Status: ACTIVE
Two Cans and a String
three.
Will and Jameson are on their flawlessly kept front yard, passing a ball back and forth, when I pull into my driveway. They take turns attempting to outdo each other, flicking the ball into the air and balancing it on the tops of their feet. I want to sit in my black Honda Civic and analyze their interactions. The concept of having a sibling is foreign to me.
“Mo!” Will calls once I step out of the vehicle and into the sun. My hair is knotted and my deodorant could have very well worn off, but I stop to listen anyway. The surface of the car is hot where I lean my hip against it. “What’re you doing tonight?”
The boys do not halt their game of pass as Will speaks to me. I can’t help but notice their stark contrast. Jameson, though three years younger than his older brother, stands at least two inches taller. It’s a feat considering Will’s already substantial height. His hair is a golden blonde, his face long and thin, marked with an attempt at growing facial hair.
“Got a hot date with my bookshelf,” I answer.
Will laughs. The noise is slow and throaty and I love hearing it almost as much as his stories. “Smitty is having a party. You should come.” It’s not a question but he says it like one. It’s a standard Will ploy. He acts like he’s allowing you to choose for yourself, but really he’s guilting you into it. He’s used this tactic on me for nine years.
A very large part of me knows that our friendship works due to our polarity. I’m not charismatic or conversational. Certainly not blithe. I’m not fuelled by being immersed in a crowd, I’m fuelled by being watched by one. I’m a solo artist and Will is a team player. He knows it’s a long shot, that’s why he said it the way he did. But the fact that he asked is enough to make me consider it because it makes me feel wanted somewhere.
“Maybe,” I say and his smile widens.
“Yeah?” Jameson has taken possession of the ball, juggling it in the air between his two feet, so Will breaks off from him and strolls toward me until he’s close enough that I can make out the blue of his irises. “That’s better than I was expecting.”
***
Eventually I decide not to go.
I was not popular in high school. It’s something that I’m really okay with, because I’d like to think of myself of someone who doesn’t need the approval of others to determine my worth. Still, the idea of attending a party with people from high school makes me a tad uncomfortable. I don’t want to have to act like I desire their approval in order to get along. In the end, I know I just wouldn’t have fun. Not even the presence of Captain William Thorbes, the Third and the Best could change that.
I’m two Netflix documentaries deep when the soft knocking on my front door begins. The door is locked, I know, because Mom and Dad are at some sort of fancy banquet that required a hotel stay and I’d flipped the deadbolt right after they’d stepped onto the porch. Still, my muscles tense and I glance at the clock before slowly unfurling myself from my position in the nest chair in order to peek through the curtains.
A dark figure stands swaying slightly back and forth. The person is still tapping their knuckles against the surface but more desperately now. With my heart in my throat, I creep toward the foyer, hoping to get a better look at the intruder. Standing on the balls of my feet, I press my eye to the peephole, splaying my hands against the smooth surface of the door for balance.
My unease dissipates once I see who it is and then resurges when I notice the state that he’s in. Dark liquid trickles over his chin and drips onto his chest. As I swing the door open he stumbles and I have surge forward and grasp the loose fabric of his jacket to steady him. “Jameson,” I breathe, “What happened?”
“Mo!” Will calls once I step out of the vehicle and into the sun. My hair is knotted and my deodorant could have very well worn off, but I stop to listen anyway. The surface of the car is hot where I lean my hip against it. “What’re you doing tonight?”
The boys do not halt their game of pass as Will speaks to me. I can’t help but notice their stark contrast. Jameson, though three years younger than his older brother, stands at least two inches taller. It’s a feat considering Will’s already substantial height. His hair is a golden blonde, his face long and thin, marked with an attempt at growing facial hair.
“Got a hot date with my bookshelf,” I answer.
Will laughs. The noise is slow and throaty and I love hearing it almost as much as his stories. “Smitty is having a party. You should come.” It’s not a question but he says it like one. It’s a standard Will ploy. He acts like he’s allowing you to choose for yourself, but really he’s guilting you into it. He’s used this tactic on me for nine years.
A very large part of me knows that our friendship works due to our polarity. I’m not charismatic or conversational. Certainly not blithe. I’m not fuelled by being immersed in a crowd, I’m fuelled by being watched by one. I’m a solo artist and Will is a team player. He knows it’s a long shot, that’s why he said it the way he did. But the fact that he asked is enough to make me consider it because it makes me feel wanted somewhere.
“Maybe,” I say and his smile widens.
“Yeah?” Jameson has taken possession of the ball, juggling it in the air between his two feet, so Will breaks off from him and strolls toward me until he’s close enough that I can make out the blue of his irises. “That’s better than I was expecting.”
***
Eventually I decide not to go.
I was not popular in high school. It’s something that I’m really okay with, because I’d like to think of myself of someone who doesn’t need the approval of others to determine my worth. Still, the idea of attending a party with people from high school makes me a tad uncomfortable. I don’t want to have to act like I desire their approval in order to get along. In the end, I know I just wouldn’t have fun. Not even the presence of Captain William Thorbes, the Third and the Best could change that.
I’m two Netflix documentaries deep when the soft knocking on my front door begins. The door is locked, I know, because Mom and Dad are at some sort of fancy banquet that required a hotel stay and I’d flipped the deadbolt right after they’d stepped onto the porch. Still, my muscles tense and I glance at the clock before slowly unfurling myself from my position in the nest chair in order to peek through the curtains.
A dark figure stands swaying slightly back and forth. The person is still tapping their knuckles against the surface but more desperately now. With my heart in my throat, I creep toward the foyer, hoping to get a better look at the intruder. Standing on the balls of my feet, I press my eye to the peephole, splaying my hands against the smooth surface of the door for balance.
My unease dissipates once I see who it is and then resurges when I notice the state that he’s in. Dark liquid trickles over his chin and drips onto his chest. As I swing the door open he stumbles and I have surge forward and grasp the loose fabric of his jacket to steady him. “Jameson,” I breathe, “What happened?”