Four Realizations

chapter eighteen: gummy worms

j a k e

"George?" I call as I make my way down the stairs, already a frustrated mess. "Have you seen my grey sweater?"

George is sitting on the couch in front of the TV, legs propped up on the coffee table, on the phone. I halt when I realize he's on the phone, waiting patiently by the doorway as he finishes up. The second he's hung up the phone, I repeat, "Have you seen my grey sweater?"

George turns to me, placing his cell phone on the table and frowning. "No, I haven't. Why?"

I sigh in frustration, running a hand through my hair. It's summer, but I need that sweater. "I can't find it anywhere. And I swear I didn't put it in the laundry. It's not in my room, either, because I've literally torn my room apart looking for it."

I know I probably sound whiny, but I'm not that comfortable wearing short sleeves, even if it's at home,. I finger with them hem of my t-shirt, desperate for a sweater, watching George's with pleading eyes. I'm in my glasses, as I usually am at home, which George points out by saying, "If you can show us the real color of your eyes, Jake, then I think you don't have to worry about your scars." I make a strangled noise at that sentence. "Besides, it's too hot for a sweater."

My face has gotten pale from George's reminders. George stands up from the couch, looking at me with concern. Lately, he's been able to somehow bring up the topic of my family, but not in the past couple of weeks, and I know that he realizes that. He tries to place a condescending hand on my shoulder, but I flinch away.

"You don't get it," I mutter. "I hate them. I'm not proud of them. It's not that I don't want you to see them- I don't want to see them." I look down. "My eyes... I don't know. It's just a reminder that I can't deal with sometimes. But those aren't my fault. The scars are."

"Your scars aren't your fault," George says.

The subject is getting too touchy for me. I step away, whispering, "I don't want to talk about it."

George sighs sadly. "Jake-"

"I don't want to talk about it," I repeat. "Please. Let's just forget it. I don't want to think about it."

George falls quiet. He places a hand on my shoulder, and I let him this time. Softly, he says, "Why don't you ask Graham if he's seen your sweater?"

I don't want to see Graham right now, but he's my last hope. I back away from George's grip and head downstairs to the basement; Graham's room. Right now, Graham is laid out on the couch in front of his TV, furiously typing away on his phone. I notice objects tossed carelessly around the room, as if he had gotten angry and whipped them around. When I enter, his head snaps up and opens his mouth as if ready to tell his mom or dad to go away, but then he realize it's me, and his mouth shuts in shock.

I haven't talked to Graham all week. I noticed that eventually, he had gotten a little guilty, but I still refused to say anything to him. Plus, I never randomly appear in his room. He looks at me, opens his mouth, and closes it again.

I get straight to the point. "Have you seen my grey sweater?"

Graham send me a sheepish look.

I gasp. "Graham."

Graham digs through a pile on the ground, holding up my sweater. "Oops."

"Graham!"

"I'm sorry," Graham sighs. "I got cold and mine were all dirty."

I sigh, walking over to retrieve my sweater. Graham gives it to me, once more taking his phone and typing away furiously on it, looking upset. I frown, and although I'm still slightly mad at him, I feel bad. I ask, "Are you okay?"