Troubles

I arrive with a bag of clothes, a bunch of flowers for Donna that Brian insisted I'd bring, and a paper bag containing a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.

I smile at the thought of celebrating Thanksgiving, a bittersweet feeling in my throat, right before Mikey opens the door.

“Frank!” he says and steps aside, leaving the doorway free for me to come inside. I've been to his house so many times and it's not even a week since I was here last, but still, I feel a bit awkward walking though the door. I've always felt like a guest here, but something is different this time.
“You brought flowers?” Mikey asks, amused. He obviously thinks it's ridiculous.

“Aw, Frank,” Donna coos as she takes the flowers out of my hands. I didn't even notice her coming up beside me.
“They're beautiful. Thank you,” she says and gives me a peck on my cheek. I smile, but I also feel my stomach ache; as if someone punched me.

“Hey, come on,” Mikey says before he walks off down the hall. I quickly kick off my shoes and follow him.
“The futon is still out and I cleared some space on the shelf in the bathroom in case you have any toiletries with you.”
Mikey turns around and drops down on the futon. I smile down at him.
“I've been using it as a kind of couch. It's seriously addictive,” he says as he leans his back against his bed and crosses his arms over his stomach. I giggle quickly.
“What's in the bag?” Mikey nods towards the paper bag and I drop my backpack before I open it up to show him the content.

“Brian bought it on the way here,” I say and start unwrapping the toothbrush.
“Along with the flowers,” I add before I put the plastic in my mouth to try and rip it open with my teeth. What's the point of wrapping a toothbrush like this, if I have to ruin my teeth to even get to use it?

“Oh, right. You didn't have one before,” Mikey says, sounding a bit off. When I look down at him, I can see guilt behind his amusement.
I take the wrapped up toothbrush out of my mouth and hold it down toward him.

“You try, then,” I say, changing the subject.

“Ew, no. You've had it in your mouth.”
I roll my eyes. I wipe it with my sleeve quickly, then hold it down toward him again, waving it around to convince him that he should try and open it.

“Fine,” he grunts, takes the thing out of my hands and carefully try to unwrap it – without touching it too much.

“I don't have AIDS, you know,” I say accusingly, suddenly realizing that he might actually think that. I've lived on the streets. I've slept in dumpsters. I don't think Mikey could ever think of me as a druggy, but I've slept in the same room as them, and I could've easily stepped on a syringe or someone might have infected me in some other way. Even I don't know if I've got AIDS.

“Here,” Mikey says, holding the toothbrush.
“Wasn't that hard,” he says smiling, throwing the plastic wrapper across the room, missing his trashcan by only 6 feet.

“Thanks.” I can't help but mumble. I take the toothbrush and run a thumb over the hairs. It hasn't been all that long since I've brushed my teeth actually. I brushed them two days ago. Still, my breath might smell badly now.
“I'm just gonna go use it,” I say, feeling incredibly contradicting as I turn around and walk toward the bathroom: I still feel like a guest, but going to the bathroom to brush my teeth seems like such a common thing to do, even though I've never done that here before.

I still have the paper bag in my hand, so I pull out the toothpaste, put some on the brush and start cleaning my teeth. I look up in the mirror like I've done so many times before when I've been here, and yet, I feel different.

“Frank?” Mikey calls as he walks towards the bathroom. I left the door open.
“Do you want some punch? My mom made some specially for Thanksgiving. It has just a tiny bit of brandy in it, but it tastes pretty good.”
Mikey looks a bit awkward when he asks.
I quickly nod.
He nods back, but still in an awkward way. He almost looks shy; as if he wants to ask something, but doesn't wanna come across as rude.
He's about to turn around when I pull the toothbrush out of my mouth and spit in the sink quickly.

“I have had a toothbrush for a while,” I say, trying to break the ice. I hope that's what he wanted to ask about. Or, well, I guess there's a lot he wants to ask about, but I hope that this tiny piece of information will make him more comfortable – and less awkward.
“I have a locker at the bus station. I have a toothbrush there.” Mikey nods and looks down at the corner of the doorway as he frowns. I look down at the toothbrush briefly, before I turn and spit in the sink again. I look back at Mikey.

“I have a lot of things there. Clothes. Shoes. Emergency crackers and jerkey.” I try to sound happy about the last part – try to ridicule that part – but it still comes across as degrading; to me. I hate eating meat, which is why I still have the jerkey. The crackers are old. I found them in a trashcan behind a grocery store. I try to avoid eating either of the two, but sometimes, I have to – I had to.

“I have a few pictures and stuff like that there too.” I try to make it sound good. After all, it's where I've kept my personal stuff for the past 6 months. At first, I carried it around with me, but when I realized what a hassle it was and how easy it was to steal, I found a locker at the bus station. I used the same coin every time I had to 'rent' it, but when Security found out about it, they disabled the pay mechanism so I could use the coin and still keep the locker. They gave me some jerkey too. I spent the coin on my girl.

“How long have you been...homeless?” Mikey asks, lowering his voice at the last word; as if it's a curse or something.
I don't consider it a curse word, really. It's not exactly a good word, but it's not a bad one either. I pretty much accepted that word a few months ago, when I realized my old house had been torn down to make room for a new and bigger one.

“7 months,” I whisper, looking down in shame. I feel guilty for not telling him, but really; what was I supposed to say? Had I said anything, he would've either laughed and not believed me, or he would've told his parents who would've then told the authorities and then I might've been in some horrible foster care home right now, unable to go to school. As things are now, I at least have a chance at finishing high school.
I hope.
I really don't wanna think about the risk of that not happening.

I look up and see Mikey still standing there, looking more awkward than before. I look down at the toothbrush and turn it in my hand. I know he's got so many questions, but maybe right now isn't the time. The thing is that if now isn't, the time might never come.
But maybe that's for the better.

I put the toothbrush back in my mouth.

“I've never tasted brandy,” I mumble.
I look up to see Mikey smiling softly. He seems relieved by my change of subject, but also a kind of disappointed. He looks let down in a... regretful way.

“Me neither,” he says, before he turns and walks down the hall. I turn to the sink and rinse my mouth thoroughly, not wanting the taste of mint to mess with my first taste of brandy.