Tiptoe Through the True Bits

As the days progressed, I grew painfully aware that I was rapidly becoming known around the locker rooms and corridors of my school as “that girl who never talks.”

Sometimes, I would pass people in the hallways and they would halt their whispering as I came into view, only to continue as soon as I had passed. Some others were not so subtle. Every now and then I would catch a few hushed words thrown in my direction as they gossiped and speculated. Words like “attention-seeking” and “pathetic.”

You see so many movies and TV shows about life in American high schools that you may think that none of it can possibly be true; that people simply cannot be that cruel or judgemental or conceited. And, up until all of this happened, I used to think that very same thing.

But I was wrong.

I was now experiencing the dark side of human nature, and I never thought it could be this unpleasant.

But there was some relief. For every bitchy Chloe Edwards type, out to make my life as miserable as possible, there was a person roaming the halls who just plain didn’t give a shit about me. There were other people out there who had their own problems to concern themselves with, who had no time for petty remarks and childish hearsay. These were the people I was actually grateful for.

Attention was never my goal. In fact, attention is the exact opposite of what I wanted. I wanted to blend into the background and just get on with my life, getting through the days with as little effort as possible. And for the most part, I forced myself to do this. Every time I got a funny glance or overheard somebody talking about me, I would turn to give them a look with one raised eyebrow, letting them know that I thought they were pathetic for getting so involved with my life when it was none of their fucking business.

My faux-friends would throw me awkward smiles if we were ever to pass each other, but I tended to ignore these. They were not gossiping about me to my knowledge, but as far as I was concerned, they were even worse than those who were. Because they had the opportunity to be there for me, to establish themselves as decent people, and instead they chose to exclude me. Over summer I had barely heard a single word from any of them. They did not come over to see if I was okay, or offer to take me out to take my mind of things, or even send an obligatory text asking how I was. Hardly a peep since the fire.

I honestly think that if they had been better friends, I would not be where I am today. They’re all cowards. For somebody who used to spend so much time with those people, and somebody who used to pride myself on my ability to see the good in everybody, I was quickly becoming nothing more than a bitter old witch, full of resent and disgusted by my peers.

I came to accept that I had only one friend now. And although he always made an effort to meet up with me, and I was aware that it must have been difficult to sustain any kind of relationship with somebody as fucked-up as myself, in the back of my mind I always suspected that Gerard was only ever around because he was being forced into it by the shrink. But I tried to ignore these thoughts as much as possible. We had a good time together, and he was nicer to me than I probably deserved, and he would insist that I always go over to his for a meal, that I was more than welcome in his house at any time and that he was always there if I needed him. He was a perfect gentleman, and over just a few days I came to depend on him so much that it actually scared me. I had been telling myself that I didn’t need anybody in my life, but truth be told, I was starting to crave the human contact. Every minute I was apart from Gerard, I was thinking about him, to the point that it was shameful and embarrassing.

And when I was with him, I could never wipe that stupid smile off my face, and I could never stop wondering why he was so nice to me. Of course, Dr. Gould knew all of that without me speaking a single word. Just seeing me sitting next to him during our “group therapy” meeting that week was enough to slap a huge, smug grin across his face, and I knew that he was watching me the whole time Gerard was discussing the growth of our friendship.

I still got a little nervous and flushed whenever Gerard and I physically touched, whether it be a hug or an accidental brushing of the knuckles as we walked, but for the most part I tried to ignore the fluttery feelings in the interest of keeping the only true friend I had ever really known.

I was sure that I would never find anybody who would understand me the way that Gerard seemed to.

I was wrong about that, too.



Do you ever get life envy? Do you ever just look at a stranger in the street, and take note of their gait and their fashion sense and their haircut, and just think “holy fuck, I would love to be you”?

When I was a more secure person internally, I rarely got this feeling because my own life was pretty damned great. But recently I found myself wishing more and more that I could trade lives with someone, even if only for a day or two.

The source of my life envy in this case was the girl sitting opposite me at the Ways’ kitchen table on this particular Friday evening. Her name was Amberlyn, and she was beautiful. She was tall and slim and softly spoken, with incredible scarlet hair and wide, chocolate-coloured eyes. But these physical attributes, as appealing as they were, were not what caused my envy. It was the confidence she exhumed, the way she cracked jokes as we ate, the way Gerard’s parents smiled broadly at her, and the way she seemed to glow with self-assurance.

She was Mikey’s girlfriend, and at only sixteen these traits were more than remarkable. The reason I think I was so entranced by her was the fact that she was so similar to how I used to be at that age. I used to be so comfortable around others, and chatty and adorable, and now I am a fucking mess.

Despite my jealousy and my nostalgia as I carefully watched her interact with the Ways, the family I had forced myself upon and come to consider as my own (and they were certainly more hospitable and understanding than my own, cooking me an evening meal most days and, I’m told, questioning my absence from the house the previous night) I could not bring myself to dislike her. She was impossible to deny. So bright and cheerful and friendly that it was infectious.

It’s no wonder Mikey couldn’t stop gazing at her with teenage adoration, or that Don openly admired her, or that Gerard chuckled at every joke she made, or that Donna didn’t mind when she simply picked at her food, managing a measly few mouthfuls before declaring that she could not possibly eat another bite.

Even I found myself smiling across at her, ultimately relieved that she was more than happy with this gesture, rather than a full-blown conversation. At first, she seemed a little startled to see me, presumably having already been warned of my habits and fragility prior to this, but she gave me a gracious hug anyway and said it was nice to meet me.

After dinner, as the boys helped their mother with the dishes, and Don excused himself to his office, I found myself sitting alone with her in the living room, staring at something on the TV but not really paying any attention to it.

“I know what happened to your parents,” Amberlyn suddenly informed me, making me sit up and look at her. She was rubbing her lips together nervously and scratching the back of her neck. “I’m really sorry.”

I cast my eyes downward and nodded, not really caring to guess where she might have acquired this information. It was pretty common knowledge around school and the local community, so I was not particularly incredulous to the fact that she knew. I just accepted her sympathy with a brave smile, and a light nod of acknowledgement.

“I know it must hurt,” she soon added, picking herself up from the couch across the room and sitting herself down next to me, on Gerard’s beanbag chair. “But I promise you it gets easier.”

Once again, I didn’t concern myself with wondering how she knew that, or what gave her the right to say it. I was just grateful to know that somebody else cared. So I looked back up at her and smiled again, a little less forced this time, and she grinned softly back at me.

“Hey, Sanders,” I heard Gerard growl playfully from the doorway, resting casually against the frame. “You’re in my seat.”

Amberlyn rolled her eyes and pulled herself to her feet, making her way back to the couch as Mikey also entered the room, greeting her with a quick peck on the cheek as they both fell back into the soft fabric, holding hands.

I remember being sixteen and in love...

Gerard gave them a look of mock-disgust and rolled his eyes at me. “You want to leave the lovebirds to it, El?” he asked me, his mouth curved into a smile.

My heart skipped a beat as he tested this new nickname. I had never had a nickname before, but I quite liked it. It made me feel comfortable and reassured me that Gerard considered me a friend, and not just some weird loner girl who he hung around with out of obligation.

I smiled back up at him, hoping that all of this would be articulated in my expression, and I jumped out of the beanbag chair with as much grace and dignity as I could muster, following him out of the living room and down the steps towards his dungeon bedroom, my heart still racing at around a thousand beats per minute.

“So, you like Ambs?” Gerard asked, sprawling himself across his unmade bed and rubbing his stomach, allowing me to catch glimpses of the pale flesh beneath his shirt.

I flopped down on the bed beside him, also horizontal as we both stared up at the ceiling, and nodded vigorously in response to his question. He turned his head to the side and I mimicked him, so that we were almost nose-to-nose as we stared across at each other. I felt heat rise through my body up to my cheeks, so quickly averted my gaze back up to his ceiling, biting my lip anxiously as I fended off my lusty teenage desires. Damned hormones.

I heard Gerard sigh, and he too turned back to the ceiling, both of us laying in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I don’t know about him, but I was pondering the reaction he might give if I leapt onto him and began to feverishly kiss him then and there.

On the one hand, it could have been beautiful. He could have placed his hands on either side of my head and pulled me closer into him, and kissed me with such mad fervour that I would not be able to resist a quiet groan of pleasure as he continued to deepen our kiss, rip off all of our clothes and not stop to think once before allowing himself to explore every zone of his body as I bit my lip until it bled, just to stop myself from screaming out his name.

On the other hand, he could have pushed me away immediately, asking me what the fuck I thought I was doing and demanding that I get out of his house right now. I could imagine the look on his face if this scenario were to play out, probably not too dissimilar from the look he had worn a few days before when told that they were going to stop showing marathons of Maury on a Sunday afternoon: a look of pure disgust and contempt. And to see this look directed at me would break my heart into a million little pieces, so I refrained myself from acting upon any of these impulses and I instead allowed myself to exhale quite loudly, hoping to expel all of these confused thoughts.

“That was a big sigh,” Gerard commented, and when I glanced over I could see a smirk playing across his face as he continued to stare upwards.

I shrugged and sat back up, bringing my legs up to chest and wrapping my arms around them, resting my head on my bended knees. Gerard then also brought himself into a more upright position, resting his weight back onto his elbows and reclining casually, chewing on his bottom lip, seemingly lost in thought.

Eventually, and I’m not sure how long it took for him to break the silence, he looked across to me and gave me a weak smile. He opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to stop himself at the last moment, leaving his mouth a little ajar for a couple more seconds before resummoning his courage. “I tried to kill myself,” were the words that escaped his perfect mouth, and almost immediately he seemed to recoil a little, seemingly surprised at himself for divulging this information to me.

I widened my eyes and bit my lip, not really knowing any other response that might be appropriate. I allowed a couple of seconds to digest the implications of this revelation, before unfurling myself from my foetal position and wrapping my arms around Gerard’s neck, enveloping him in an awkward sideways sitting-down hug. I felt his head fall into the crook between my shoulder and my neck, and I dug my fingertips into the tops of his arms, hoping that he knew this meant I was here for him and that I understood.

I can’t say the thought of suicide never crossed my mind before. For a couple of days leading up to my parents’ funeral, I was so full of grief and angst and guilt that ending it all seemed quite appealing. But I came to realise that it was stupid, and that I was stronger than that. Perhaps there was a reason that I was not in the house when the fire began. Perhaps fate had something else in mind for me.

I guess I always liked to think that there were higher orders responsible for everything. Not a God, per say, but possibly some divine power that takes responsibility for these sorts of events. Because if everything really does happen for a reason, there is always the hope that something good is coming and that everything will turn out okay in the end.

As I sat with Gerard’s head buried into my shoulder, I considered the possibility that my purpose right now – the reason I couldn’t bring myself to act upon these depressive urges all those weeks ago – was that I was meant to help Gerard through his problems. And the reason he failed in ending his own life was to help me through my own. Perhaps fate had decided our destinies would collide a long time ago.

Upon first meeting Gerard, I remarked upon how normal he seemed. And up until this point, I couldn’t fathom why he might have been sent to a psychiatrist. But obviously something had happened to give him reasonable cause to want to hurt himself, and obviously he needed help for that. I just couldn’t believe how well he managed to hide it. We had been friends for just five days, but this was the first insight I had been given into his problems, and I could think of nothing else to do but hold him close and let him know that I was a friend, and he could talk to me about anything.

He was just as fucked-up as me.

We’re all the same, really.