Rust and Frost

Two

For the remainder of winter in 2006, there was no more ice skating for Brandon. The need to fear falling through the ice was gone.

Without having to hold Ronnie's hand just to stay upright, Brandon wouldn't be reminded of the stirring in his stomach, the clenching of his chest, or how his feet burned that night. For having been outside in the cold air, on ice, he sure recalled feeling like he'd been standing on hot coals. And his cheeks had been on fire, too.

He wouldn't admit it. He chalked it up to his face becoming flushed, just like anyone else standing out in the chill. It was the excitement, really, and the nerves, of sparks from something unfamiliar. But he blamed the weather.

Brandon was, of course, reminded of all this on Tuesday morning as he got ready to go to school. He'd managed to shove all those feelings away for a good couple of days, and then it came crashing down. As if a chandelier had fallen through the ceiling in his brain. He'd been reminded by the singlehandedly stupidest thing. The receipt for his rental skates on his dresser. Here's what was what, he decided: Ronnie was his best friend, and best friends were not supposed to feel this way about one another. After getting dressed, he shut the drawer and similarly shut the box in his brain labeled 'Incorrect Feelings' closed.

He should've gotten a better lock. Those things tended to explode without much warning.

Brandon managed to trudge through the school day without any notable despair. He focused on math and Shakespeare instead of the personal dilemma he had going on inside his head. During a passing period when Dave asked Brandon if he was alright, Brandon shrugged, 'yeah,' and this was true. He was perfectly fine, or he would be.

These sorts of things, he believed, came and went. Emphasis on the 'went' part. His brain would go back to its regularly scheduled programming eventually. Back to being composed of CDs and action toys and half-assed science homework.

The thoughts he'd shoved away (in the 'Incorrect Feelings' box) slowly subsided how hard they banged on the lid to be let out. By the time the bell rang at three o'clock, Brandon was at ease.

He walked home on his own. Dave had a project he urgently needed to complete, Mark was covering for his friend at the gas station again, and he assumed Ronnie would be hanging out with Mark. Brandon looked forward to relaxing at home after an at best, odd day.

The first thing he heard once he walked through the door was his mom asking him to clean up the yard. He walked into the kitchen.

"Why can't Shane do it?" Brandon groaned, knowing full well none of his siblings could do it.

"I'm not going to ask him when there's no good reason you can't do it," she replied with her hands on her hips.

Brandon saw that one coming from a mile away. All of his siblings were working college students. His mom was never going to let his significantly older brother do yard work while Brandon sat around in his room.

"I had plans with my friends, though." This was a lie.

Mrs. Flowers got back to rolling out balls of cookie dough. "Well, you can invite them over and you'll be rewarded with warm chocolate chip cookies. And hot chocolate."

Brandon cringed at the hot chocolate offer. He still hadn't regained his taste for it after Friday night. He was going to make a comment about child labor, but he'd already pushed enough buttons.

He dropped his backpack on his bedroom floor. After sighing approximately fifteen times, that's a modest guess, Brandon picked up the plastic, creme-colored telephone. He wrapped the cord around his pinkie and felt chills. A wave of nervousness washed over him, from the top of his head to the balls of his feet.