Like To Be You ✓

twenty one

DON'T FORGET TO VOTE AND COMMENT OKAY THANKS ILY

o-o-o

The alcohol has finally done its job, because I'm speaking. And I can't stop.

"You know, I was always confused about Sponge Bob until the age of thirteen. Like, was he a sponge, or a piece of cheese. Then I decided: he was a piece of cheese which looked like a sponge. The creators don't fool me. He's a piece of rancid, stanky cheese."

"Neil, no. We've had this discussion before." Tyler says, looking up from his phone. I ignore him.

"You know, I've always thought Zayne looks a bit like David Beckham, but don't tell him that. His ego is huge as fuck. Probably bigger than my dick. No, wait, my dick's bigger. Ah, male ego."

"Hey, thanks!" Zayne says from the other side of the empty room. Everybody's gone, the food's all packed up, ready to be given to a nearby shelter tomorrow, and I'm really drunk. And hungry. I hold a bucket of chicken strips close to my chest and stare down at it.

"Oh, hey, did you know that I once told my mom to shut up because I was angry at her after she took my xbox away and then she slapped me--- I deserved it, by the way--- and then I cried so hard I puked. Then we went out for pizza. And then I puked again because I over-ate and then I had some more pizza."

Zayne bursts into laughter. I look at Tyler. He looks tired.

"Are you tired of me speaking?" I ask him. "Because I am. Tired of me speaking. Or myself. I don't know. Is that why you stopped talking to me? Because I was annoying? You know what, I don't want the answer. Anyway, English sucks. I hate Mrs Trahan. And I really want some chocolate right now." I abandon my bucket of chicken strips and head to the fridge. I pull out a bar of Toblerone and distribute pieces to Zayne and Tyler, who looks a bit pale. I think my speech has shaken him up a bit.

Good.

x

When I wake up, my mouth tastes like battery acid and my eyes feel sticky with dried eye-boogers. Pain shoots up behind my eyes and all around my temples. I close my eyes again, then open them. It only gets worse.

When the ceiling finally seems like it could be a ceiling and not just blurry whiteness, I turn over.

"Good morning, honey." My mom smiles at me. I groan and turn away. I feel her hands run through my hair, before she yanks my face backs towards her. I can feel her glare before I see it.

"I told you no alcohol! And look at yourself!"

"Mhmm, sorry." I try pulling my chin out of her death grip, to no avail.

"Neil Nicholas Graham! This is unacceptable! You have a whole life ahead of you, you're not even eighteen, and you want to waste it away like this? In alcoholism?"

Since I can't move away from her, I move towards her. I trap her tiny body under mine and curl my legs and arms around her, pressing her to me.

"Neil!" her muffled voice comes from under me. "You stink! And I need to sleep too. I just entered the house."

"Mmm, I love you."

"You won't be forgiven so easily." My mother scolds. She sounds tired.

"I know. Goodnight."

A loud snort comes from behind me. My mother giggles at Zayne's snores. "Your father used to snore like that sometimes. I couldn't stand it."

I squeeze my mother closer. I love her laughter. I love it when she talks about Dad. I love everything she does.

It's then that I decide that I'm going to put Randall Higley behind bars pretty fucking soon.

x

On Monday morning, my mother is scrambling around in the kitchen.

"Everything alright?" I ask. She hurries back to the stove and flips a gigantic pancake on a plate and pushes it towards me.

"Eat. They won't serve lunch till late noon, and you can't survive on chips and Mountain Dew."

"Uh, yes, I can." I pat my bag of goodies, prepared for the trip to the waterpark.

My mother gives me a look before rushing up the stairs. "I have a board meeting!" she calls out. "But I'll be home early! And I'll make steak for dinner!"

Hell yes.

I gobble down my pancake, then retrieve my phone from the counter and scroll through my Instagram feed. Pictures of celebrities and memes litter it mostly. Then I begin 'stalking' Tyler's profile, which is useless because his page is private. I look at the picture count. It's increased from 26 to 28.

To hell with it.

I send him a follow request, then considering stabbing myself with the fork in my hand.

I'm still staring at the fork, deep in contemplation, when a notification comes in.

Tyler_Beckett wants to follow you.

And accept.

I giddily click on his profile. His most recent post is of him with his sister in his lap in what looks like a restaurant. A heart emoji is the caption. Most of his posts are pictures of him at the beach or him with dogs. I find only a few selfies, that too with his sister. He's grinning in all of them.

"Stalking boys now?" My mother's voice is right at my ear. I flinch and shut the app. "Tyler, hm?"

"It's just a picture of him with his teammates."

"Teammates who are sweaty and have six packs?" My mother smiles around the pancake in her mouth.

"I am, after all, a gay hormonal teenage boy."

My mother's smile drops. "No hanky-panky till you're living under my roof."

I laugh out of pure humour. "The Venn diagram of hanky-panky and my life is a disjoint one."

My mother frowns. "I didn't raise a son with a low self-esteem. Don't worry, you'll find someone, but not now. College is priority."

"You talk as though I'm remotely interested in hook-ups or relationships."

My mother's eyebrows raise at the word "hook-ups".

"You've packed everything?" she points her fork towards my bag.

"Yes." Apparently, this answer isn't enough, because she re-checks every item off her mental list.

Mom leaves a bit earlier than I do, since we're leaving for Aqualand only after 9 and I have to report to school by 8. Out of habit, I go towards the library, just to check if anything is out of place.

There are some things scarier than teetering on the edge of the railing eight stories above the ground, or knowing what's going to happen one second before the truck rams into the side of your door. One of them is intrusion.

Somebody has been in my house not once, but twice, or hell, who knows how many times.

Moby-Dick is back where it used to be, and it has a yellow smiley sticker on top of the cover.

I back away from the table where it's usually kept surrounded by the glass. Fuck, I'm thinking again. FuckfuckfuckIhavetorun.

So I run.

I grab my bag and the house keys and run like I never have. I stop only when I'm at least three miles away from my house. I jog all the way to school and go to the field, where I drop my bag and just run on the track because I don't know what to do.

My mind is scrambling to put things together, but logical reasoning is locked in place with fear. Terror.

Because I'm scared of my own home.

o-o-o

a/n

Teehee :D