, bouncing off the table and sliding out the open window before either can argue. Blinding sunlight blasts me from my converse to my scrunchy as I crunch onto the brown remnants of grass and walk toward the sidewalk with my thumbs in my jean pockets. My heart is pounding, but I feign confidence under some semblance of a wish that they might follow.

Before I reach the sidewalk, I see a lanky figure clamber out the window in my periphery, Matt following with an easy drop. I wait for them at the corner, and smile up at their collective hesitation. People look different outside. Without the hospital lighting from the classrooms, Peter's skin seems richer, healthier, Matt's hair a little softer and lighter, both more alive - more real.

"Where, exactly, is our bad influence taking us?" Peter arches an eyebrow.

"I don't care - any place is better than there," Matt drawls, pulling off his hoodie. He's so finicky - one moment there's a childish fire in those black eyes, and the next he's cold as Alaska.

"Patience," I play, dancing around in front to lead them toward my neighborhood and letting summer bleach the moment with hope.