The art of getting better.

Chapter 5.

September 21st, 1998

Fuck 3rd period. Fuck math. Fuck everything. I can't focus. I can't even think without wanting to throw up. Abby is sitting next to me concentrating on a math formula that I truly don't get, and maybe it's because I'm just not in the right headspace or because math just never stuck with me. I feel my thigh because nobody else will. My legs are shaking could be from the caffeine or the anxiety. Or both. This is fucking bullshit. I'm lost, drifting away from myself before Abby nudges my arm.
"Yeah?" I ask pretending like everything is fine because that's just how I roll. Pretending like the world isn't against me
"Are you ok?" I haven't slept in 24 hours. Living off energy drinks and coffee.
"Yeah, just tired," I say taking my pencil and writing down this useless fucking pointless piece of- my thoughts are cut off by Abby's soft honey lemon voice.
"I don't believe that for a second. Tom tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong."
"You're writing with an eraser." She says pointing out my upside-down pencil.
"I'm just not having a good day," more like a good week. Or good month if we're being honest. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom," I say before rising from my seat. I don't even bother asking for permission because my math teacher Mr. Cornwal is fast asleep. Walking down the hall my mind races. The memories of Rob and I in this place, and then it hits me. His locker. It's decorated with flowers and there's a photo in a wooden picture frame on top of a desk. I walk over to it because I've been avoiding this spot for the past month. It's the same photo they used at his funeral. His hair is freshly cut and his smile melts my heart. He's wearing a button-up and a bow tie, probably something his mom made him wear. His hair usually was a brown mop of shaggy hair that he kept safe under a baseball cap. But his mom made this huge deal that he always had to look well put for a yearbook photo.
"Do you have a hall pass?" I hear a voice call from the other side of the hall. I turn to see a man a little taller than me approaching.
"I don't, no," I say trying to figure out what I'm going to do.
"Are you paying your respects?"
"Yeah," I say as he walks up to me. He rubs my shoulder. The one Rob always grabbed.
"He was a good man." Everyone says that. Be a little more original would ya? I think as he continues to talk. "I remember you two in my grade 9 English class." He speaks as if I'm supposed to know who he is. I don't care enough to look at him. But the idea is placed in my mind.
"Mr. Hozier?" I ask as his voice brings me back to myself, everyone calls him Mr. Hozer because they can't be bothered to notice the i. He's a burly man and he coaches the football team. Sporting a beer gut and salt and pepper beard.
"Son, why don't we have a chat in my office."
"I'm good. I should head back to class." I say as I start to walk back to room 3005.
"My doors always open, ok?" I don't answer but I give him a look and a closed mouth smile as I walk backwards and he nods in agreement. Walking past the bathroom I was supposed to go into, I open the door slowly. I feel eyes like daggers piercing my heart, staring into my soul. I feel their judgement. I can already feel people talking behind my back. But because nobody knows my secret I'm safe, I sit down in my seat again and Abby nudges my shoulder.
"How was your shit?"
"I didn't go," I say laughing.
"Well, where'd you go for 10 minutes."
"Uhh, I don't know," I say mostly to myself as I rub my knee, feeling a tear in the denim.
"You know you're going to make the rip bigger if you keep playing with it." I laugh and realize what I'm doing.
"I didn't even notice I was doing anything," I say honestly.

Opening my car door at the end of the school day I hear my name. At first, I could have sworn it was Rob's voice. Calling to me. As I look in every direction I see Clint Anderson running up to me. His body is oddly satisfying. Football player shoulders and rugby player thighs. He's wearing a warm grey shirt tucked into a pair of dark blue sweats.
"Hey!"
"Hi," I say Awkwardly.
"How's it hanging Tommy?"
"It's going ok," I lie.
"Uh, listen me and some friends are going to get together tonight if you want to come," he says rubbing the back of his head. He only does this when he's nervous. Why is he nervous?
"The last time we all got drunk somebody died," I say sourful.
"We're not drinking, jeez Tom. Rob was my friend too." He says putting his hand on my shoulder. The opposite one Rob always grabbed.
"I know I'm just really tired. I'll probably swing by later yeah,"
"Great, I can't wait." He says and it's weird to say this but I have butterflies in my stomach, and my heart is in my throat.
"Hey wait!" I say as he's walking away. "Why don't I just drive you home," his cars still totalled from that night. That fucking night. Everything is a big blur of events that I can't pinpoint what exactly happened, I only remember drinking and waking up with bloody knuckles.
"Sure, Tommy thanks." He says, beginning to walk back to my car.