Bestfriends Are Cool

He shudders, huddling closer to the thin plywood wall, picking at a splinter in his finger. He nibbles his chapped lips and glances out the hole in the wall that stands as a window. Mitchel winces and glares at his short fingernails, because clearly they were at fault for him not sanding the ladder up to his personal slice of heaven when he had the chance. He huffs and blows his bangs out of his face for a second before gravity forces them to graze his eye lashes again. A bird chirps and his eyes go back to the window, where a bird is visible sitting on a higher branch contentedly with its little friend. Mitchel’s lips pull into a soft smile, momentarily forgetting about the wooden fragment embedded in his pointer finger. 

He sighs and slouches, looking back at his hands with disdain. The sun peeks through cracks in the roof and the leaves of the tree, trailing patchy lines across the floor. His eyes trace them, tilting his head back when they go up the wall and to the holes creating them. He chuckles lightly, feeling the floor with his hands, careful not to get another sliver in his hand. When he was younger, His dad would have to wrap his palms and fingers in cloth to make sure he didn’t get any of the wood in his delicate hands. His dad would have done anything for him. 

Mitchel stretches his legs out and picks at his finger more, still trying to get the splinter out. A victorious grins lights up his pale, freckled face when he finally gets the offending wood out of the sore appendage. He flexes his fingers and chuckles happily when only the smallest tinge of pain stains the movement. He runs his other hand through his wavy brown fringe and licks his lips. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and presses the power button. He smiles at his home screen. A picture of him, his dad, his mom, and his best friend since elementary school all pressed together. Max has her tongue stuck out, eyes crossed, and bright fingernails brandished unintentionally with a peace sign. Mom’s face was red with laughter, a bright smile on  her face, and a beautifully happy glint in her eyes. Dad had his cheeks puffed out, his eyes crossed, his nostrils flared, and was using his hands to push his ears out. I had my tongue stuck out in an open smile and my nostrils were flared. I sigh and make my eyes focus on the time in the top middle of the screen, above dad’s face. Two twenty-four it reads. He sighs and puts it back in his pocket. 

His eyes lift back up to the branch with the birds, but they seem to have flown away. Mitchel smiles despite the stiffness of his face. His eyes trace the visible clouds despite their grittiness. He chews on his lips unconsciously, his baby blues blurred and his mind wandered. His mind's eye flitted over images, memories, thoughts, never staying long enough for them to really register. Pictures of people and places, sounds of laughter and yelling, crying and whispers, thoughts he forgot he had and will forget that he ever revisited them. His dad appeared more often than not and tears heated his eyes and cooled as they trailed down his cheeks. His nose scrunches and the feeling of the water falling registers before being ignored and forgotten, his attention drawn back to the image of his dad laughing at the dinner table while mom’s face bloomed a rosie red color. A soft smile pulls at his cheeks at the memory. 

His phone buzzes, but it goes ignored. The sun peeks in through the window, warming his feet and pants with its rays. His toes wiggle inside his black converse at the rising heat focused on them. 

A long haired head popping up the hatch to the treehouse draws Mitchel’s eyes over. His dark brows furrow, not understanding who could be showing up now. The crease between his brows flattens when his best friend’s face comes into view. No matter how grim the expression she wore, she always made him feel better. She gives him the brightest, most sweet and loving smile she can muster, and pulls herself onto the carefully laid flooring. 

“Sup,” She greets, pulling her black ankle socks up higher from under her men's style Adidas. The sun catches on her jewelry and they glint in the light. A small stud in her nostril, two black studs in each of her ears, a silver cuff on the side of her ear, and an arrow shaped industrial bar on the top of her other ear. Her dark hair brushes the floor when she sits, though half is braided back off of her tan face and out of her green eyes. She straightens her The Offspring tank top and looks back up at Mitchel.

 Mitchel chuckles half heartedly and wipes at his eyes. 

“The sky,” He replies. Max smirks, showing her chipped front tooth in her smile. 

“The clouds,” She adds.

“The sun.” Mitchel says.

“The stars.” Max gazes up at the ceiling. 

Their eyes meet, red rimmed and sad, their words matching as they tumble from their lips, “Heaven.” 

Max sits next to Mitchel, shoulders pressed together. Mitchel looks down into his lap, lips quivering and throat tight. “My dad,” He whispers, voice cracking under the pressure of the words. Max whispers a light ‘yeah’ and drapes her arm over his shoulders. He leans into her, needing the comfort. 

They lean on each other and Max slips between consciousness and sleep a few times before patting Mitchel’s leg. Their eyes meet and she smiles again, pushing a box into his chest. His brows furrow, he hadn’t noticed her bring it up with her. He looks up at her suspiciously, the look only deepens at the supposedly sincere smile she returns to him. She gestures to the box and bounces her brows, so he shugs and lifts the top off the small brown box. His brows raise at the brown paper wrapped rectangle in the box. He looks up at Max, mild exasperation in his expression. She giggles and gestures again for him to open it. He sighs and shakes his head almost fondly. He tears the paper, finding the black, textured cover of a book with no noticeable title. 

He flips open the front cover and a blue lined folded piece of paper slips closer to his thumbs. He sets down the book and unfolds the paper. The sight of his dad’s handwriting causes his throat to tighten a fraction. 

Hey kid, so I’m writing this while your mother sits on the couch, pouting because I refuse to let her do anything during her pregnancy (with you). I love you, so much, even though you only look like a really big bean right now. I hope you’re doing well, I hope you follow your dreams, I hope you love being you. I really hope that I’m there to watch all of your life happen. I’m giving you this for your 18th b-day or whenever I pass (which is hopefully when I’m a million years old). It’s a journal. My dad gave me one for my 18th and it really helped me figure out my feelings, goals, thoughts. So, you can write whatever you want. Or you can draw! I should not have done this in pen! Anywho, I really love you to bits and pieces, Nugget, have fun with life and don’t be a douchebag.

See ya soon,

Sincerely,

Dad

Mitchel rubs his face with his forearm, chuckling sadly. Max smiles at the sound. 

“My dad was so weird!” He laughs. Max joins him, nodding. 

“He was the most awesome guy,” She smiles. She checks her phone, having to do it twice because she didn’t notice what time it said. Three twelve. She tucks it back into her grey and black camo basketball shorts. She nudges Mitchel’s shoulder with her own, “You’re pretty awesome too, by the way, Mitch.” She says softly. 

He looks up at her and gives a silly grin, “You too.” He laughs again, resting his head on the wall behind him. “Dad would call us stupid right now, acting like we need to be reminded that we’re awesome.” They laugh at the one hundred percent true statement. 

“You remember that time,” She pauses. Then they fill the treehouse with happy stories of his father, themselves, family and friends. They cry, they laugh, they laugh so hard they cry. They have each other, an afternoon in a treehouse and a drunk driver reminding them that they always have each other. Always.