Learning How to Swim

White Lies and White Stories

“Want any chocolate soda?” Steven asked me as he led me inside. I watched him pour Sprite into a cup. “I’m taking your silence as a yes.” He filled another cup, pulling out chocolate syrup. I made a face as he carefully mixed the two, offering my cup to me with a small smile.

“This is so disgusting,” I told him, staring at it.

“Try it.”

I sighed, resignedly taking a sip. It wasn’t bad actually, but I wouldn’t tell him that. Maybe it only tasted good because all I’d had for the past few weeks was normal food. I had missed his odd creations, sadly enough. He took a sip of his soda and opened the patio door. I followed him to the picnic table outside.

It was a little chilly, so he offered me his sweatshirt. It was getting rather dark outside, but the patio lights offered a yellow glow. He was wearing a long-sleeve, tight green shirt, but he didn’t seem too cold at all. I could just barely make out his face in the dim light.

“Thanks for coming anyway,” he told me, looking up at the single star in the sky. He closed his eyes for a moment. “I really need to talk to you. You said something today that… It didn’t make me feel too good.”

“Look, I’m sorry about the whole ‘I blame you for all the bad things in my life’ thing. I didn’t mean it.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not that. You called me a liar.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I was just mad.”

“No, you were right.” He sighed, looking at me for the first time in what seemed like forever. “My sister… She was never depressed or anything.”

“What? Then how did you know about Beckham? Why did you lie to me?”

“I was afraid of what you’d think. And I know someone who went… I was afraid you’d tell everyone if I told you. But I need to tell you. I hope you won’t think I’m a freak.” He bit his lip, looking down at his hands.

I thought back to everything he said. He had told me that Beckham wasn’t a good place; they didn’t know what they were doing. He knew someone that had been sent to a rehabilitation clinic after Beckham had failed. He said that it really helped. He said that whoever went to Beckham got into drugs and all that. He said that “Janice” hadn’t liked seeing him like that…

He said that Kara could be cutting herself. He said that “Janice” always wore long sleeves and that scars like that stay for a long time. He had blood on his sweatshirt. Whenever we talked on the phone I had always heard shuffling and a door slamming.

“When we talked on the phone, what were you doing?” I asked him suddenly.

“What?”

“Every time we talked I would hear you walking and a door slamming.”

“Oh. That’s because I was always looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. When you called I would go into my room and close the door.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s a sink in the bathroom.”

“There is.”

I stood up, walking closer to the porch and its single yellow light. Steven stood up, following me and asking where I was going. I caught his wrists roughly.

“Why did you lie to me?”

“I’m sorry, I was being stupid,” he told me softly.

I squeezed harder and looked down at his arms as my fingers dug into his skin. “Does this hurt?”

“Yes.”

I flipped his hands over, pushing up the sleeves. There were cross-hatching lines that were hardly visible in the yellow light. He looked up at me.

“You were at Beckham,” I told him, looking at the thin lines that could only be caused by sharp razorblades.

“I was.”
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Who was expecting that? Not me, and I wrote the dang thing! Hope you liked the update :)