Boys Will Be Boys (v.2)

chapter sixteen - fighting

chapter sixteen — fighting

LUKAS WAS MAD AT ME AND I HATED IT. The silence between us was deafening, his angry feet pointedly ignoring the rocks I kicked over in a lame attempt to start a game of kick-the-rock. I'd settled for a lonely game of guilt, the slight wind the only sign that summer was fast ending. A few stray leaves were scattered on the broken sidewalk, bailing out early before the rest of their friends would start to fall. Cowards.

My basketball was tucked snugly under my arm and I'd occasionally untuck it, pass it between my hands, and retuck it in an attempt to distract myself. It was impossibly quiet too, the only sounds in the neighborhood being the ones I was making. The scratching of my toes dragging on the sidewalk. The slap of plastic against my hand. The twisting of my stomach as I tried to remember a time when I didn't give a shit about hurting people's feelings. A time when I didn't know Lukas.

"If you're gonna be a little bitch the whole time, I'm just gonna call someone else to play ball with" I regretted it as soon as it left my lips, a frown forming on my lips as I looked over at him waiting for the tell-tale signs of guilt I knew so well. Instead, I was met with a stony gaze and stern lips.

Guilt choked me instead until my eyes watered. I absently scratched at my hand, nails tugging and snagging on the dry skin of my knuckles.

"Sure," He didn't even break stride, strolling past me as I stopped in my tracks. I felt funny. My chest ached like he'd punched me and I couldn't place why I felt like shit. Yeah, he was being a dick, but I was used to people being assholes. But not Lukas. Never. But why does it hurt?

I unconsciously pressed against my sternum, swallowing loudly trying to displace the lump in my throat as he finally slowed down at the edge of the sidewalk. He turned slowly, eyes dull and his hair messier than usual. It sucked up the sunlight, limp and crayon-colored like he was a kindergarten drawing. Maybe not perfect, but still art. Kindergarten me would have completed the drawing of the sour lemon-haired boy with a sun wearing sunglasses and a rainbow.

Dad wouldn't have put the drawing on the fridge.

"Who 'm I gonna call?" My voice faded at the end, eyes carefully watching as he sighed and started to walk closer. The court was maybe twenty feet away, but we hadn't made it. We were close, but we hadn't made it.

"You and Michael seemed to get along," He shrugged, eyes downcast. My mind wandered as I watched the toes of his shoes awkwardly dance around, his laces somehow undone.

"Your laces are untied"

"Oh"

He bent to tie it and I hurriedly shoved the basketball into his hands, catching him off guard. I popped a squat, one knee resting in the ground and I tried to tie his shoes as quick as I could. The weirdness of the situation struck me as I crossed the bunny ears, my neck warming under the strength of his confused gaze.

Why the fuck am I tying his shoes for him?

"Michael and I didn't get along by the way"

'Cause you want him to like you again, idiot.

I grabbed the ball back from him, instinctively dribbling it hard into the concrete. It hit the paving, bouncing off at an odd angle. Lukas redirected it at me, the ball bouncing off the top of his fingers. It crushed a straggling dandelion pushing up through the cracks and I paused in my track again. Lukas bumped into me, bending down to lift up the weed's broken stem.

We didn't say anything until we reached the court.

"What do you mean you don't get along?"

Meaning I cornered him in the kitchen and made him feel like shit. Meaning I was only friends with him because he was friends with you. Meaning people like him and people and I can't mix.