Before I Fall - 3. Barren

Barren

“Where were you yesterday?” Ethan questions as we take our seats at the lunch table. Truthfully, yesterday I'd feigned sick while my bruises and cuts healed some. While I healed some, emotionally. I wasn't exactly stable enough to come to school. I'm not even sure if I am now.

“Twenty-four hour stomach bug, man,” I reply simply.

“Dude, are you okay? You've been acting weird lately,” he continues.

“I'm fine,” I assure him, smiling. I guess my smile looks real enough to believe because he smiles back. I'm surprised when Connor takes a seat across from me. He wasn't in Geometry today so I didn't expect to see him at all. A smile immediately takes up residence on my face and I can't get it to go away. I'm not sure I mind.

“Hey,” Connor says. He nods at Ethan, smiles at me. “You're not still sick or contagious or anything, are you?” I shake my head no. “Good, so you have no excuse not to go running with me today.” He's got those jade green eyes on me again, so hopeful. I could never say no to him.

“That sounds good,” I agree. It does sound good, to be honest. It's just what I need.

Conversation continues as usual and I quickly start scarfing down the greasy pizza on my plate. I'm checked out as usual until a particular conversation catches my ear. “You're from Colorado? It must be fun there,” a girl named Lauren says to Connor. She occasionally sits with Kristen, who sits with us almost every day, and I don't mind. But today, her presence is irritating. Connor says something back but I don't hear him because I'm too busy staring at the hand Lauren's placed on Connor's arm and her giggling face. What the hell is so funny, anyway? And why is she touching him?

“Tom, I know the pizza's gross but does it deserve to be impaled?” Ethan chuckles, freeing the plastic fork from my white knuckled hand.

I laugh shakily with him. “Sorry, I zoned out. I didn't realize I was stabbing my pizza to death.” I look down at my ruined pizza ruefully but my appetite is gone anyway. I bite my lip and stare down, too afraid to meet anyone's eyes. I'm not supposed to be jealous of a girl flirting with my guy friend. That's normal, my jealousy is not. I'm not supposed to feel romantic feelings toward another guy. That's definitely not normal. What would Connor think if he knew I sometimes pictured him naked? What would anyone think?

I'm the first person out of my seat when the bell rings and I bolt out of the cafeteria as fast as I can without running. I go to the nearest bathroom and lock myself in a stall. Slide onto the floor. As I stare down at the white tile, I imagine what it would be like to be normal. What would Tom be like if he were straight? If he'd been born normal? What would Tom be like if he were raised by a normal father? If Thomas Murphy were a normal human being, I wonder what he would be like. Maybe his smile would be a little less crooked, his laugh a little more melodic.

I imagine myself sitting at a dinner table, laughing with a mother and a father, and Connor too. I imagine a father who smiles at me because he loves me, in a normal way, not a sick way. A father who's only way of hurting me would be taking away my computer or cell phone. A normal father. A normal life. A normal me.

And then I have to shut my eyes against the pain because I know my life will never be normal, never even be good or okay. I know I'll always live in a nightmare and that hurts more than anything.

Slowly, I reach into my bag and pull out my compass. I stare at the tiny and sharp metallic point for a moment, feeling a surging need to press it into my wrist. So I do. It hurts, but it stops all of the other pain. It silences my worries, slows my heart rate. I realize the cut is too deep and I'm bleeding. Bleeding so much that I'm making a small puddle of blood on the white tile. I hold my wrist away from my body and watch the blood flow. A drop rolls down my wrist and plops into the puddle. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. I don't know how long I sit there, watching droplets of blood collect on the tile. A while I guess.

When my wrist stops bleeding, I rise slowly and slip out of the stall. I grab some paper towel and quickly clean up the blood puddle. I walk over to the sink and dab a paper towel in the streaming faucet and then gently wipe at the cut. When I look up, I'm startled by the boy in the mirror. His eyes are wide, frantic looking and his hair is disheveled. I look away from him and wash my hands, rinsing off the blood smeared on them.

When the bell rings for the next period, I slip out of the bathroom and into the crowd and out the back doors next to the cafeteria because I know that if I stay any longer, I might shatter.

*      *     *

My world is red. Just a single color everywhere. It's all I can see. It reminds me of the blood that made a puddle on the bathroom floor today. My blood. I think of the tiny little plops that my blood made as it dripped onto the white tile. The cut hurt but I was in control of it. I was holding the weapon, in charge of what was happening to me. No one else.

Suddenly my world goes from red to black and my eyes snap open. Kristen Frazier, one of the girls who always sits with Ethan and me at lunch, is standing above me, blocking the sun.“Tom Murphy skipping school? I figured pigs flying would've come before this,” she says, with a playful smile. I blush. Feeling kind of self conscious lying there on the ground, I sit up and shrug.

She takes a seat next to me on the grass covered ground. We're at the local park, on one of the hills that overlooks the jungle gym and the basketball court. Ethan and I used to come here after school all the time, making mini obstacle course races out of the playground. That was when I was just like any other kid. Now, as I look down at the jungle gym and the creaky old swing set and think about the blood pooling on the tile, I know that I'll never be that kid again. That Tom is gone.

“So what are you doing out here, anyway?” she asks.

“Just thinking,” I reply, tugging my sleeves down some. It's a nervous habit I've picked up, partly from fear of someone discovering the cuts lining my wrists and partly for something to do with my hands.

“Look, I know why you bolted at lunch earlier. I've been where you are and if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here.” She squints toward the sky and then back at me, then smiles, looking like she's waiting for me to share. But at that moment, shock has rendered my mouth useless. Had she seen me stabbing the pizza and realized it was out of jealousy? Having someone know—especially someone I don't necessarily trust, even if I had known her since kindergarten— that I have feelings for another guy is scary.

My heart pounds. “Look, I don't like—,” I start, but she cuts me off.

“You don't have to defend yourself, Tom. I'm not judging you.”

I shake my head, trying to clear it. I don't want her to think that I'm like that. I'm not. I'm just confused. But I decide not to push it any further and stay silent. “I had no idea. About you, I mean,” is all that comes out when I finally open my mouth. My cheeks are flaming by now.

“It's not something I usually advertise,” Kristen chuckles.

“When did you know?”

“Know what?” She gives me a sideways glance, eyebrow cocked.

“That you liked girls,” I answer, fidgeting a little. I can't meet her eyes when I say this so I keep mine trained downward, staring at my lap.

“Excuse me?” She exclaims. When I finally glance up, Kristen looks one part amused and two parts baffled. “Wait, is that what you thought I meant? That I thought you were gay?” My throat suddenly feels constricted and I realize the mistake I've made. The need to get away is swift and overwhelming. I stand up, ready to flee. “Wait!” she says, grabbing my wrist. I look warily down at her. “It's okay, Tom. Its not like I care.”

I sit back down. “I'm not, alright? I tried to tell you that I don't like guys. Just please don't tell anyone about this okay?” No matter how much I try to steady it, my voice shakes. I can feel tears burning at the backs of my eyes, threatening to spill out but I refuse to cry.

“I won't, I promise. Hey, I still haven't told anyone that it was you who put glue on the seat of Mrs. Reichard's chair in the third grade, not Danny Wyler. I can keep a secret.” She smiles and I can't help but smile back. It had never occurred to me that Kristen was someone that I could count on. It had never occurred to me that there was anyone that I could truly count on. Not even myself. But she sees us as friends and somehow I know that she wouldn't do anything to hurt me.

“Hey,” someone says. Kristen and I both look up at the sound and see Connor standing there bathed in sun with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Ethan said you might be here,” he says quietly, a small smile on his face. He's looking straight at me even though I think he's talking to Kristen too. My stomach flips. Some part of me is floored by the fact that he was even looking for me.

“Oh, wow, look at the time. I should probably go,” Kristen says suddenly. She jumps up, a big smile on her face as she waves goodbye. She winks and gives me a thumbs up over Connor's shoulder. My cheeks are on fire and I decide to pretend like I didn't see her and stare down at my lap.

“See you, Kristen,” Connor calls before turning taking Kristen's place next to me. “I hope you didn't think you could bail on our running session by hiding out here,” he teases, grinning at me.

I blush again which only manages to make me more embarrassed. When I look back up, Connor is still looking at me. Suddenly I feel kind of dizzy. “N-no, we can still go,” I choke out, looking anywhere but at Connor.

“Good.” His voice is something I'll never get used to. A tie between raspy and soft, deep and smooth. It rattles me. “The last bell should be ringing any second. You want me to drive you home? That way you can get your stuff and we can just go.”

I think about it. On the one hand, some part of me wants to spend every possible second that I can with Connor. And it would be weird to walk to my house when Connor has a car and is offering to drive me. On the other hand, the way I feel about Connor can only be trouble, just like him pulling up to my house would be. Finally, I decide that if I see Dad's car in the driveway, I'll tell Connor to park three blocks away and deal with his questions later.

“Yeah,” I finally answer.

“Cool,” he breathes. He stands up and I do the same. For a beat, we both stand there, our eyes locked but our thoughts in different places. Connor turns suddenly and starts toward the school and the moment is gone.

As we turn onto my street, I see that my father's car isn't in the driveway and breathe a small sigh of relief. Connor eases into the driveway and turns the car off. He starts to reach for the car door and I quickly say, “You don't have to get out. I'll be right back.” I hop out of the truck without waiting for a response and hurry inside.

“Hi, sweetie. How was school?” Mom calls from the kitchen.

I backtrack from my path to stairs reluctantly and put on a smile. “It was fine. Is it okay if I go get changed and go running? There's a trail not too far,” I say in a rush, nervously pulling at the sleeves of my hoodie.

“Sure, of course,” she smiles. I turn to leave. “Tom?” My heart gives a tiny squeeze and for a second I think she's figured it out. Everything. For a moment, I think she knows and I feel my stomach churning and bile threatening to creep up my throat. I turn back to face her, trying to keep my face neutral. “Try to make it in time for dinner. I feel like I never see you anymore.”

“Sure thing mom,” I say, almost inaudibly. For the first time in my life, as I stare into my mother's unknowing eyes, I seriously think about what it would be like if I didn't exist anymore. If I were dead. And I think it might be nice. But then I think of Connor waiting out in the car for me and I force myself upstairs and into running clothes.

*      *     *

The trail's path ends but in some unspoken agreement Connor and I keep running. The terrain is anything but smooth but neither of us mind. We weave around trees and hop over puddles of collected rainwater. A tree root seems to spring up out of nowhere and I give a small leap, nearly falling on my face before catching myself. My lungs are still heaving as I look up and see that Connor's gaze is leveled at me. He cracks a smile. A spout of bubbling laughter escapes my lips, surprising both of us. Suddenly we're both laughing. Our bellowing laughs echo through the woods as he walks over to help me up.

“Sorry. Laughing when people fall is a no-no, right?” Connor chuckles. I smile but my cheeks turn red as I grasp his hand and stand up.

“I laughed first so you're off the hook. For now,” I tease.

He musters up some sincerity and says, “You okay?”

I nod. “Yeah.” I'm standing now but he's still holding onto my hand. I look at my slim, pale hand grasped in his slightly bigger one. I don't want him to let go. Connor's eyes follow mine and he blushes, letting go and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I guess we should head back.” I'm not sure if it's a question or a statement but I nod and we start back in the direction we came from. Silence stretches on for a few minutes and I start to fidget, wondering if he feels as nervously awkward as I do right now. “Can I ask you something?” Connor says, finally breaking the silence.

His eyes are serious, almost solemn, and I'm afraid to answer. “Sure,” I reply anwyay.

“Are you okay? Just in general, are you okay?”

I can't help it, I react. I mean to smile. I mean to say, “Of course, I'm doing great.” But my mouth droops down at the corners, pulling into a frown, and my eyes slide away. I'm not okay, not really. But I need to be. I clear my throat, pull myself together. “Yeah, I'm okay,” I breath out. It's not a complete lie. Right now, walking next to Connor in this space that seems so far from my reality, I'm okay. Not great, not wonderful. But okay.

“I know you don't really know me but you can talk to me. About anything. Whenever you need to.” One side of his mouth lifts in a semi-smile. My heart pounds. Connor, with his wide green eyes and freckled nose, is just being friendly. But my heart pounds.

I wonder if he can hear it.

“Thanks,” is all I say. Connor smiles at me and I smile back, although 'thanks' almost doesn't feel like enough. There's more silence but it's not uncomfortable this time. I sneak a glance at Connor and he looks deep in thought. Its a good look on him.

We continue in this newly comfortable silence for a while before he suddenly slows his walking. “I know what this is,” Connor announces thoughtfully, placing his hand on the bark of a large tree.

“Yeah, it's this brand new invention called the tree. Came out last week.” I can't help but chuckle at the way he looked so thoughtfully at the tree, proclaiming his knowledge.

“Nice one, smart ass,” Connor smirks. “I mean, I know what kind of tree is it, specifically. It's a sassafras tree.”

I look up at the tree. It's tall, with a thick bark and green leaves. And it looks like every other tree we've passed on the trail. “You can tell just from looking at it?” I wonder aloud.

He blushes slightly and butterflies flutter in my stomach. “Don't tell anyone this but I'm sort of a horticulture nerd.” I know it's small but it feels good to be entrusted with a secret of his. Like he's handing me a piece of himself. Connor cranes his neck to look up the tree for a moment and I push away thoughts about kissing his porcelain neck. “The sassafras tree has distinct leaves. And a distinct smell.” He looks back down at me and I guess I look a little slack jawed because he says, “Sorry, boring stuff.”

“No, no. It's interesting. Not many people talk to me about trees,” I smile. He's not boring me, not at all. Just mildly distracting me but I don't want to admit it. To myself or anyone else for that matter.

“Have you ever smelled sassafras bark?” He asks with his eyes leveled at me. It's a simple question, I know.

“Can't say that I have.” Connor turns and grabs a piece bark, pulling down hard. It rips off, exposing a lighter brown layer underneath. He raises his eyebrows and me, as if to say, 'go ahead, sniff' and I step forward, feeling quite silly as I take a whiff. It's minty, with undertones of spice. “Root beer,” I conclude, sniffing again.

“Yeah,” he whispers. His breath tickles the place where my neck joins my shoulder. I shiver. I wonder if he notices. “Sassafras roots are some of the main ingredients in root beer, actually.” We're talking about plants and root beer but I don't feel like we are. I turn around. Connor is close to me. Really close. He leans in and my heart pounds. He smells the place in the tree where he peeled back the bark. Right next to my ear.

I can't think.

He leans back. Looks at me. He's still so close that I feel as if I can feel his heartbeat in my fingertips. “Tom.” It's a whisper, one that tickles my nose.

His hand finds my hip. My heart squeezes painfully. He's leaning in.

I know what comes next. And I don't want it.

“Stop,” I say inaudibly. He doesn't hear me. “Stop,” I say again, my voice louder than before but shakier than ever. Many parts of me don't want him to stop. Many parts of me want to feel the pillow-like cushion of his lips. But the rest of my mind and my body win out. The parts that acknowledge the years of abuse that I can't erase. The parts so deeply affected by my father. I hate my father more than ever right now. Because Tom's hands feel like his. And I can't.

He pulls away as if he just woke up from a dream. I'm shaking.

“T-Tom, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—” he stumbles. His eyes are wide. The only way I can describe his expression is stricken. I want to reassure him, tell him that he did nothing wrong. But I can't move. Can't speak. “I don't know what I was thinking.” His voice is quiet. He steps away. My hands become a little bit steadier.

I can't look at him and so I turn away. And I do what I do best. I run.