No Worries

Mariska buckled herself in and turned towards me. "My mom and dad already left for the airport," she said.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Maybe they'll see your dad there."

I nodded. "Maybe."

I'd almost forgotten that Mariska's parents were flying back to the Netherlands for the weekend. Her great-grandfather on her mom's side of the family passed away, and the funeral was tomorrow. Mariska's parents didn't make her go with them. The 10-hour flight here to the States was hard enough on her. They didn't want to force her to go through all that again.

I shifted the gear into reverse and looked to the back window.

"Nathaniel?"

I looked to Mariska. I met her eyes, and they stayed on mine. "Yeah?"

"Can I sleep at your house this weekend?" she asked.

I froze.

I should've seen that coming. Why the hell didn't I see that coming? I tried to hide my unease, but it took too long to force out some words and start talking. "Uh ... um ... wouldn't you rather sleep at home?" I finally asked.

Mariska shook her head. "I don't wanna sleep in an empty house."

"Uh. Okay. Yeah. Sure. You can sleep in the guest room."

"Can I sleep on the couch in your room?"

That made me even more uneasy. Again I took too long with my words. "Uh ... yeah. Of course." I looked away from Mariska, back to the rear window. I tried swallowing the nervous lump in my throat. I failed. "We're running a little late," I said as I started backing up the car. "You still wanna grab something to eat on the way?"

"Do you think we'd still make it on time?" Mariska asked.

I pulled out of the driveway and into the road. No other cars were around. "It'd be close. But yeah, I think so."

Mariska nodded. "Then yeah."

When I shifted the gear, Mariska's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. I turned to her. Her smile was gone. There was fear in her eyes. Real, true fear. "But don't speed," she said softly.

I had never once gone more than 5 miles over the limit with Mariska in the car. Had never been in an accident either. Mom had drilled 'defensive driving' into me ever since I got behind the wheel. But even so, I knew Mariska couldn't stop herself from saying something like that. She couldn't help being anxious. It was a curse she carried, a sickness inside her head. Just like the headaches were mine. "I won't," I assured her.

- - - - -

Our school looked so dreary to me. The tiled floors were a faded gray, and the walls were a sterile white. Even our school colors were nauseating: a rusty maroon and a sickly silver. Had the colors always been so faded and grim? I honestly wasn't sure. It was hard to remember things from the Before time.

No one said a word to me as I walked the halls. They never did, not anymore. That was my own fault. I'd pushed too many people away, burned too many bridges.

The first few classes of the day went by quickly. They were uneventful and easy to get through. Until 4^th hour, Calculus, came around. All of a sudden, the pain blasted back, full force.

I could feel my heartbeat thudding in my brow. Beads of sweat were trickling down my forehead, but that was less from my headache and more from the hot air being blown from Mr. Chen's numerous space heaters. There was some problem with the air conditioning that the school was in the process of fixing, and Mr. Chen went way overboard in compensating for that. Everyone in class had their jackets, sweatshirts, and overshirts pulled off and resting on the backs of their chairs. Still, the heat didn't make my pain any worse. I wouldn't have been able to survive being in the room if it did. It just made me more uncomfortable than the pain already had. I could survive that. For an hour, anyways.

Mr. Chen stood at the front of the room, by the whiteboard. He wore a maroon sweatshirt and a very baggy pair of gray sweatpants. He never dressed 'business casual' like the other teachers; he was also the basketball coach. He was a heavyset guy, and didn't have much hair. The big bald spot on his head was on full display with his back to us. He was explaining something as he scribbled equations onto the whiteboard at a breakneck pace. I wasn't paying attention. The pain was pounding.

I slid my fingers up through my hair and cupped my eyes in the palms of my hands. It was a good thing all the teachers knew how fucked up I was, otherwise Mr. Chen might have actually called on me to answer something.

I felt the eraser of a pencil poke into my side. I turned to Mariska's desk.

She was watching me with this look of frightened concern, the same look she always had when I was hurting. I hated seeing that look. That fear and distress and sorrow. It made me sick to see her like that. My headaches weren't a secret from her -- that would've been a damn near impossible secret to keep -- but I always tried to lie about how bad they were. I didn't want her worrying about me.

Even Mariska had her sweatshirt off, down to just her plain white tee. "Are you okay?" she whispered.

I forced a weak smile and nodded. It didn't convince her. She frowned.

I wasn't good at lying to her.

- - - - -

Even the lunch trays in the cafeteria were a flat gray. Couldn't they have been a bright blue? Or a juicy red? Or anything other than fucking gray? I was so sick of gray.

My headache had ebbed a bit as I waited in line inside the cafeteria kitchen. I grabbed only my usual: two big slices of pizza on a paper plate, and a bottle of Gatorade. At the end of the line, the skeletal Mrs. Mitchell tapped away on the touchscreen in front of her. She stared at me with dead eyes as I pressed my finger into the scanner. The guys on the football team used to joke that she's secretly a reanimated corpse employed by the school. I didn't know what the hell was wrong with her, but at the rate I was going, she was exactly how I imagined myself being when I was her age: a dead-eyed husk.

I found Mariska waiting for me on the other side of the kitchen doorway, at the dividing wall that separated the cafeteria from the lunch line hall. She was holding a bag of pretzels and a bottle of water.

"You wanna eat outside?" she asked as I approached. "It's still kinda warm." Mariska hated eating in the cafeteria. She hated it for the same reason she always had her mom cut her hair, and why she hadn't been grocery shopping since she was fourteen, and why she hadn't seen a movie in theater since she was twelve: too many people, too many eyes. She was always convinced that she was being stared at by someone somewhere, and that she looked awkward or weird. Personally, I was pretty sure that nobody in our school cared enough about either of us to stare. But it didn't make a difference to me where we ate, so I always went wherever Mariska wanted to. I would've eaten in pouring rain for her. With Seattle's weather, it was surprising that we hadn't already done that.

"Sure," I said.

We walked to the front doors and pushed through them. Felt closer to 50 degrees outside by then. Not too bad, not with a jacket on. Mariska and I strolled side-by-side across the sidewalk until we came up to a metal bench on the middle of the schoolgrounds. I reached down and gave it an experimental touch. It was cold, much colder than the air. Too cold for comfort.

"The grass is probably warmer," I said.

Mariska pointed at the leafless yellowwood tree just ahead of us. "We can sit over there."

"Sure."

We sat at the tree together. The trunk was just wide enough for both of us to have our backs against it, shoulder-to-shoulder.

I ripped off chunks of the pizza between my teeth. It was a little bland, and chewier than it should've been, but that's how the school's pizza always was. As far as our cafeteria went, the pizza was still one of the least offensive things a person could eat. Beside me, Mariska tore open her bag of pretzels and started eating like a bird, piece by dainty little piece.

As we sat there and ate, I could barely feel my headache. Lunch was never a bad pain time.

Mariska and I didn't often talk much while we ate, so I spent the time daydreaming, losing myself in my thoughts. Of course, those thoughts were locked onto the girl beside me.

I wanted to confess to her, badly. I'd wanted that for a long time. It wasn't me being shy stopping me; I'd never been shy a day in my life. It was fear. I knew Mariska and I had a good thing going, being best friends. I wasn't going to risk that by trying to make us into something more, into something we maybe couldn't ever be. If I told her that I loved her and found out that she didn't love me back, then our friendship would change. I'd break my own heart, and I'd make everything weird between us. I'd ruin what we had. Forever. I just couldn't risk that. Couldn't risk losing her.

Mariska leaned her head against my shoulder. The scent of her hair filled my nose. It was always the same scent. I wasn't sure if it was her shampoo, or her perfume, or just her natural female pheromones, but whatever it was, it was fucking heavenly. I always wanted to just rest my nose against her hair and breathe in deep. Was I a creep for wanting that, I wondered? Was that that a creep thing, or a madly-in-love thing? I wished I knew.

Mariska's head shifted on my shoulder. "Nathaniel?"

I turned my head towards hers. Our eyes met. She was watching me with this ... strange look of emotions that I couldn't quite glean. It was a look I'd never seen from her. "Yeah?"

"Do you think I'm pretty?"

I laughed nervously. "Where's this coming from?" I asked.

She shrugged.

I almost didn't answer. I didn't know why she was asking, and that worried me. It could've just been an innocent question. I didn't want to overstep. But ... it was too easy to tell her the truth. "I think you're beautiful."

Mariska kept her eyes on mine. Then, a moment later, she looked away. We didn't speak another word until the next bell.

- - - - -

I didn't share my 5^th, 6^th, or 7^th hour classes with Mariska. The rest of the school day was absolutely miserable. The pain came back, and it came back without mercy.

When the last bell finally rang, I was the first one out the door and into the hall. But I didn't go to the seniors' lockers.

I normally stayed away ... but I couldn't stop myself. I had to see her again. It had been too long.

It was a short walk to her. She was right at the end of the northeast hall, within the framed photographs of past graduating classes.

JUST IN TIME,

CLASS OF '89

There Mom was. Fifth column, ninth row. Smiling from ear to ear, grinning like nobody else ever could. She looked so ... healthy. I'd almost forgotten what she looked like with hair. It was the same black as mine. Her eyes were the same bright blue too. I got damn near everything from her.

She was a tomboy through and through. It was her that I would go into the backyard and practice catching the football with. It was her who came to every game. And it was her who I went to when something had me down. 'Everything will be better tomorrow.' That's what she always told me. And it used to always be true. But then she got sick. Then it was never true, and the next day was never better than the last.

Towards the end, she had me promise her I'd be okay when she was gone. I wondered, could she see me now? Could she see how badly I'd broken that promise?

The pain got worse and worse as I stared at her picture, until it was too much to bear. I winced and drew a hissing breath as I jammed my eyes shut and squeezed my head with my hands. Every muscle in my body was tightening. My neck stiffened so hard that I thought it would snap.

I needed to get home.

Squinting through the pain, I turned around and hurried down the hall, through the endless traffic of moving bodies, bumping into a dozen shoulders as I darted by. I was at my locker less than a minute later. I spun the dial of my combo lock faster than I'd ever tried, but that only made me miss my numbers, and I had to spin the final number three times before I got it. The instant the lock clicked, I flung the door open. I stuffed every binder, book and notebook I needed into my backpack, zipped it up, and slung it over my shoulders.

I turned and looked towards Mariska's locker at the far end of the hall. I couldn't see it past the horde of bodies. I started towards it, but the strength suddenly left my legs, and they buckled and gave out from under me. I fell onto my hands and knees on the cold floor. The chatter and footsteps around me came to a stop.

I don't know how long I was on the floor with everyone staring at me. Felt like forever.

Then sneakers squeaked along the floor as someone ran towards me. They dropped onto their knees in front of me. Soft, slender fingers curled under my stubbled jaw and gently lifted my head. I found Mariska's hazel eyes. She wiped my tears away on the cuff of her hoodie. I hadn't even realized I'd cried. I hadn't felt it. How long had it been since I'd last cried?

"Come on," Mariska said in a sweet, hushed tone. She grabbed my arms. "Get up."

With Mariska helping, I managed to stand onto my feet. When I was up, everyone around us mumbled and went back about their business. The sea of moving bodies resumed its waves.

"We should walk home," Mariska whispered. "You shouldn't drive right now."

I sniffled and mustered a weak nod. "Okay."

- - - - -

A gray sky loomed over us, with gray clouds shadowing a gray sun. Around us were gray houses lined with gray fences. Between them were gray roads paved with gray asphalt. It seemed like gray was all I could see ... except for the colors walking beside me. The brown of her hair. The pink of her lips. The hazel of her eyes.

It was a long walk from school to my house. We strode slow and steady from one sidewalk to another, one gentle step at a time. Mariska held my hand. We'd never held hands before. Hers was so soft, with slim, smooth fingers ... I wanted to hold it until the end of time.

The headache had tapered down. The stiffness was gone from my neck. The pain was still throbbing in my head, but it was manageable. I could bear it.

I knew seeing Mom's picture would give me a flare-up. It wasn't the first time. But sometimes I didn't want to play by the pain's rules. Sometimes I just wanted to be able to see my own mother again, even if it was only a picture. If that meant there was a price to pay, then I'd fucking pay it.

As we walked, I counted every time a car drove by. I did it because I knew that every time one did, it was another moment where Mariska's anxiety tugged at her heart. I started feeling bitter with guilt. We shouldn't have been walking. I shouldn't have had that meltdown and made that scene, and I shouldn't have made Mariska be a part of it. I couldn't imagine what she felt when she was helping me onto my feet, with everyone watching and staring. "I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"For what?" Mariska asked.

"Everything."

Her fingers curled further between mine. "Don't be."

We were walking up the driveway to my house a few minutes later. When we got to the door, I turned to Mariska. "You should head home," I said. The words croaked out of my throat. "Get your pills, and some clothes for tomorrow, if you want. I'm just gonna run for a bit and take a nap."

Mariska gave me a sweet smile. "Okay. Text me when you wake up."

"I will."

After a pause, Mariska stepped forward and hugged me, putting her head over my shoulder. I closed my eyes and put my arms around her, beneath her backpack.

"Nathaniel." Mariska squeezed me in her arms. "You're my everything."

"You're my everything too."

Mariska took her head from my shoulders and grabbed the scruff of my neck. I opened my eyes and gazed into hers. She raised her other hand and cupped my cheek. Her eyes flitted over my face, up and down, until they settled again on mine. She opened her mouth to speak ... but then stopped herself. Her fingers slid down from my cheek and neck, until her hand slipped away. She left my arms and stepped back. "See you soon," she said softly.

I nodded. "See you."

Mariska gave me a half-wave goodbye. I gave her one back. When she turned and started off, I went to the door, unlocked it, and pushed inside.

I shrugged off my jacket and hung it in the closet by the door. After I pulled off my sneakers and grabbed a cleaner, running pair, I went down the hall and up the stairs to my bedroom. Inside, I tossed my backpack onto the couch and went to my closet. I shook out another couple Tylenol from the bottle atop my dresser and threw them down the hatch. I pulled my shirt off my head and tossed it into the hamper beneath my hangers, and I changed out of my jeans into a pair of shorts. After I put on my running shoes and laced them up, I went back down the stairs and through the doorway into our home gym.

I was tired, but I wasn't too tired to run. I was never too tired for that. Running was important to me. It cleared my head. And it was one of the few things in the world that dulled the pain.

I didn't bother flipping on the stereo or the wall-mounted TV. I liked listening to my own breath while I ran. I stepped onto the treadmill and tapped my finger on the console touchscreen until I had it set to my custom preset, 'Until It Burns.'

The treads whirred quietly as they started at a slow, warm-up pace. I looked down and watched my feet walk, one after the other, almost of their own will. I'd done it so often that it came by instinct.

After a few minutes, the treads' pace automatically quickened, and the whirring grew a little louder. My feet went faster. Then it quickened again, and then again, until my feet were running, my whole body bounding up and down with each trot. I looked up at the touchscreen just as the timer flipped on and started counting down from thirty minutes.

When it hit zero, I was drenched. My black locks were slicked against my head and neck with sweat, and my dark chest hair was glistening with beads of it. My heart was thumping hard, my lungs and legs were burning, and best of all, I could barely feel my headache.

After the treads slowed to a stop, I hopped onto the floor and flicked my wet hair out of my face. Eager to crash and nap, I left the room and jogged up the stairs. I went into my bathroom, unlaced my shoes, kicked them off, unfastened the drawstring of my shorts, tugged them down, and took one of the quickest and coldest showers of my life.

- - - - -

The doorbell made me jerk awake. I sat up and groggily rubbed my eyes and face. I looked at the window blinds. The sunlight was dimming. It was already getting dark out. Daylight didn't last long in December. I would need to go get Mariska in an hour or two if I didn't want the walk to my house to be at night.

The doorbell rang again. I wrenched myself out of bed and threw on a clean t-shirt and pair of boxers from my closet. My headache was thudding in my head, but it wasn't too bad. It was a lot better than when I first got home.

The doorbell rang a third time as I went down the stairs. I scoffed under my breath and shook my head. Whoever was there was in a fucking hurry.

When I got to the door, I swung it open. To my surprise, I found Mariska, standing there. Her black purse was slung over her shoulder, and she'd changed out of her jeans into sweatpants.

I was confused. "Mariska, I would've walked you over here," I told her. "You didn't have to—"

"—I need to tell you something," she said, cutting me off. "And I ... need to tell you while I still can. While I still ... have the courage."

I nodded, still confused, but placated. "Oh. Okay."

Mariska came inside. I closed the door behind her. We turned and faced each other, standing close together.

"What do you need to tell me?" I asked.