Chapter 11

I pretend to be sick for the next three days.

            It’s cowardly, I know. At Valley Academy, you need to be very sick to skip classes, so I make my foolproof fake-vomit recipe. It’s a jar of peanut butter, diluted with water and poured carefully into the toilet. I used it for years, back when going to school was sometimes too much to bear. It always works, and for one reason only: no one wants to look at vomit too closely.

            I feel guilty when people come to visit me. Pearson makes a card, a scrap piece of paper folded in half with FEEL BETTER HOLLY scrawled on it in his messy printing. Elijah and Hudson steal some chicken noodle soup from the kitchen, and they heat it up in a measuring cup so it’s warm. Violet takes my temperature three times a day and records it on a graph. She’s stumped as to why my temperature is completely normal. I decide to let her wonder about it scientifically.

            During the day, I study my French conjugations. I count the hairs on my arms. I practice what I’m going to say to Brighton, when I’m forced to have face-to-face contact with him. Just thinking about the dialogue makes me want to throw up for real.

            Holly: Hello, Brighton.

            Brighton: (Gives Holly the glare of death) Holly.

            Holly: (Trembling with fear) I’m really sorry about everything that happened. Pearson and I are just friends, and he snuck into my room to pull a prank on Violet and I.

            Brighton: I don’t know what to believe anymore.

            Holly: Believe me!

            Brighton: (Stalks away in disgust and never speaks to Holly again, because she is a pathetic excuse for a human being and does not deserve the attention of such a kind-hearted, selfless boy).

            On Wednesday, the last day of my prolonged sickness, Madeleine comes to visit me. The mere sight of her makes my heart stop in my chest. How could I have forgotten about Madeleine? Losing Brighton means I’m losing Madeleine, too. I haven’t been to tutoring in ages- my sickness tethers me to my bedroom- so I assume Violet or Pearson have been teaching her reading lessons.

            “Holly?” Madeleine stands in my doorway, as if she’s not sure whether or not to come in. “Are you contagious?”

            “No. Come in, Madeleine.”
            She walks slowly towards my bed. “I’m sorry that you’re sick.”
            “Thanks. I’m feeling much better now.” I sit up and throw off my covers. I have so much I want to say to her, but I don’t know where to start.

            “Brighton told me that he doesn’t like you anymore.”

            Ouch. I wasn’t expecting him to be so blunt. “Good. He shouldn’t like me.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because I don’t deserve him.”

            “I think you deserve him.” She traces the butterfly pattern on my bed-sheets thoughtfully, and I envy how easy these things are for an eight-year old. “He says that he loved you before, but the feelings weren’t mootal so it never would have worked out.”

            “Mutual,” I say. And when her meaning catches up to me, I start crying. Because I know that she’s right.

***

That night, both Brighton and Pearson come to visit me. It’s one uncomfortable visit after another.

            Brighton is first. He sits in the desk chair and doesn’t look at me for nearly five minutes. I know because I timed it, watching the clock above Brighton’s head tick and tick. When he finally opens his mouth, the first thing he says is, “I’m sorry that you’re sick.” And it makes me feel like a complete jerk, because even when Brighton’s in the wrong, he’s still going to be kinder than I ever am.

            “Thanks,” I say quietly.

            “We need to talk.”
            “I know.”

            Then we wait another five minutes. If I knew this visit was going to take so long, I would have locked my door. “So,” I say, because I really can’t wait anymore, “I think we should discuss, you know…”

            Brighton nods. “Yes. Our relationship. I never got the full story, so maybe you could explain...Pearson. Why he was in your room. It’s not the most important thing, but I want to know.”

            I tell him the story, and when I’m finished, Brighton looks embarrassed. “Wow. I thought it was worse. I’m sorry, Holly, if I overreacted.”

            “It’s okay. You were upset.”

            Brighton takes a deep breath. “That clears up one thing. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our relationship, in general, and I just…I don’t know if you feel the same way that I do.”

            “Well…how do you feel? About us, I mean.”

            “I really like you. A lot. Do you really like me?”

            I take a deep breath. This one’s going to hurt, I think to myself. “No,” I tell him, “I don’t.”

            Brighton gets that worried expression on his face, and I’m hoping that he won’t cry again. I cannot deal with tears right now. I can’t deal with tears in general, because I never know what to do. Usually I just pat the person awkwardly on the back until they get the message, but Brighton is different.

            “I think we should just be friends,” I tell him. “I would like that.”

            Brighton doesn’t look happy, but I guess that’s understandable. “Okay,” he says, standing up and heading towards the bedroom door. “Friends.”

            Pearson comes about an hour later. It’s snowing like a blizzard outside, and he’s wearing a big black coat and matching boots. His hair is covered in fluffy white flakes, and I can smell the snow the minute he steps inside.

            “Holly,” Pearson says. He grabs the desk chair and swivels around to face me, sitting down onto the leather with a plop. “I need to ask you something.”
            Before I can consider any options, Pearson is launching into the question. I almost forgot how quickly he can get through a conversation.

            “Are you truly sick? Cross your heart and hope to die?”
            The silliness of it makes me laugh. I know I have to answer truthfully, because Pearson can see through my act like an open book. “No,” I tell him honestly. “I’m not.”

            Pearson sits back in his chair and bites his thumbnail. “Huh,” he says. “How’d you do it?”

            I know that I should probably be embarrassed, maybe even feel guilty, to admit this. But since its Pearson, I’m almost proud to reveal my party trick. “Fake vomit.”

            “Ah. Clever. What’s your recipe?”

            “Watered-down peanut butter. You have to mix it up well, or else it’s too clumpy.” Pearson makes a face, and I laugh. It does sound gross, because it is gross- I invented it back in second grade.

            “Try adding some garlic,” Pearson tells me. “It adds a little color, and makes it smell nasty. And if you’re going for a fever, hold a light-bulb to your forehead for five minutes.”

            “Very ingenious, Pearson,” I reply. “I’m impressed.”

            “As you should be.” He takes off his jacket to reveal a grey T-shirt with the words CALIFORNIAN written on it in faded writing. “So how was Brighton? I saw him heading up to the dorm. He looked very…forlorn.”

            “Nice word choice,” I snort. “It was fine. I told him I just wanted to be friends.”

            “How’d he take it?” Pearson has started wandering around my bedroom, touching everything in sight- Violet’s textbooks, the curtain, my collection of glass beads.

            “He seemed alright. I’m sorry, but what is with you and moving around?” I ask, carefully taking my elephant glass bead from his hand and placing it on my dresser.

            “It’s ADHD,” he tells me.

            “What’s that?” The term sounds familiar, like something I’ve read about in a science textbook, but I can’t put my finger on the definition.

            “Attention deficit hyperactive disorder,” Pearson recites. “It means that you can’t focus, and you have a lot of energy. That’s why I can’t focus and have a lot of energy.”

            “I see.” It’s true; in class he can’t get through five minutes without walking around the room, and he’s always moving at least one of his limbs. “How long have you had it for?”
            Pearson shrugs. “Since I was four, I believe. My father started wondering if I was on drugs or something, so he took me to a doctor. Turns out I have a learning condition.” He puts his fingers in air quotes. “Whatever. They can call it whatever they want, it doesn’t bother me. I just like to move.”

            “Your father must have been concerned about you,” I say. I’m curious about Pearson’s dad, because I’ve heard barely anything about him. “To take you to a doctor, and everything.”

            Pearson laughs and claps his hands loudly in the air. “Not exactly. I think he was just freaked out, because I was practically running circles around the apartment. But it didn’t really matter in the end, because the next year he sent me to Valley Academy. They could deal with it.”

            “That’s awful.” I’m beginning to understand why Pearson doesn’t like to talk about his father. “At least you don’t have to see him for a while.”
            Pearson shakes his head sadly. “Actually, I do. Two weeks from now.”

            That’s when it dawns on me. Two weeks from now, the Christmas holidays begin.

            Two weeks from now, I’m going home.

Author's Note

Hope you enjoy! I love reviews :)

Reviews

[BillyGirl]

Another great chapter! Saw no flaws with it. I'll have to try the peanut butter trick sometime ;) Lol. When I was in school, I used the oats & milk method, except you have to spit it out. On to the next chapter :D

[T. Logan]

One, get this published. Two, i really like chapters with Pearson.