Suburbia

Every day since we were ten I would walk home from school with Craig. I remember we were so proud to be given such freedom, such responsibility. We had run all the way home to prove to our parents we were able to get back on time, panting our goodbyes as we split down our separate roads, imagining our feet to be flying over the concrete slabs, not even gravity could stop us.

Not today though, today my feet move slowly and dejectedly, no accompanying patter to hurry them along. My head hangs stubbornly downwards, my hair struggling to conceal my face.

I look for cracks in the pavement, for some sort of marker that not completely everything here is as perfect as it had been before. But of course there are none, if a crack was spotted the offending block would be immediately removed, an entirely faultless one ready to take its place.

My thoughts are pierced suddenly by the unmistakeable whinny of that once familiar voice. I look up to see what undoubtedly hilarious prank Jackson was playing that was causing Riley to become so beside himself.

Sure enough, across the road Jackson is shoving someone around. And of course, that someone is Johnny Fisher, Jackson’s personal choice of punching bag. No one is really exactly sure why that was; Johnny really isn’t anything special, black hair, green eyes, not bad looking but not a complete hit with the girls. Not dumb but not smart, not weedy but not ridiculously athletic. He is entirely and completely average. But for some reason Jackson has it in for him.

I slow my footsteps to check that Jackson isn't about to start beating the living crap out of Johnny but with one final shove Jackson walks away, punching Riley in the shoulder as a goodbye.

Riley twists around smiling to himself before he turns towards me, catching my eye, and it slides off his face; he looks slightly ashamed of himself for a moment before he ducks his head down and begins to walk quickly away from me.

I think about running after him but the idea makes me cringe so I turn away and continue on my way home, my thoughts now punctured with bitter memories of Riley pre-Jackson edition.

I pull out my keys as I reach my door and look down at my tiny silver Nirvana key ring that I bought with Craig and Riley two years ago. I stare at it for a moment before I pull it off and throw it into my Mum’s prize pansy patch as I step through the door; it's stupid to get caught up in things that are long gone.

I head immediately towards the stairs before my Mum realises I was home. I traipse into my room, a throbbing beginning to settle behind my eye. I lay down on my bed and put on my headphones before closing my eyes and trying to get the music to drown out my headache and every other unwelcome thing in my head.

I sometimes wish I didn’t have a head at all, that’s where all the hurt is...

.

“Dinner everybody!” my eyes snap open as I hear my mum call up through the house. I ignore her for the moment and just close my eyes again and try to get the pounding in my head to quieten down. My headphones have slid off my bed onto the floor beside me.

I curl up and don't stir for a few minutes, thinking that if I don't move, whatever has fallen loose in my brain will settle down and slide back into place.

“Leland, that means you too!” I slowly unfurl myself and slide over to my door and out onto the landing. I rub my eyes as I come into the dining room to try and smooth out the thudding there.

Everyone is already seated with stiff backs in their assigned places as I sit down, no one is talking, “Look, I made your favourite, lasagne,” my mum smiles at me from across the table, I decide not to tell her my favourite is carbonara and merely nod.

My mum clatteres about serving everyone their portions, the serving spoon scraping against everyone’s plates with a piercing clarity in the silence. When she is seated once more my mum smiles around at everyone again with a slight desperation.

My dad clears his throat awkwardly, “So, how was your day?”

My mother gasps, “George, don’t be so crass! Leland won’t want to talk about his day! Not after what he’s been through!”

“Of course he does, don’t be absurd, Martha! It’ll be therapeutic for him. Do him some good. Go on, Leland, tell us what you did today,” he looks at me expectantly.

I study him for a moment before I answer.

“It doesn’t matter, does it,” I say slowly

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter, boy? Of course it matters.”

“It won’t matter what I say about it, you’ll ignore me if it’s different to what you want,” I tell him.

“What are you talking abou-,” he begins but I cut him off.

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it.”

My mum turns towards my dad with a triumphant look upon her face, “Oh don’t look at me like that,” my dad tells her contemptuously.

“I gave a presentation in science today and I got-,” Rory starts before my mum distractedly cuts him off with a “Very nice, Rory, very nice,” before she turns back to my dad, “What do you mean, don’t look at me like that? I’ll look at you however which way I like.”

Rory shoots me a look of dislike as my dad begins to retaliate (“I am the man of this household and I demand some respect!”)

I pick around my lasagne as my parents eventually descend into stony silence.

Eventually, the terrible, stretching silence is broken, “Would you like some more, Rory? You finished that quickly,” my mum asks tersely.

“No, I’m alright,”

“You’re a growing boy and you need good size portions, I’ll give you some more,” she insists.

“I said I don’t want any,” Rory says forcefully.

“You will have more, young man, you’ve been looking awfully thin lately,” her voice grows sharper as she picks up the lasagne plate and tries to ladle it out.

“I don’t want any!” Rory protests, vehemently pushing the plate away.

And at the precise moment that the plate crashes to floor and smashes into hundreds of tiny pieces, and in the crushing silence that follows while everyone stares at the broken bits, the doorbell rings.

No one goes to get it.

And no one goes when it rings again.

No one even moves.

I rise from my seat slowly as it rings the third time, “I’ll go get that,” I murmur softly. No one responds.

I hear the slight shuffling of movement behind me as I headed to the door, everyone slowly starting to pick up the pieces.

As I walk through the hallway, I can barely see more than a faint silhouette through the frosted glass of the front door, but somehow I know who it is going to be before I open it.

And sure enough, there she is, standing underneath the glaring porch light with a look of intense nervousness playing on her features.

“I have to tell you something,” says Eve.