Me and Oli Talking

“Lollipop, is that you?” Mom has used this term of endearment since I was about five years old. I’m pretty sure it was my dad who had started the nickname.
I drop my keys in the red and orange striped bowl by the door, “Yeah, Maw! It’s me!”
Kicking off my shoes, I begin rubbing my temples and pad into the kitchen. I find mom standing over the stove, three pots boiling as she stirs the fourth with a wooden spoon. The center island is a wonderland of haphazardly placed mixing bowls and precariously perched spoons and utensils. But, my God! The smell is wonderful! I love seeing my mother in the place that makes her the most comfortable, the more confident in herself. She was offered several scholarships to prestigious culinary schools and even got a letter from some high-end chef in New York, but said she couldn’t accept because of my dad and me. “My place is here with my family not in some kitchen busting my ass for ungrateful customers.”
“Oh, good! Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. Will you go check in on your father for me, Sweetie?”
I climbed the stairs and count the doors down the hall way.
One… Two… Three…
Here is the shrine of my dying father. The curtains on the big portrait windows are drawn, the only light coming from the machines keeping my father alive. The only sounds are of the beeps heart monitor and the sound of the machine assisting in my father’s breathing. It’s been six years and my mother still has a glimmer of hope that maybe someday when I come up here and talk to him that maybe, just maybe, he’ll respond and come out of what ever condition he’s in. I was twelve when the accident with my dad occurred. They kept telling me I was too young to know what happened and eventually I gave up in trying to figure it out. I was daddy’s little girl and suddenly my daddy was snatched away from me by a cruel and unforgiving fate. Every day I come up to this room and talk to him, hoping that one day he’ll hear his daughter’s voice and decide to live again. Lately, my hope has been dwindling.

“Dad, its me,” my whisper is barely audible over the beeping machines and respirator thingy. “It’s always me… I miss you, but of course you already know that, or should at least. I only tell you every day.”
I look down at my hands clasped tightly around one of his pale, limp ones. “Oli is letting me paint him in art class. You should see some of my paintings. I hope to show you them all someday… Mom needs you dad. Its only a matter of time before she checks out again and you know it. She’s always been unable to handle pressure like this. Lately, she’s becoming more frantic. Forgetting what she’s come into a room for. Starting to fold laundry then going to bake cookies, going back to the laundry, starting a puzzle, forgetting the cookies. One of these days she’s going to burn the house down.”
I gaze at the long, thick lashes that fringe his blue eyes that, at one point in time, shown like a sea just after a storm. His chest expands like a balloon and sinks like its been let out of air. It is, however, steady, and that’s all we can ask for right now. I raise his hand to my face and lightly kiss his knuckles.
“I… I need you, Dad,” hot tears prick the backs of my eyes and threaten to surface, “If.. When she checks out, I’ll need someone here to help me. I can’t handle it. I need help. SHE needs help.”
I sniff and straighten up, “Come back, Daddy…”

“Lita!”
Oliver jogs up to me as I walk to our coffee shop. It’s a beautiful day; not too cold, not too hot. There’s a slight breeze that washes over you, bringing with it the smell of the greenery. The birds all sing and hum delightful little tunes, the bees buzz, the sun shines; and there’s Oli.
“Hey, what’s up, Buttercup?” I give him a faint smile.
“Coffee’s on me.” his reply is out of nowhere, “it’s the least I can do for not being there yesterday and for acting so weird. I was sick. I just didn’t want you to catch whatever I had. I’m really sorry.”
“’Tis fine, my dear friend,” I throw an arm around his shoulder, a difficult task for one with my stature.
He pokes me and I slip my arm around his waist in our usual fashion. Mara pokes fun at us sometimes, teasing about how he look like one of those old couples who have been together for like forty years and still show affection towards each other like two love struck teenagers.
Oli walks with his head tilted back looking up at the cloudless sky. His arm around my shoulders. These moments are what I cherish. Moments when it’s just Oli and I in our own little world. There’s nothing else. All the pain and sadness and gloom fade and all that’s left is me and him. The wind catches bits of his blue-black hair, bringing it into his eyes. He blows it away with a puff of breath. His Chucks make a soft crunch when they connect with the gravel on the side of the road. A car goes by and honks at him, yelling cheerfully and waving enthusiastically. He smiles and waves back in his polite manner. Somehow, everyone over looks the fact that Oliver is in our little group of outcasts. He’s so loved by everyone. I’ve not heard a single bad thing about this kid the whole while I’ve been here.
“Hey, why so down, Lollipop?” Oli’s use of my mother’s nickname for me irks me every so slightly, “You look like you’ve just witnessed Mufasa’s death yourself! Ya know, if it wasn’t an animated Disney film, and if you were Simba.”
“It’s nothing.”
Oliver steps in front of me, stopping me dead in my tracks. I try to hide my face from his seemingly all-knowing eyes. I can feel those dark orbs boring into me and I’m forced to look up at him.
“Lolita, we’ve discussed this,” His face and voice take on a serious matter, “Liars go to hell.”
“Oliver!” I glare at him, “I’ll tell you later, okay? I don’t wanna ruin the potential of a great day with my Debby Downer-ness.”
He holds out his hand with his pinky raise, “Pinky swear?”
I hook my pinky in with his, “Pinky swear.”
“So, I was thinking that since your mom has been a little stressed out lately, I could stay the night and we could make dinner and clean the house for her. Ya know take some of the load off for her. We just have to get her out of the house.”
I snort, “Yeah! Good luck with that one!”
Oliver gives me this funny look of his; one eye brow raise, a glint of mischief in his eye, and a finger lifted to my face. “You doubt me?”
“Yes, very much so.” I say, giving him my most determined expression.
He laughs before exclaiming, “You just wait.”

“Ahoy, Mara!” Oliver greets our friend behind the coffee shop’s cash register.
“Oliber. Lolli.” Mara says without looking up from counting the money in her register, “The usual?”
“Yeah, except add a croissant to that order.” I look at Oliver with a weird expression. He never eats here. It’s nothing against the shop’s food, it’s just he has a weird thing about eating in public other than school. Makes him self-conscious or something like that. I have no idea, he’s an odd guy.
We find a couch against a wall where I kick my boot clad feet up on the coffee table. Oliver uses the bridge made by my legs has a foot rest. Through the speakers We Are the In Crowd plays softly and around the shop small groups of kids have gathered to discuss music, fashion, school, drama and so on. On the small stage at the back of the shop, a lanky guy with a Skrillex hair cut and thick rimmed glasses is reading off some of his poetry. When he’s done his group claps politely and he takes a bow. Outside, a woman sits with a dog while a small child tugs on the animal’s ears. Behind the counter the sounds of the various coffee machines and cooking appliances can be heard, almost drowning out the music playing over head entirely. The smell of various coffees and edible items wafts through the air. In the midst of my observations, Mara comes out from behind the counter carrying an iced caramel latte and a mint frappe in one hand and flaky, buttered croissant in the other.
“Order up, Turtle Doves!” Her face scrunches up into her “look at you two lookin like a couple” look. “Try not to gross out the other customers.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” I let the sarcasm flow freely into those three short, fake laughs, “You’re a funny person, Mara. Fuuuuunny. You should be a stand up comedian, make it your profession. I think you could really excel at it. Trust me.”
Mara perches herself on the edge of the table I am currently using as a foot rest, “Did you guys hear about girl for uptown.”
“The nice side of town?” I ask, curious.
“Yeah.”
Oliver shifts uncomfortably by my side and shakes his head.
“Police were called over late last night. I guess the upper class have their issues too.” she crosses her legs and leans in ever so slightly and lowers her voice, “I guess, last night her old man came home a wee bit hammered. Beat the brakes off of the girl, her mom, AND her brother. The guy was drug out of the house this morning still half drunk screaming profanities.”
I look at Oli. His eyes are down cast and he’s playing with his fingers nervously. I eye him suspiciously, “Just came home and beat em?”
“Yup, that’s what Papa told me this morning when I woke up.” Her dark eyes flit over to Oliver before darting back to me, “It’s sad really. I mean I guess this has happened before. The beating I mean. That girl never showed any signs of it. In fact, the police reports say that they never called in a report about it. No one ever knew what was going on until last night. Neighbors called the police when the screaming started. The girl’s mother is in intensive care.”
“Whoa,” I am honestly flabbergasted.
“Mara! Quit socializing and get back to work!” Mara’s boss hates it when she leaves the counter unattended and already a line as started to form in her absence.
“Sorry!” She calls, “Hey, I’ll talk to you guys at school. I got to get back to work before Reggie kills me.”

Oli and I walk shoulder to shoulder. He’s rambling on and on about this book he’s reading right now but I’m paying no mind. I chewed on the straw of my iced coffee and contemplate what Mara had just told us. I had heard about stuff like this when we lived in LA for a brief period, but I mean around here? I would have never have thought. I wonder who the girl was; I mean I wouldn’t know her seeing as she’s part of that crowd at school that mocks my every move but still. I just get bring myself to believe that something like this would happen to something with her social status. I suppose every society has it’s little secrets and actions in which they just shut out and pretend to ignore.
In the midst of my thinking, the toe of my boot catches the root of a tree growing beside the sidewalk, sending me sprawling across the concrete. I feel the sting of ripping flesh on palms and knees even through my jeans. I roll over onto my back and slowly sit up; taking inventory of my wounds. There’s already blood seeping through the denim of my jeans and the heel of my hands shine red. Hissing, I gingerly touch my right knee and wipe the blood from my hands. I pick gravel out of my palm and knees as Oliver squats beside me to look at the damage.
“C’mon,” he says as he picks me up and sets me of my feet, “We better get you home before you bleed to death. I’ll piggyback you home. C’mon.”
He bends his knees and leans over a little bit, allowing me to jump onto his back. I wrap my arms around his neck and he loops his arms under my knees. Resting my chin on his shoulder I thank him.
“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs, “You’re my best friend. That’s what friends do.”