Being Wrong

Charlie frowned at the tray of roast food as his grandma lifted the chicken out onto a plate. "I can't eat that."

"And why is that?" his grandma asked, voice tired.

Charlie pointed to the carrots in amongst the potatoes and pumpkin. "I'm allergic to carrots."

His grandma gave him a critical look. "Well I'm not sure I believe that, but I suppose I'll let you off just in case if you have a double serve of pumpkin."

Charlie fidgeted. "But they were cooked in the same tray. They have carrot juice on them."

His grandma sighed and swatted him out of the way. "Honestly, I am so sick and tired of you trying to get out of eating my food. You will eat it and you will be fine. Go and set the table."

Charlie shifted anxiously back and forth on his feet before nodding and going to get plates from the cupboard. Maybe if it was just a little carrot juice, if he didn't eat the carrot itself, it wouldn't hurt him. He didn't want another fight. He was so tired of fighting.

Even so, when he sat down to eat with his grandma and grandpa he did his best to cut off the parts of the food that had touched the juices. He remembered what had happened last time, how he'd felt like he was dying, and he definitely never wanted to experience that again. It was difficult to force his food down when he was upset, but he didn't want to get in trouble so he made himself.

Charlie was halfway through his food and just starting to think he might have managed to avoid setting off his allergies when he noticed the tingly, itchy feeling in his mouth. He stopped eating immediately and dropped his forked as he leant away from the table, eyeing his food as though it might attack him at any moment.

"Keep eating," his grandma told him, a warning tone in her voice. "That's not nearly enough. I thought you were so skinny because your father hadn't been feeding you right, but I’m starting to see the real reason for that."

Normally mention of his dad would have upset Charlie, but just then he was more focussed on the growing tightness in his throat. He rubbed at his neck with his fingers, as though that could do anything.

"Charlie," Charlie's grandma scolded when he ignored her.

"Listen to your grandmother, Charlie," Charlie's grandpa said. He sounded tired. He always sounded tired.

"I need a doctor," Charlie said, his voice coming out hoarse.

"What?" his grandpa asked.

Tears prickled at Charlie's eyes. What if they didn't believe him, if they just let him die because they thought he was faking it? His dad may have set his allergies off on purpose that one time, but at least he'd helped Charlie afterwards. At least he'd never accused Charlie of lying about it.

Charlie slumped forward and gripped his throat as he began coughing impulsively, his body trying to dislodge an obstruction that wasn't there as his airways constricted.

"Charlie?" his grandpa asked, concern in his voice.

"He's allergic to carrots," his grandma said.

"Then why the hell did you give him carrots, woman?" Charlie's grandpa demanded.

Charlie felt hands on him but wasn't sure whose until his head was lifted and he saw his grandpa. He studied Charlie for a moment before shaking his head. "Call an ambulance."

It was both relieving and terrifying to hear those words. They believed him, they would get him help, but he'd need to go to the hospital to receive it. He remembered last time, after the police raid, all the touching and confusion and tests. He wasn't sure if the painful pounding of his heart was a result of anxiety or the anaphylaxis.

While his grandma called the ambulance, Charlie's grandpa helped him out of the chair and had him lay down on the carpet in the living room. It was slightly easier to breathe with his neck straightened out, but Charlie was still wheezing desperately. He felt like he was being choked. His grandpa was talking, maybe giving instructions or reassurances, but his words were meaningless to Charlie's ears.

The ambulance seemed to come more quickly than expected, and after that everything was a blur. He was vaguely aware of someone touching him and felt a sharp pain when a needle pierced his thigh. His consciousness wavered as he was carried out to the ambulance on a stretcher.

Charlie wanted to run away and hide and for this not to be happening. Why hadn't he just said no? He used to be so good at doing that, at screaming it if he needed to over even the smallest things. His dad had broken him of that too well. He was weak now, so easily hurt by others and with no way to stand up for himself. He wanted to scream just to prove he still could, that he could respond to stress with something other than silence and compliance, but he could barely even breathe. As soon as he was in the ambulance, they placed an oxygen mask over his face and the feeling of suffocation began to recede.

It wasn't until he heard his grandma's quiet sniffles that Charlie realised she was in the ambulance with him. He felt guilt run through him, quickly followed by renewed rage. Why did he have to feel guilty? This was her fault. Why did he have to feel this way? But he did, and he couldn't make it go away. He couldn't hear her crying and not feel like it was because he'd messed up once again.

Though his symptoms had receded dramatically by the time they reached the hospital, everything just became more of a blur. At some point, after he could breathe again, he was fairly sure they gave him something to make him relax because the tension left his body and he stopped shaking. He lay awake, staring at the wall, his mind nothing but static.

Charlie stayed in the hospital for the rest of the night and all the next day, and when he was finally allowed to leave they gave him a device called an epinephrine autoinjector. It looked like a pen and they showed him how to use it and told him to keep it with him at all times.

His grandma wouldn't stopped asking him why. Why, when he had such a severe allergy, he had intentionally eaten food that had touched the thing he was allergic to? Charlie just shrugged, said he didn't know. He was fairly sure 'because you told me to' wasn't the right answer.

When he woke up the next morning, much too late to go to school, he found a pair of new batteries laying on his bedside table next to his lamp. He tucked them under his pillow and then headed out of his room, still dressed in his pyjamas. He followed sounds of activity to the kitchen and found a half full garbage bag sitting in the middle of the kitchen and his grandma sorting through items in the larder.

She turned and gave Charlie a strained smile when she heard him walk in. "You'd be amazed how many things have carrots in them. Look at all this."

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. Back home he'd been the one to check the ingredients on products because his dad always forgot, so he doubted he would be surprised. "You could keep them and eat them yourselves."

Charlie's grandma gave a sharp shake of her head and her lips pressed together in a tight line. "No, I won't have it in my house. Who knows what kinds of contamination, or... I think it's just best to get rid of it all."

"Can I help?"

The smile she gave Charlie this time was more genuine, though it still wavered at the edges. "No, sweetheart, you rest today."

Charlie hesitated for a moment, sure there was something he should do or say but not knowing what. Finally he nodded, then went back to his room to listen to his music.

#

The moment Travis had seen the ambulance outside the house next door, he'd known it had been there for Charlie. Well, okay, he hadn't known. He'd feared and that had turned to dread, which tended to give false impressions of knowing things. In truth, Travis still didn't actually have any concrete knowledge.

He'd seen the ambulance Wednesday night, but not who left in it or what condition they had been in. When Charlie wasn't in maths class on Thursday, Travis' worry only grew. When he was still absent on Friday, Travis began to get anxious.

It didn't really make sense to be so concerned. Travis hardly knew Charlie. Sure, concern for your fellow man was a good thing, but Travis had never been one to be terribly preoccupied with those he wasn't actually close friends with. Travis tried to tell himself that, tried to accept the fact that this didn't involve him and whatever had happened had happened and didn't require him to care, but he couldn't let it go. He couldn’t just go and knock on their door and ask because Charlie had made it clear enough they weren’t friends, but all weekend he found himself glancing out the window at Charlie's house, seeking out any signs he might be there.

By Monday, Travis knew just as little as he had when he'd first seen the ambulance. He hadn't seen Charlie, but then how much did that even mean? He’d only seen Charlie outside of school a couple of times before all this happened. Of course, Travis had never actually sought Charlie out before.

So that was why, when he walked into maths class on Monday afternoon and saw Charlie sitting quietly at the back, flipping through his textbook, Travis sat down next to him despite the silent agreement they seemed to have come to about never interacting with one another again.

"I saw an ambulance outside your place Wednesday night," Travis said when Charlie didn't acknowledge him. "Everything okay?"

Charlie looked up from his textbook and considered Travis for a moment, his expression unreadable. When he finished his assessment he returned his gaze to his textbook, but his eyes remained fixed on a single point and it was clear his attention was still on Travis. "I'm allergic to carrots and I ate some things that touched them, so I had to go to the hospital."

Travis' eyebrows shot up. "Wow. That bad?"

"I think I almost died," Charlie said, and somehow it managed to come out musing rather than dramatic or attention seeking. "I mean, they didn't say that, but I think I did. It was really hard to breathe, and I think it would have gotten worse."

Travis pressed his lips together firmly to keep them from twisting into whatever facial expression they were trying to translate the knotting sensation in his gut into. Not that Charlie was looking at him anyway. "I'm glad you didn't die."

"Yeah, that would have made my grandma feel really bad."

Travis frowned. That had sounded far too genuine to make any sense. "The whole part where you would no longer be alive would be more my concern."

"Well I guess, but I'd be dead so that wouldn't really matter to me. I wouldn't want my grandma to have deal with knowing it was because of her I died."

"She cook the food?"

Charlie nodded. "And told me to eat it even though I said I was allergic to carrots because she didn't believe me. I guess that's my fault for always complaining about the food, but I wouldn't lie about it."

"That's fucked up. She should feel bad."

Charlie shrugged. "That doesn't really do anything, her feeling bad. It doesn't make anyone else feel any better. I guess it might change the choices she makes in the future, though, and that could be good."

"You're not angry?"

"No. I was, but now I’m just tired.”

"Well, I'll be angry on your behalf, then."

"Don't," Charlie said. "I don't think anger would suit you. You're so peaceful."

Travis couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. "You're kind of weird, you know, but I like it. I wish I hadn't made things all weird between us. I'm sorry about that."

Charlie didn't look up, but his eyebrows drew together and his lips twisted into a frown. "I thought that was my fault. I don't think I really understand what happened."

"I made you uncomfortable by coming out to you in a really awkward way."

"Oh..." Charlie was silent for a moment, his lips pressed together in contemplation. "No, I think you made yourself uncomfortable. I read about this. It's called projection."

"You wouldn't even make eye contact with me the next day."

"I'm not making eye contact with you now, either," Charlie pointed out.

"Well, yeah, but you're talking to me."

Charlie shrugged. "You started a conversation."

"Do you want me to go away?"

"No." Charlie let out a frustrated sigh. "You don't get it."

"Clearly."

Charlie was silent for so long that Travis thought the conversation was over, but as soon as Travis opened his textbook Charlie spoke again. "Thank you for worrying about me. I don't care that you're gay."

Travis couldn't help the grin that overtook his lips, nor the heat that rose in his face when Charlie glanced up and caught sight of it. "Thanks. I promise not to sing gay songs to you again. That was weird."

"It was a good song," Charlie murmured. "I liked it."

No, Travis told himself, that does not mean he likes you. It means he's weird and doesn't get how that sounds like flirting.

"If you want to come over again, you can," Travis said. "I mean, if your grandparents are giving you a hard time or whatever, you can just come and chill. If you want."

"Thanks."

Travis was about to say something else, probably something stupid that would be embarrassing in retrospect, when the teacher finally walked in and saved him from his mouth. Travis opened up his textbook and did his best to focus on maths rather than the cute boy sitting next to him.