Westbrooke

2. Tuesday

It's a Tuesday. Tuesday afternoon, to be more specific. Twelve o'clock lunchtime to be very particular. Peter enjoyed Tuesdays, moreso than a few other days of the week, and who wouldn't? On the second day of the week the cafeteria provided hot dogs, a meal which he fancied more than say peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or ramen. Hot dogs were delightful in their own right. Not anything spectacular in terms of taste, but pleasing. To him, anyway. The boy sitting across from him at the table pushed away his tray with an unmistakable expression of disgust. Peter ate his meal in silence, for the most part, before working up the courage to ask what had been on his mind.

"Good morning!" He faltered a little, already realizing his mistake just in greeting. It's twelve, it's not morning anymore. "Afternoon. Good afternoon." The stranger looked at him with a cocked eyebrow; silent, expectant.

"Are you, um.. how are you?" Maybe it would be more polite to ask how he was doing before immediately asking him for something.

"Fine." The answer was short and blunt, and left him at another loss for words. She would have known what to say. She always knew what to say and how to say it without sounding dumb. He couldn't figure how, yet. Everyone else always seemed to have an easier time with words.

"Me too. Dontcha like Tuesdays?"

"Not really." His expression didn't give, remaining stoic and impassive. Maybe he didn't like June either. Or it was something else. 

"What's your, uh, favorite day?"

"Don't have one."

"Oh. You don't like hot dogs neither?"

"Not hungry.. you can have it, I guess." He gestured to the tray, which was already pushed towards Peter almost in foresight of what he wanted to ask. It was very polite, but he couldn't help but worry that maybe the other boy was lying about being hungry and by this action would make him starve. That would not be nice at all.

"Are y'sure? I mean-"

"Actually." With a sudden change of heart the teenager took the tray and gracelessly dumped its contents on the ground beside him, following the intentional spillage with a loud clattering as the tray made contact with the tile floor. His countenance only changed to acquire a shade of concern in acknowledging how what he did shook Peter. "They don't like me. It probably would've been poisoned."

"Poisoned? Hot dogs don't have poison," he shook his head, unsure why he was so disturbed. It's just a hot dog. And carrots. His own frozen carrots lay untouched on its platter.

"They poisoned someone I knew," the other replied with conviction and did not elaborate on this detail. This still did not make sense. Peter has never been poisoned. At least it didn't feel like it; he was still alive, and well, from what it seemed.

"Who did?"

"Them." He gave a fleeting glance to the side where an imposing figure stood guarding the cafeteria doors. This kid had something against the Hospital, then. Hospitals are only meant to make people better, so this wasn't very reasonable in his mind. Hospitals also don't poison people. Intentionally, at least.

"Why don't they like you?"

"For the same reason you don't like me."

"I don't like you?" he frowned. 

"You don't. Don't lie."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Cause I'm not nice." His tone was flat in saying so; how long ago he's accepted this as a fact of himself, Peter didn't know.

"That don't sound right. You seem nice to me." If not a little unwell, this definition wasn't false. After all, he'd entertained the conversation along much further than most people did.

"I guess you haven't met a lotta nice people then."

"Ms Dianne is plenty nice. She gave me crayons and things." With such he's currently employed in making her a thank-you picture. This will obviously include some of his talent in illustrating planes.

"That's one person."

"Mr Fisher is also nice. I dunno where he went, though, I ain't seen him a long time."

"Two isn't a crowd."

"And you." But he didn't know his name. How would he label him on his list of nice people? Kid That Doesn't Like Hot Dogs. A little long for an alias. Also vague; Ms Garret didn't like hot dogs, nor Mr McCarthy.

"Charlie."

"Huh?"

Charlie's demeanor had softened so he was closer to a gentle frown than an outright glare. "It's my name. For your list." What before felt piercing now felt simply observant; Peter usually associated green eyes with the commonly known shade of bold emerald, but his were a melancholy grayish hue with yellow flecks. He didn't know why they struck him as sad. Maybe he was confusing weariness with misery. 

As if he realized he looked sad, Charlie fixed his appearance with a small smile. It didn't change the feeling he got, but he smiled back. 

"Oh! That's a great name. I'm Peter."