Boys Don't Cry

Average Childhood Illness Scare Part 2

"Thomas, I need to speak with you."

Thomas was stopped in the hallway on his way to calculus by Quillish, looking abnormally disheveled.

"Yes sir?"

"I need you to look after L after I leave for a conference this afternoon. He's not well... And I'm worried. He should still be in my bedroom. Go there after your last class. I really think he won't be a problem, I believe he just has a 24-hour bug."

"Yes sir, and luck at the conference."

"Thank you."

After English, he went to take care of L, which was nerve-racking, because vicious rumors surrounded him. Some thought he was possessed, others say he had merely Aspergers (which isn't too uncommon at Wammy's). Some said he was raised as a wild-boy and these are his first experiences with western civilizations.

He opened the door and found an empty bed.

"Hello? It's me, Thomas."

He noticed the bathroom door was closed and latched, so he just decided to wait.

Eventually, the door did open, and out emerged L. If it was only possible to look worse, he had done it. His eyes were nothing but black and red, matching his cheeks, his pants weren't pulled up all the way, exposing the back of his stained tighty-not-very-whities, his shirt was damp and put on inside out, and his lips were chapped and flushed.

"Hello there. I'm Thomas."

L didn't want to come closer to him. He stood back in the doorway.

"I hear you like puzzles, figure this out: A man is completely underwater, without a scuba suit or other apparatus, but his hair doesn't get wet. How?"

He thought for five seconds before clearing his throat and croaking an answer.

"The man was bald."

"Wow, that actually took me a while to figure out when I had heard it the first time... Have you heard that one before?"

"No."

Thomas walked over to L, only to receive a noseful of everything that had come out of the boy within the past 18 hours.

"Do you want to take a bath?"

L didn't answer, but he didn't seem horribly opposed to the idea. So Thomas ran a bath while L climbed onto the bed and laid on top of the covers.

"Come here, please?"

L came, he was strikingly obedient, Thomas supposed because he wasn't in a position to resist. He came, but wasn't undressed.

"Go on."

He was a touch shy about undressing, but it's not like Thomas was going to provide an example.

"If you don't, I guess Roger could take care of you."

It felt awful to use Roger Ruvie as a threat, but his occaisional strictness was feared by all. It did work, however.

"See? That wasn't hard."

Fully undressed, Thomas saw how small, and how big, L was at the same time.

"How old are you?"

"Ten."

That number seemed off. He was so thin you'd think he was younger, but so lanky you'd think him older. And it hit him: isn't he too old for this? Usually, the nine and ten year olds don't need to be led around and taken care of.

"Aren't you too old to be treated like one of the younger boys?"

L shrugged. That's all. No embarrassed lashing out, no insisting he didn't need help, nothing but a shrug. So, Thomas continued to bathe him. When he was dried off, he still just laid down on the floor in a towel, so Thomas dressed him in a clean version of his usual attire. They weren't hard to find, in his dresser were two pairs of socks, ten identical pairs of tighty whities, ten identical white shirts, and ten identical pairs of blue jeans, all even with the same degree of wear. Counting the outfit he was wearing before and yesterday (the laundry was done the day before yesterday) that made twelve outfits.

Thomas took L downstairs to dinner, and made him eat. He had to. L wouldn't even look at the stuff.

"If you don't eat, you won't feel better, and then Mr. Ruvie will send you to the doctor. And then, after the doctors, you'll die."

It was a touch harsher than what Thomas liked to say to get them to eat, but L was setting him off. He doesn't do anything himself, just lays there passively calling out for pity.

"Then why should I eat if I'm going to die?"

But he wasn't scared.

"If you eat, you'll live."

L sighed, but began to pick at the chicken. Boys to his immediate sides watched in awe as he actually ate bites of it, Thomas supposed he didn't come to dinner often.

"Clean your plate, L."

"Whoo! Someone isn't Mr. Nice Guy today!"

Kendrick (AKA Ken'dy by everyone) called out to Thomas.

"What of it, Ken'dy?"

"Ha, I'll tell you later, mate!"

The surprising thing was that L did clean his plate. For the first time, Thomas doubted Quillish's ability to parent L. Maybe his lack of force was turning L into a prissy passive-aggressive brat.

After dinner, Kendrick met them in L's bedroom. There was an unsettling aura around the room, usually, a boy's bedroom would have silly trinkets or pencils or something laying somewhere, L had nothing. There wasn't even a prayer quilt (made by a local abbey) across the foot of the bed. Every boy had a prayer quilt, and it was customary to take it with you when you turn 18 or graduate, whichever you choose. Clothes didn't lay on the floor, they were all perfectly folded in the dresser. Shoes weren't in a pile, they sat in a shoebox under the dresser. There weren't any puzzles set up on the floor, either, which may have been the most surprising part.

L was sitting on the carpet, picking at it. Kendrick spoke up first. The silence irritated him.

"Hey, Thomas."

"Hey."

"So, about dinner..."

"What about it?"

"You know he is sick to his stomach, right?"

"He hasn't all day,"

"Really?"

"Really."

"But he really doesn't look-"

"Are you in charge?"

"He told me to help. Don't snap at me, mate."

Thomas took a breath and looked at the ceiling.

"Is this about Cass?"

Cass was a girl Thomas called a couple times a week for two hours or more. It was as close to a girlfriend as you Gould find at Wammy's.

"I guess so."

"Thomas, you can't let it interfere with this, no matter how frustrating things are."

Kendrick was known for his fatherly instincts, Thomas was more practical and dependable. As big brothers, they make the best team.

"Alright, well it's time for bed."

Thomas looked over to L, who was getting under the covers. On his way out, he shut off the light. In his room, Thomas thought about how much of a pain L can be, and understood how he may need a constant handler. Still, thoughts lingered that if he was to fight for himself, he may stop this stupid game.

A call came in around ten at night from Quillish. He said he wouldnt be able to come in until five the following day at the least, and was almost hysterical. He asked how L was, and then hung up the line. Of course he would do that, Thomas thought, he's completely babying L.

And he went to sleep with the determination to leave L to his own devices tomorrow.