Friday, November 10
(Scout)
Mancala and pizza was just what I needed. Gustov, Audrey, Paxton, and I all took turns playing in a Mancala cutthroat tournament. We stayed up late. I smiled for the first time all week. I didn't think about Michael. I didn't think about anything. I just had fun. It was the first time in my life I felt like I could just be me, surrounded by people who don't and won't judge me. People who don't see my scars, but who see everything else. It was freeing in a way I can't explain.
After I brush my teeth I leave a sticky note on Gustov's door. A taunt to make him smile; like he made me smile tonight. You still suck at Mancala. Thanks for the pizza.
Monday, November 13
(Gus)
More and more I find myself looking forward to waking up in the morning just so I can open my door and see if there's a little piece of her on the other side in the form of a sticky note. The first time she left a note for me on the bus I thought, Well, this is fucking childish and irritating. Looking back, hindsight is twenty-twenty. I was a train wreck; I wouldn't have wanted to deal with me either. I didn't want to deal with me, obviously; it's the reason I was drunk all the time.
I'm already grinning when I catch sight of the square-shaped yellow note on my door as it swings open.
The grin is short lived when I read her words. Car accident = fire = burns = peoples' stares = embarrassment + anger + introversion + sadness
Shit.
This is as real as she's ever been with me. I want to grab my keys and go to her. Find her at work and pull her away from everything she's doing and just hold her. I want to take away the pain that she's been through, both because of the accident and the insensitive assholes who've made her feel anything less than the perfect human being she is.
Instead, I grab my marker and sticky notes and I write a note of my own, like I always do. I don't know if she'll answer or if she'll shut me out, but I have to try. I keep it short because Impatient's all about the details in life, unless the details belong to her. The ones she doesn't share. How old were you when it happened?
Tuesday, November 14
(Scout)
11. My dad was drunk. That's why I lived with my aunt and uncle.
Wednesday, November 15
(Gus)
Was your hearing affected by the accident?
Thursday, November 16
(Scout)
That was part of the birth lottery. It's no big deal.
Friday, November 17
(Gus)
That one made me smile. I think the solemn tennis match is at an end for now, so I respond, Kinda like my awesome sense of humor? I won the motherfucking birth lottery with that.
Saturday, November 18
(Scout)
Keep telling yourself that.
(Gus)
And just like that, I know we're good. When a conversation ends in sarcasm with her, I know she's satisfied, at ease. And at ease is the only place I ever want her to be. Especially around me.
Sunday, November 19
(Gus)
"Ma, who's the old lady with the walker standing in our driveway in her nightgown, filching our newspaper?" I'm watching an old woman with silvery-lavender hair, in a pink and purple flowered housecoat, steal our daily news in slow motion outside our kitchen window.
Ma walks over and stands next to me, her smile wide. "Oh, that's Mrs. Randolph. Her daughter, Francine, moved in next door last month. Mrs. Randolph is visiting for a few weeks for Thanksgiving. She's feisty. You'll like her."
"Feisty? She's a goddamn thief. She just stole your newspaper. I think I'm in love with her." This Mrs. Randolph is a character, I can tell already.
Ma laughs. "You two will get along great. And she always brings it back after lunch and puts it right where she found it, so it's not really stealing. She's just borrowing it for the morning."
I'm outside smoking a cigarette when Mrs. Randolph comes creeping back over to return our newspaper. Her walker is loud and squeaky as it rolls over the concrete. I call out a greeting, "Hello, Mrs. Randolph."
She starts at my words and the newspaper slips from her grasp. She brings her hand to her chest and eyes me with irritation. "God lord, boy, don't go sneakin' up on me like that."
I could easily argue that I'm standing in my own driveway, not ten feet from her, and she's the sneaky one here, but I don't. Instead I approach her and introduce myself. "I'm Gus Hawthorne." I motion with my thumb over my shoulder. "I live here with my mom, Audrey."
She's eyeballing my cigarette and just when I think she's going to scold me about smoking, she says, "You got another cigarette?" She glances up at me and I notice that her eyes are cloudy. Cataracts I'm guessing. She squints at me. "What did you say your name was, boy?"
"Gus," I answer as I pull out the pack from my pocket and shake one out for her.
"I'm not so great with names anymore. You'll have to forgive me." She takes it and puts it to her lips with a shaky hand, and then looks at me and talks, the cigarette dangling from her lips. "Well, are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna light it? I ain't got all day."
She makes me laugh and I retrieve my lighter and light it for her. The first pull is so weak I don't think the flame is going to catch, but it does. She blows the smoke out immediately. There isn't much, and I find myself wondering if any of it actually made it all the way down to her lungs at all. That was the weakest drag I've ever seen, but she continues just the same until she's finished. Satisfied, she drops it on the driveway next to her foot and steps on it to put it out.