THE NEW ME VERSION 2.0

Chapter 17

Tonight at home, I will gently pinch the paper between my fingers. I read the sheet music enough to be able to pronounce it. However, open it again. Hope to see you later, hope to see you later. But I made my decision. no. The relationship with him went no further. What should have been simple and straightforward suddenly turned into a dense, impenetrable maze.

And I got lost in it. I have no choice but to leave. In every imaginable way. I was stupid to think I was ready. As I put the bill back in place, my mother called my name from the living room as if it was a matter of life and death, as if it were the last word. I hurriedly opened the door and dropped the bill from my hand. I almost ran into her when I opened the door. she was standing in front of me with her arms folded, her hands clasped and her ankles clenched.

"What's wrong?" I asked, my brain processing his stiff posture and the hardness of his face.

"Don't you feel the wind, mia?" she asked, gritting her teeth. But before I could answer, or try to understand what she was saying, she continued.

"I've been asking for weeks and weeks to put up rain windows. Is that too much? Too much?" Her voice grows louder and louder with each word.

"Oh my God, who cares?" she sighs. Her eyes widened as we faced each other. she looked back at my father on the living room sofa, as if trying to calm himself down. But when he just points the remote control at the TV, loud sounds dance across the TV. Down the screen, 36-37-38-39, harder, harder. She rolls her eyes and stares back at me. she breathes in through his nose and exhale vigorously.

"Forgive?" she finally succeeds, the words harsh and harsh. "I care. Father will take care of you. We are supposed to be family - that means we are part of a family! "

"So the window somehow suddenly went into a crisis?" I smiled at him. ``I don't know who you're talking to, Mia.” Her body is blocking my exit. Staring at each other, I let out a ball of intense emotion that I can't see back and forth between us. But I have no words to explain to her what happened to me. I don't even know what it is. There is nothing I can say or do that is right. I turn to my room.

Only I ask myself for a moment. Can I rest from my bedroom window? I really want to go But before I could make up my mind, she grabbed my hand.

"Don't turn your back on me when I'm talking to you," she growled, pulling me around again.

"Did you ever think you might need help here one day?"

"Look, I'm going to put the damn window up now--I just haven't gotten around to it yet!"

"I've been busy, haven't I?"

"So tell me why you've been so busy lately, Mia? Where have you been all this time? Not here, that's for sure."

she stands there waiting for an answer. I roll my eyes and look away. For some reason I can feel the smile on my face even though the tears are just below the surface. I shake my head. she has now entered my room and completely entered my space.

"listen to me. I had it, Mia, and so did your father," she said in the curt tone she always uses for her father, explaining that she thinks he's a total useless person. .

"What the hell is going on?" I asked her to take a step. And before I even knew what was going on, a big, empty crack rang through my head. And the side of the face is burned. she says something, but my tinnitus drowns out her voice. And I feel I can protect myself from her. so I turn away. i catch everything that can be packed in a backpack. I grabbed the bill from the bedroom floor and put it in my pocket.

"Get out of the way," I mumbled past her.

"Mia?" she moaned in a strained voice, as if out of breath. "Don't go. Please."

"I'm sleeping with Luna," I said, holding my hand to the front door. I turned around and saw her standing at her bedroom door, falling apart. I stared blankly into my father's face and said,

"I hate this place, I really hate it. I hate it here! ’ And I pushed the door as hard as I could. Hot tears steam my glasses as I walk. Walking down his street drives me crazy. The only light that fills the whole house is the faint glow of the TV flickering through the living room curtains. climb the stairs and slide one's glasses inside my Jacket pocket My phone says "11:22”. I stand and hear the signs from the inside.

I'm trying to think of what I should have said earlier about last night. Everything inside me seems to rush to the surface of my skin at once and I suddenly feel dizzy. I'm sitting on the stairs I just need to gather my thoughts for a bit, that's all. 11 o'clock:

A cat jumped onto the pavement. she runs towards me as if he was waiting for my arrival. she pressed against me, cramming her limp body between my legs and resting her head in the palm of my hand. she jumps on my lap and lets me lay there and stroke her. she keeps me company even though I'm just a stupid rat. Its rumbling sound sends a soothing vibration through my body, warming my hands against the bone-crunching night. Looking at the phone again

12:26 He wrote that he looked forward to seeing him again. I know it was. The cat gave me a reproachful look as I shifted to take a bill out of my pocket. The door screams open. I turn around she jumped off my lap and in no time at all was inside the house. she takes a deep breath to prepare to explain, but the door has already slammed shut.

– He can't even see me. He just let the cat inside. he has to say something now.

“Aiden, wait!” My voice dropped so low against the backdrop of the vast, empty night.

"Devil!" He jumped back with wide-eyed eyes. "Damn," he said with another uncertain smile.

"You scared me."

"I'm sorry. I'm... hey."

"good bye.. . . It's so cold. how long have you been here ' He stepped into the cold room and slammed the screen door behind him. He is wearing sweatpants and a dirty T-shirt, and his legs are bare. He rubs his eyes like he is sleeping. He crossed his arms as the wind picked up a whirlwind of tiny leaves and dropped them at my feet.

"It won't last long," I grit my teeth and lie. What is long anyway? 1 hour and 4 minutes is actually a relatively short amount of time. He looked around in the silence of the dark street and saw nothing happens. he stretches out his hand His skin is hot, but I think it's because I'm so cold.

"Why didn't you go in and ring the bell or something?" he asked as we entered. I shrug my shoulders. "Well, are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's all right." But that's too soon, too sharp, too plain wrong.

"Wait, I don't know. Why were you just sitting there? I was waiting for you - well, I mean, I stopped waiting a few hours ago."

"I didn't know if you still wanted me to come, so just..."

My gaze shifts to the television. Then I look around. He ruined his living room. The quilt on the back of the sofa is usually pulled down and twisted, tucked between his pillows. The pillows that matched the sofa were on the floor, but there are two pillows in the corner of the TV next to her bed. The coffee table is covered with items.

A slightly open pizza box, several cans of soda, a plate half full of pizza base, and three different remote controls.

"Progress?" he says slowly. I turn my attention to him again. "What's wrong?" he asked, looking at me suspiciously. "Are you high?"

"No." I can't get high. "Why are you saying that?"

"Your eyes..." He held my face in his hands to examine it, "everything is like glass..."

When I admit it, I move my face so I don't have to look at him.

"No, I just..." But I stopped before I could utter a word. Maybe he'd rather think I'm great than cry. "Look, I'm glad you're here--I know it sounds very silly, but if anything happens right now, I really don't want you here. I'm not trying to be mean. I just don't like this, right? "

"Well, neither do I! And I had nothing to do with it, I swear." Of course, he doesn't believe me. "God, what do you think, am I a messed up creep or something?"

"No." he sighed. "But mia, your high are you? Really, be honest."

"I'm not high! 'I'm just crying' – crying down to my throat – 'crying'" I try to mutter as quietly as possible in one syllable. "Before. OK? "

"Okay." I don't think he knows what to say about it. His face wavers between skepticism and pity, both equally unwelcome. "Hmm..."

"If you want me to go..." I begin.

"No, please stay. Really." He took the backpack off my shoulders and put it on the floor. I looked down at my feet, fumbling with the zipper of my jacket, and felt embarrassed, uncomfortable, and vulnerable as he found another tear in my armor. .

"So what do you want?" I held out my hand. Swing me forward so that my finger touches him. It's a rhetorical question.

"I don't mind," he said, taking my hand.

"Come here." He pulls me in and just hugs me. He smells soap, towels and deodorant. I don't get these things right, so I quickly turn away. I get dizzy when he says he was friendly, but we just stopped.

"Are you hungry? I have a pizza," he pointed to a grease-stained square box on the coffee table.

"Or is there another do you want something else.”

I open my mouth I usually say 'no' but I suffer a lot. I'm hungry, I know I don't need anything. I don't think I wanted to. But I haven't had that granola bar for lunch since. Myself I clear my throat.

"Maybe. So the pizza looks good, so long as you eat it. Did you?" he smiled. "Of course."

And he's a nice guy, a really nice guy. I think I smiled too as he carried the pizza box to the kitchen. A few plates jingle, then the beep and familiar hum as she pushes the button on the microwave.

Sigh He came in through the door between the kitchen and living room and leaned against the wall. I'm just looking at myself from across the room. It's a little blurry without glasses. I don't know what he means, but the unknown doesn't seem so scary this time around. We don't talk. Everything seems to be fine. Beep beep beep.

"I'll be right back," he whispers. I say yes, but I don't think he will Hearing me, he returned to his room, took the balance of two mismatched plates in his hand, and turned off the kitchen lights with his elbow. He placed a plate on the coffee table, sat down next to me, and asked,

"Is there anything you'd like to see?"

I nod. "Of course."

He flips and switches between multiple channels without waiting to see what's going on. Keirin does this all the time. It bothers me, but not now, not with Aiden.

"Nothing works, I'm sorry," he sighed. "How is it?"

I have no idea what this is, but it's a comedy with a lot of laughter. fool. Perfect.

"I'm fine.” I know I feel more normal now — I'm sitting on his couch eating hot pizza, he's wearing terrible pajamas, I'm No makeup, my hair is a mess, I'm watching something weird on TV—more than in a long time. ...he finishes his part in about 45 seconds. I never understood how a boy could eat like that. Don't you know pigs? I don't think it's because he just leans back on his pillow and looks at me alternately.

"What?" Finally I ask him. "Are you feeling better?"

I nod.

"OK. Do you always eat slowly or is it because I'm there?" he laughs.

"It's called tasting, you might have heard of it." I think I feel better, enough to be a smart person anyway.

"I never saw you eating. You are beautiful," he laughed. It's so real it makes me want to laugh too. I took the last bite and thought it might be the best pizza I've ever tasted.

"What if I put food in my face?" I say with my mouth full. he nodded.

"Well, I have something like gravy" - he touches the corner of his mouth - "there".

"Wow, don't watch me eat!" I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "got it?"

"Come on, I'll get it for you." I leaned forward as I wiped my face. "Come closer, let's take a look." I almost quit him when I realized he was cheating. He smiled and kissed me on the mouth. "understood."

I gently take his hand and lean on him. And he put his arm around my shoulder. On TV, a man in an outrageous rabbit costume walks down the city streets.

"What the hell are we looking at?" he laughed. "I have no idea."

He grabbed the remote control, turned it off, sat down on the couch, pulled a blanket out from under us and wrapped it around my shoulders so I rested my head on his chest.

"So why are you crying?" he finally asked.

"I don't know," I gasp. "You mean last night, you mean me?"

"No. No, it had nothing to do with you." I can feel him breathing under me.

"By the way, I'm sorry about this. I don't even know what happened."

"I'm sorry too."

We breathe into each other, and with each exhalation we feel lighter and cleaner, as if all the remnants of our old, stagnant emotions had been pushed out. I begin to draw an invisible line on his forearm. Combines the constellation of small and sparse freckles.

“I got into a big fight with my mother,” I say spontaneously. "how?"

I took a deep breath and started telling him about the silly argument. But I keep going. I told him how bad his relationship with his parents was in general, especially after Jameson left.

Home Sometimes I feel that Luna is not my girlfriend. She almost thinks she's going to really hate her brother. Words, many words. She has the image of the Tin Man in her head. Dorothy and the Scarecrow found him rusted in the woods, anointed his mouth and chin, Magically, squeaky, squeaky, squeaky, like a mouse saying,

"M-m-m-m- = oh my God, I can talk again." Catharsis I feel I may never be silent again. He listened patiently as the words flowed effortlessly and said "umm" and "yes" at the right time.

"Sometimes"--I don't know if I should say that out loud--"Sometimes I think I don't believe in God." forgives, but will bad things happen?

"I know that It used to be, but now I'm not so sure. Really bad, right?”

"No. Everyone has this idea," he replied casually. "TRUE?"

"Yes, definitely. I agree. When you see how things are going, it's hard not to. What a mess the world is."

"Hmm, yeah." I agree. But the truth is, right now, at this moment, the world looks so wonderful to me.

"We all think about things we shouldn't do sometimes," he continues.

"Sometimes I don't even like basketball."

"Did you think you lived for basketball?"

"I really hate basketball sometimes," he says with a laugh.

"You know, when you think about it, it's just stupid—pointless, really. You're not really doing anything or helping anyone. Basically, it's just a big waste of everyone's time. I hate it just because you're good. nothing, people automatically think it makes you happy, but it really isn't, you know? It's not that simple."

"Yes,"

I agree, surprised. I knew he was smart because he got good grades, but I had no idea that he really thought about things so deeply that maybe he was more complicated than I imagined, more than just a nice guy with killer eyes.

"You know, I got this basketball scholarship and I really don't want to go to college. I want to take a gap year. Travel or something. I don't even know what I want to go to school for, but my parents can't hear me. They want me to be something big. Like a doctor or a lawyer or a CEO or something. Not that they have any idea what it's about - none of them even went to university."

He laughs and then says, "My parents." That's what it's about.

"What about them?" I ask. "They're just…" he starts, but stops.

"You know, they're not actually at my cousin's wedding. They just think they are." He stifles another laugh so it's just a short gasp.

“My mother doesn't know how clear his browser history so I know where they really are. . . .”

"Well, where exactly are they?"

"They're in this retreat—I guess you could call it counseling."

"Like couples, you mean?" I'm just asking for an explanation.

"Like rehab," he says succinctly. We both stop, not knowing exactly how the air suddenly became so thick and heavy. I notice that my hand has stopped touching hers. His fingers stopped running down my back. He holding my breath. I can hear his heart through his shirt, feel it beating faster.

"My father," he says uncertainly in response to my question quietly asking.

"He's been in rehab - well, forever, really - my whole life anyway."

I lift my head to look at his face. He stares at the ceiling, his Adam's apple nodding as he swallows, not looking at me.

"He just can't keep himself clean," he continues, as if he were talking to someone else who could only hear him.

"I don't understand why. It works for a while, sometimes it goes on for over a year, then it comes back again. Nothing works, not even that."

“Rehab,” I said foolishly, unprepared for the reality this conversation demanded of me.

"Why?" I ask,

"I'm not sure. He must have used prescription drugs or other drugs before - not illegally. In other words, not as prescribed. ’ he smirked.

"But drinking is always the best thing, right?”

"Oh," I gasp.

"I remember when I was a kid and my father was on a business trip and he was away for a long time." He paused as if remembering now. "But then

“I heard her mother call her aunt and say something about her father coming halfway,” he laughs again.

"And I thought it was like a temporary house or something, and I remember doing a picture of my father sitting in this house, cut in half right down the middle. '' he said, parting the air in front of his face with his hand.

“And when I showed it to her mother, I remember her mother starting to cry. I think it was, in a very vague way."

I hope - I hope to God - I knew what to say now. I have my mouth open but nothing in his brain so I just touch his face and hair and try to help is relax.

"I was cleaning the gutter the other day, and I was just sitting there, and I found five bottles in the gutter. Size. I don't understand, I really don't understand. is it? why? when did he do that? Why gutter? who would do that? "

"Oh my god, I don't know," I whispered. But I think I can - they were there anyway - and I'm afraid to think that I can somehow understand. "I knew it was going to be bad this time, so I told her mother, and the next minute I knew I was leaving town for the wedding. I hope they tell me the truth, I am no longer a child. I didn't know in advance.

He leaned back against me, listening to him and realizing that I had never felt so completely threatened in my life. "When I broke my knee in sophomore year., I have gave him a prescription for painkillers, but her mother made me hide them. My own father. "

I open my mouth. I immediately say something nonsensical like I'm sorry or it's really sad, but luckily he's just talking.

"The thing is," he continues,

"when he's sober, he's hot. He really is. Like, we do things together and everything, you know, he takes me to games and camping and fishing and all that s**t. I mean, he's basically a good dad, but then there's this thing that controls him. All my friends say they want him were their fathers. Of course I would never let them see him when he was angry. So they don't know anything about it."

Somehow when we started talking I was in his arms and now it's the other way around.

"So that's why you wanted me to leave sooner than you thought I was in a high position, because of your father?"

"Oh, maybe," he says, as if he hadn't caught the connection.

"But it's not just you. I don't like being around my friends when they do that either. I don't even like being around them when they're drinking. Because you never know what might happen. People do things and say. fair things - things can get out of control so quickly. It just gets me. . . I don't know, nervous or something,” he mumbled.

“I want you to know that I do no such thing. It is not possible. I smoke, that's all - cigarettes. I mean, I don't even drink."

"I'm sorry I thought that. I guess that's the first thing that comes to mind when someone is acting strange. Well, not that you were acting strange. I just want to say that sometimes you seem, I don't know, distracted. Like you really aren't there or something. And that's how he goes all the time - he gets that look on his face, you just know he's somewhere else. That often happens with you."

"I see."

"Or like tonight," he continues. I really didn't think I needed any more examples of my weirdness, but he continues.

"I don't know, it just looked familiar, that's all."

"Oh" suddenly seems like the only word I can speak.

"Sorry, I'm probably making it worse. I'm not trying. I'm just trying to explain. I'm not trying to make you feel bad. Sorry, I'll just stop talking."

"No. It's fine. I know." I know I'm acting like a total lunatic, I just didn't think it would have made it into the side program of the three ring circus. It's enough that the person I messed with thinks I'm dope.

"Okay. Sorry," he says again. He kisses the hand resting on my shoulder and takes a deep breath. He takes a slow breath and says,

"You know, I never told anyone. Some of my friends that I know since first grade, but I never got to tell them and I've only known you for a few weeks?” He keeps laughing.

"Why can't you tell your friends?" I am asking

"Maybe they're not really my friends. No, I don't mean that," he immediately corrects himself, as if he's committed sacrilege against the popular children's divine covenant.

"It's just embarrassing."

"It's not embarrassing."

He shrugs. "I'm glad you told me," I whisper. I open my mouth again, the words almost in my hand, wanting so badly to get out. All this honesty saturates the atmosphere and fills the gaps between us. It does things to my brain, as medicine; it makes me want to tell the truth. I feel dangerously fit.

"I'm glad too," he says quietly. "Don't tell anyone, okay? Please," he adds with a weakness in his voice I've never heard before. Lucky for him, he doesn't know how well I can keep a secret.

"Never," I whisper back. "To promise."

And so, at 3:45 in the morning, after hours of conversation, he reaches out to turn off the lamp and kisses me goodnight, pulling the afghan tighter around him. Laying his head back on my chest, he says,

"I can hear your heart." It's a simple, sweet saying. I smile a little. But then I feel my heart doing something funny - it's the beat, beat, beat of the proverbial organ part. And because the moon and the sun coexist in the sky, Turning the room with that scary but soothing pale glow, I have a terrible thought: I like him. I like him very much. Love like him. As in my metaphorical heart. If I took an x-ray, it would show an arrow. I was right in the middle of that bloody, bleeding mass of muscle in my chest. And somehow I know things have changed between us.