Figuring You Out

Chapter Thirty- Six

I need to escape. From Liam, from rugby team, school- everything.

My hands fumble with my contacts, and soon a dial tone is buzzing through my ear, "Hey bud," he greets, in a tone so happy it breaks me.

"Can you come pick me up please?" I ask, my throat clamping shut as my final ounce of effort is used, "please I'll explain everything when I come home, just please pick me up,"

"Alright," he says, masked by a tone of confusion and a click of his laptop closing, "Meet me outside reception, ok?"

"Ok," I breathe, moving towards the sea of main lower school students who are entering the gates. I break past the blazer clad kids and am within arms reach of the rusting gates when a voice who I am too indebted to calls me back. I pause just as a gentle grip on my shoulder directs me away from the crowd.

"The days barely started and I'm having to run around after you," Mr Pope states, his grin evident in his voice.

"My dad's picking me up," I say, squirming to get away, he pauses facing me with a face contorted into one of confusion.

"Why don't you come wait in my office?" he suggests, with a cautious tone that's obviously conscious of not questioning me any further, "It's warmer in there," he reasons and holds a flat palm up to the sky and falling water droplets, "and it's raining,"

I nod my head and move silently towards his office with him stepping in line with me. We arrive at his paperwork filled office and he kicks out a chair from the small wooden table to sit down on. I sit tentatively as the pop of a mini fridge opens.

"Here," he waves a frosted water bottle at me which I take and immediately begin picking at the label, "Are you alright?"

"Not really," I laugh flatly, my chewed down nails failing to break the sticky label.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks. I look up at him, contemplating.

"I....erm...I'm gay," I stumble, not quite meeting his eye.

"That's ok,"

"Liam doesn't seem to think so," I mumble.

"What makes you think that?"

"The screaming match we just had. Needless to say, we are far more talented on the pitch," I joke, but it fails flatly again.

"I can have a word if you like," he suggests. I shake my head.

"It's fine. We'll sort it out," I mumble.

"You don't sound convinced,"

"I'm not," I say. My phone buzzes with a text saying that Dad was outside. I rise from my seat with a polite thank you to Mr Pope and exit to the car park where Dad's car is swivelled in a slot with a thin layer of dust coating it- you can tell Dad has been cooped up writing for a while. He raises his fingers in a half wave, I nod and move to the passenger door popping it open with a defiant click.

"Hey, bud,"

Two words. Two fucking words is all it takes for me to break. To collapse. To spill the tears and emotion and heartbreak.

I hide my face in my hands as Dad silently rubs my shoulder. It's sickeningly comforting, in such a way I feel like hitting him but want to crawl into his lap like a child believing a simple kiss on the head would make things better. It would make the pain disappear into my fathers arm like a miracle worker.

He stretches a hand over the console to my shaking shoulder and rubs it, "What's happened?" he asks, seriously.

"Please, let's not talk about it," I beg, my chest straining at the memory already. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to- just removes his hand from my shoulder with a final squeeze and turns on the engine which lets a gentle roar rip as we begin driving home.

The engine dies as Dad cuts the keys out of their slot and turns to me, "Come on, then," he taps my knee and we both move out of the car to the house.

"I'm going to shower," I say, barely meeting Dad's eye as I drift up the stairs to the bathroom where I begin a long shower.

--------------------------------

"Right," Dads voice says, as he bursts open my bedroom door, "We are having some father-son bonding time,"

"Ok?" I question, sitting up and letting my phone drop shut from my hand, "Where are we going?"

"Bowling," he says, with a chin as he chucks the hefty jacket that was hung on my chair at me. I let a faint smile come to my lips- bowling. Every Friday when Mum had a normal working time schedule and it was only Dad with the wacky hours we would go bowling as a family. Every Friday at five, you could set your watch to it and bet your bottom dollar that me and Em would be pushing the lightest bowling balls down the shiny floor with the coloured lights beating down on us.

Em got older and it wasn't as cool.

Mum got a weird job with weird working hours.

So, it was just me and Dad.

"A nine and a ten please," Dad orders, handing over our shoes in trade for the less fashionable non slip trainers.

"Aisle Twenty Three, which ways that?" Dad asks, half bamboozled with the thin receipt in his hand.

"Probably in the direction it says aisles twenty to twenty-five," I tease, with a knowing smirk, taking a small sip of the vanilla milkshake. He nudges me with his elbow as we stroll to our designated aisle.

"You first," he says, tapping my name into the board that bounces back with every hit.

"Fine," I challenge, placing my drink on the table and selecting my weapon, I pick a smooth purple bowling ball and take my position. I hold it so its linear to my face and then drop it to my knee and finally rolling it off my fingertips down the aisle where it tumbles down most of the pins. I swivel back and give Dad a rather smug look, "Don't get too cocky,"

I shrug and take another shot effectively knocking out the rest of the pins, "I think I'm good," I smile.

"We'll soon see," he says, standing as I sit, with a confident pose.

Instant gutter ball.

"Oh god," he groans, as I struggle to contain my smirk. "This is going to be a long game,"