Skies Do Fall

“Robby…are you okay?”

Biting my lip with the same elated grin plastered onto my face, I peered up and replied vaguely in a dazed voice, “Hmm?”

Tristan sighed, rolling his eyes. “Why do I even bother?” he muttered to himself.

I chose to ignore his remark and went back to focusing pointedly on what was waiting for me inside the contents of my locker, securely tucked in the folds of one of my backpack’s pockets.

Tristan had walked me to my next class since we had accidentally run into each other anyways. I had been daydreaming all morning of Brendon’s present, and generally just Brendon himself. I hadn’t opened the present yet, wanting to savor this feeling of awe and wonderment for as long as possible since it was the most emotion I’ve felt in months. The endless possibilities of what could be concealed inside that leftover, Christmas wrapping paper made my stomach flip with each new and plausible idea.

I thought of the usual gifts like jewelry-necklaces, rings, earrings, and bracelets, and then maybe a C.D or a band t-shirt by one of the many favorite bands I worshipped. I thought of many feasible options, but none of them were set in stone to be the actual present Brendon had gotten for me.

As I said before, this particular holiday brought many unexpected occurrences. Who knew why it was or who caused it, but whatever wondering works were behind it, they happened.

Aside from the unexpectant conversation I had with Brendon and the present he gave me out of the blue, I learned that Ram was absent. Some say she just had a common cold while others tried to dig a bit deeper into the juicy gossip corner and make up unbelievable tales about the reason why she hadn’t attended school today. I wouldn’t go into details about the rumors, because it was pretty obvious that they weren’t factual. The big idea was that she wasn’t here.

The next odd happening was at lunch.

I had arrived in the cafeteria before everyone else and was able to get my lunch, sit down at our usual table, and begin to chow down on the grotesque food our cafeteria ladies apparently thought was edible all before everyone else arrived. Tristan immediately took his usual spot next to my right when he appeared and began to chat with the rest of his buddies after saying his hellos to me.

Brendon was the last of our group to arrive…not that I took any notice or anything.

His grandmother packed his lunch, so he didn’t have to go through the lengthy lunch line that had piled up, but headed right over to our table instead.

The whole fortuitous, unpredictable factor was when Brendon unhesitatingly scooted in to sit right next to me. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he actually started a conversation with me!

Giving me a toothy grin, he slid to a sitting position right next to me. Facing my direction and ignoring all of the other guys he usually talked to, he asked, “You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?”

With a mouthful of possibly overripe grapes, I mechanically shook my head and tried to hide my astonishment and, dare I say it, bliss.

Brendon shot me another one of his famous sideways grin, kin to the one that he gave me this morning at the bus stop, and turned back to his food.

I swallowed my mouthful of grapes just as he asked me another question, “So, are you going to see that Third Eyed Blind concert coming up in a few weeks?”

“Third Eyed Blind is coming here?” I questioned with blank shock.

Brendon nodded excitingly and began to give me details about the upcoming show.

We began to talk animatedly, and time slipped between my fingers like millions of delicate grains of sand. Soon, everyone had already taken their trash, and all that was left was me and Brendon.

Breaking eyecontact with Brendon for the first time in what seemed like hours, I scanned around me and Brendon asked, “Who are you looking for?”

I flipped my head back to him and replied, “The real question is: who is there to look for? Do you realize that we are the very last people here?”

Brendon’s eyebrows infused together momentarily in confusion as he gradually rotated his head in a 180 degree angle, scanning the vacant cafeteria just as I had. His head snapped back to face me and, making his eye sockets pop out wider than they naturally were, he gasped, “Wow! We are! Well, at least the bell hasn’t rung ye--“

It was Murphy’s Law that the school bell would actually ring in that point of time, drowning out Brendon’s words in all of its boisterous glory.

Giving me a cheesy grin, Brendon sheepishly pointed out, “Well, at least we both have the same class, so we can suffer together.”

Laughing while leaping up to my feet, I declared, “Come on, chatterbox, we’ve got a teacher to royally piss off!”

Of course, we were late. Brendon counted and he said by an estimated amount of 1 minute and 46 seconds. Our speech teacher, Mr. Cunningham, was pretty cool about it and said we only had to serve one detention next week on Friday. I wouldn’t mind spending a whole extra period trapped in a classroom after school with Brendon. The idea was actually appealing and excited me.

The next surprise I received was from Mrs. Kenning in English.

The bell rang, and like before, she stopped me on my way out of the door.

“Robin, I need to speak with you,” came her stern, demanding voice over the rustling of supplies and casual murmurs of passing students.

Holding down the uncooperative groan burning to escape my throat, I turned back and pushed my way through the mingling crowd of students, back towards Mrs. Kenning’s desk.

I struggled to keep my posture straight and not slumped, trying to seem as positive as possible in case this was going to turn out bad…which was more than likely when it involved Mrs. Kenning.

“Yes, Mrs. Kenning?” I asked in the sweetest, most respectable tone my voice-box and ego had to offer.

Mrs. Kenning let out a deep sigh before swiftly laying down the collection of papers in her hands upon her overly-organized desk. Folding her elderly hands together, she peered up at me with her piercing-blue eyes.

“Robin,” she began, taking off her maroon spectacles and placing them next to the papers. “I want to discuss your grades.”

Gulping down an anxious breath, I kept my expression free of emotion and waited patiently for her to continue.

As expected, Mrs. Kenning pursed her thin lips together tightly before explaining, “Before the Christmas and New Year’s break, you took the semester test. As we discussed before, that test determines whether or not if you are to remain in Pre-AP or not. Upon reviewing the grades this morning….”

My palms started to push out perspiration, beginning to swelter from the abrupt heat that seemed to flush my entire body.

And, before I could point out the fact that I did my best, and I would do anything if she would just let me remain in Pre-AP English for my mother’s sake, she finished her sentence….

“….it is clear to me that you belong in Pre-AP.”

I almost collapsed with the impact of shock that clashed on me from her unbelievable words. Yet I somehow managed to maintain my posture and respond.

“I’m not getting Punk’d, am I?” I questioned in monotone, cocking an eyebrow suspiciously.

Mrs. Kenning’s penciled-in eyebrows infused and hidden wrinkles displayed themselves as she repeated with befuddlement, “Punk’d?”

Two things became clear: 1-That my English teacher was in fact not kidding around with me. And 2-She also sadly yet unsurprisingly did not keep up with the modern day media.

Before I could explode with solace, I gave the casual shaking of the head as if to say ‘never mind’ and casted her a grateful smile. I was about to haul my merry ass out of her incredibly plain classroom, when she stopped me.

“Robin?”

I wounded back reluctantly, assuming she was about to break some bad news to me just to ruin my mood.

“Wait just one minute, I’ll make you a pass,” Mrs. Kenning ordered with the first genuine smile I’ve ever seen her wear.

The last surprise of the day was quite different from the rest, if not the polar opposite.

When Tristan and I returned home, both my mom and my Scum-of-the-Earth father were both waiting for us, settled at the bottom of our staircase with heartfelt smiles.

I merely scowled at the fatherly figure and beamed lovingly at my mother. Tristan scooted a bit closer towards me, probably catching my grimace, ready to hold me back from making an irrational move. The fantasy of making that kind of action made me smile with satisfaction.

“Hey kiddoes,” my ‘dad’ greeted us. I took notice of how his arm was draped over my mother’s shoulders sentimentally. This made the blood coursing through my veins bubble with chagrin.

“Hey guys. What’s up?” Tristan answered for both him and me. I didn’t think it was safe to use my voice in this type of situation.

“Well, your father and I have been thinking about you guys,” my mom answered, sneaking the jackass a secretive grin. “And we both think that we should all do something together. As a family.”

“Aw, mom!” Tristan whined, echoing my internal response. “Right now? I’ve got skateboard practice in less than two hours. Can’t this wait?”

My betraying, male creator sent Tristan a stern expression and commanded, “Tris, we are going out right now whether you have plans of your own already arranged or not. You can spare a practice for your family.”

Tristan obediently nodded mutely and sighed unhappily out of the corner of his mouth.

My mom popped up to her feet, clasping her hands together excitedly. “Alright, we better hurry before our reservations expire!”

We went to some fancy-smanshie restaurant located downtown, the kind of food establishment that made you feel underdressed no matter what designer you were wearing. Of course, it didn’t help that I was forced to wear one of my mother’s tight, revealing dresses either. A stuck-out thumb or not, I would have much rather have been dressed in my comfortable jeans and t-shirt rather than that uncomfortable silk gown that made male’s eyes linger on inappropriate parts.

I guess this surprise should have at least been cheerful and reassuring that my “father” was making an effort to keep this family together. I mean, he could have just stayed late at the office again doing what I knew he was doing behind our backs. But not today. No, he sat before us a disguised, chipper family-man bounded to willing to our every care and shielding us from harm.

But I didn’t feel cheerful, safe, cared for, or reassured at all. Not in the slightest.

I felt like he knew I had discovered his dirty footprints and was trying to cover up his white lies by this extravagant family outing. It made the overwhelming amount of stress already haunting my brain multiply like breeding lice. It made me jumpy, fearful, paranoid, and so very infuriated.

I suffered through the charade of prime rib and the hoaxes of forged-on smiles for a good two hours.

Finally, at long long last, I was eventually back into the convenience of my own room. I sighed contently at the fact that I no longer had to hide my fury or put on a superficial, toothy grin for my family’s benefit.

Just when I was about to pop off my mother’s black stilettos, the air vents in my room shut off and muffled voices flowed from downstairs.

“…I’ll be back later on tonight, probably after midnight, so don’t wait up for me, okay?” came his voice.

My mother responded unhappily, “Okay. Promise me that you won’t work this weekend. I’m sick of not having you around.”

He chuckled. “You know that I can’t promise you that, babe. But I’ll make an effort to take off Sunday for you, okay?”

The next noise was the smacking of lips, surely a passionate kiss shared between my parents, and then came the stifled noise of the front door sealing shut.

Furiously, I dunked my mother’s precious heels against my carpeted floor with so much force that it caused my dressers to tremble. I ran my fingers through my hair roughly a few times before slamming my body onto my bed, screaming into my pillow with outrage.

So he takes his family, that has done nothing but love him irrevocably, out to a costly dinner to have a good time, and then he gets to run off to continue his love affair life, getting off some bimbo that only wants the physical pleasure he has to offer? Was that not fucked up?

Tears of rage, not sadness, bursted from my eye sockets, and I began to throw everything in sight in a childish tantrum. I buried my ire screeches inside my lungs, a blanket of rawness settling over the skin of my throat. I ripped my sheets off and began to throw more and more things across my room.

Then, once my temper and energy was drained from my system almost entirely, I slumped to my knees next to my bare bedpost.

I roughly wiped the tears of animosity from my eyes and blew out an exhale of exhaustion. My eyelids slouched severely, slumber already tempting me.

Before I got into too much of a sleepy state, my eyes caught something.

There, upon the floor right underneath my backpack, laid the tattered present Brendon had gotten for me, still remaining unopened.

I crawled over to where the present was hidden and gently lifted it up, afraid to hear the clinking of broken glass or some other noise indicating broken material effected from my tantrum.

When my ears detected nothing, I began to gradually strip off the sloppy wrapping paper. I tore until there was nothing left and scanned the blackfelt box before me. Before I could remember every little feature of the tiny box, I slowly pried it open and then focused my eyes on the present before me.

There, right in front of me, laid a ticket.