Foreigner

Chapter 11

15... 16... 17... 1-... RAGHH!!!

"Fuck!"

The basketball rattles off the rim like it's mocking me, and I sprint after it, breathing heavily as the ball rolls toward the bleachers. Starting the drill over again doesn't bother me as much as the splitting headache—and my stupid nose—still throbbing five days post-injury.

Yes, I'm shooting hoops without the nurse's permission. Yes, my head hurts. No, I don't care.

I've spent the last week being treated like an invalid. Tuesday's P.E. was the final straw—Coach McGreasy, whose hair looks like he showers with bacon fat, told me, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, that he had orders to bench me for a few weeks. That might've been the breaking point.

But that's still not the weirdest thing this week.

Christian. My roommate-slash-suspected killer. He's been acting... off. Since that mysterious letter, he's been making phone calls like he's running an underground operation. Ten times a day. Who even has that much to say? And it's not during reasonable hours either—no, it's the middle-of-the-night conversations that are killing me. Every time his phone rings at 3 a.m., he shuffles into the bathroom, locks the door, and turns on the shower to drown out his voice.

Because clearly, the people calling him don't own clocks. Or morals.

I scoop up the basketball from beside the bleachers, muttering under my breath, when a voice cuts through the morning air.

"You seem to like torturing yourself."

I turn, already knowing who it is. Christian stands on the far side of the three-point line, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. The rising sun gives his usual shadowy and murderous face a benign glow - but it may also be the headache talking.

I scoff, bouncing the ball a few times before throwing it. "Says the guy sleeping against the library wall every Sunday night when his bed is perfectly empty."

He catches the ball with one hand when it bounces off the backboard and tucks it under his arm, not making an effort to give it back to me. I look at him expectantly while he stares off into the distance with a hint of sadness in his eyes. The silence between us makes me think I should've just kept quiet, and now he's going to kill me for that remark - I mean, his hitchhiking probably has something to do with his bad relationship with his mother since he only does it on visiting day.

And when he finally re-establishes eye contact with me, I know I triggered the same memory for him that I triggered for myself.

"...What did she look like?" he asks lowly, his voice raspy and barely audible. I take a few cautious steps toward him so as not to scare him away (kind of like a deer in headlights) before he continues, "Was she healthy? Were her clothes in good condition? Be honest."

Even though the questions about his mother were all probably very hard for him to spell out, the guy still manages to hold onto some of his confidence and emotionlessness, his posture never wavering. However, his green eyes are the ones that betray him.

Christian still cares very much for his parent, the worry is apparent in his tone.

I swallow, not knowing how to proceed. "She, uh..." I scratch the back of my head, trying to find the right words and not make the situation worse for him. "She...she was...rather skinny and a bit paler than you, but otherwise she was just...nervous, I guess."

When I look up from the ground, my roommate is watching me with squinted eyes as if trying very hard to see his mother through my description.

"...What happened to her?" I muster a weak question, knowing it could make the situation worse.