the boy and his acorn

roast chicken and depression

~Connor's POV~

There are a lot of things I could tell him.

But I won't.

I don't want to break in that glove just yet.

"But, I guess it's only fair to indulge you, Evan Hansen."

He's looking at his hands.

I sigh. "I'm Connor Murphy, which you knew, I'm the 'school shooter' which you probably already knew too, my parents are divorced. They split five years ago, when I was almost twelve, my dad left at dinner. We were having roast chicken that night. That was the last time we had roast chicken. My mom remarried last year, some stick in the mud named Larry, who doesn't hide that he disapproves of me, and I honestly think my mom hates me too she just doesn't care enough to say anything, so they both just focus on Zoe, because Zoe's perfect, and I'm just a pathetic mess of a human being, I like nineties music and I write, songs, stories, stuff like that, or, uh, well, I used to write, I don't much anymore."

I take a breath. We're both quiet for a minute.

"So, uh, yeah. That's me. You can bail now if you want, Evan Hansen. I probably scare you, I scare everyone. I can take you back if you want. Everyone else bails about here. Not that I do this often, I don't, I just mean that everyone just bails. In general."

He's looking at his hands, which are tangled in his shirt.

"I, I, w-well, I, I d-don't w-want t-to l-leave. C-Can w-we j-just t-talk s-some m-more, m-maybe?"

I smile a little, "Sure, Evan Hansen. Sure."

It's quiet for another minute, then Evan's meek voice pipes up.

"U-um, uh, C-Connor, c-can I, c-can I, uh, a-ask y-you s-something?"

"Shoot."

"W-Why, um, uh, w-why d-do y-you t-think y-your m-mom h-hates y-you?"

I don't respond, not for a minute.

I'm barely opening my mouth to reply when Evan cuts me off.

"N-Never m-mind, t-that, t-that w-was w-w-weird, I, I, I s-shouldn't h-have, I, I-I'm s-sorry, y-you d-don't h-have t-to a-answer t-that, s-sorry.."

"It's all good. I guess hate may be a strong word. But she's definitely disappointed. Because her "perfect little girl" turned out to be such a disappointment."

"I, I, I t-thought y-you s-said Z-Zoe w-was p-perfect?"

"No, no, not Zoe, Hansen. Zoe is perfect. I'm the screwed up one. 'Mentally ill' and all that jazz."

"I, I, I d-don't t-think I, uh, I d-don't u-understand."

I half laugh, half sigh, "Really, Hansen? You're gonna make me say it?"

"S-Say w-what?"

I look at the roof of my jeep. "I, uh, I was supposed to be my mom's perfect little girl. But I'm not. Not on any level besides biologically, I'm not a girl."

"O-Oh."

"Yeah. Anyway. You can, uh, leave if you want to to now."

"W-Why w-would I, uh, w-want t-to?"

"You don't?"

"N-No..."

"Evan Hansen, you confuse me."