What Friends Do

  The water was screaming.

Every inch of my body turned deep red and every scratch on my arms turned a pale white. Dead skin. I was wrapped in dead skin.

I turned the shower off and let myself evaporate.

“How long have I stood in this tub?”, I thought, “An hour? A year?”

The towel was draped over the shower rod. I wrapped myself tightly. The towel bound my dead skin back into a working body. The towel was beige and scratchy. Flakes of skin latched to the fibres.

I pulled the soggy curtain back a little. Cool air attacked my fingers and hovered around my peeling lips. I inhaled the sharp air and let its dull razors tear my throat.

The bathroom door was still locked.

Still locked?

Yes, it was still locked.

Drops of water were caked and dripping down the mirror on the wall. The bathroom was a slurry of sterile white objects. I considered stepping out.

Not yet.

I pulled the shower curtain closed and stood in the tub, drowning in the heat of the thick steam. My hair spilled down my shoulders and soaked the edges of the towel. I took a deep breath.

Okay.

I ripped the curtain back and stepped into the room. The cool air scraped my raw body. As I re-calibrated myself outside the tub, a soft mat squished under the pads of my feet. I shook a little.

My phone buzzed on the sink counter and lit up with the time. I sighed. I had only been in the shower for five minutes. The phone lit up again with another message:

I wish you never changed schools.

The towel loosened and fell into my trembling arms. I gathered it and wrapped it over my sopping hair. As the haze of the steam began to dissipate, I caught myself freezing like a block of ice.

Yes, the door was still locked.

***

The walk to school could have been quieter. Birds squawked overhead. Car engines sputtered on the main road. My phone buzzed.

I lifted the phone and read the text:

I love you.

A deep weight settled at the base of my rib cage and sank into my empty stomach. I bit my cheek. The back of my throat burned and threatened to have me keeling over in the nearest bush.

I put the phone back in my pocket.

Kids raced past me on their bikes, laughing. I hated them. I wanted them to topple over the wheels and scrape their knees on the sidewalk. I wanted them to scream. I wanted them to scream so nobody would notice me screaming in the nearest bush.

I caved into myself as the concrete building came into view and loomed across the street. I joined a group of faceless students at the crosswalk. They snickered and complained about early mornings and upcoming exams.

I kept to myself.

I was in a large group but I entered the school completely alone.

***

At some point in the afternoon, I sat with new friends during our English class. The weight had lifted. We joked and laughed, catching each other up to what we did over the weekend.

Kat told me a story about her younger sister. I told Kat a story about the weekend at my dad’s house. I told her I hung out with Brooke.

I cut out most of the details. I didn’t know why.

I just did.

Kat stiffened when I finished my story.

My phone buzzed. The vibration put a small weight back in my chest. I briefly checked the screen before putting the phone face-down on the desk.

“I don’t know why I don’t want to talk to her,” I told Kat. “The weekend was fine. We were fine. I just... I don't know.”

I rubbed the purple scratch on my hand. I started to speak, but Kat stopped me.

“Are you okay?”

I shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Friends don’t do that.”

My hand stung from how hard I pressed on it.

“Brooke does that kind of stuff all the time. It’s just how she—”

Kat shook her head. “Friends don’t hurt each other.”

Words started to form in my mouth but got caught in the hinges of my jaw.

“You don’t get it. We’re just like that,” I was going to say, “She can be rough but we both know it doesn’t mean anything. We’re alone without each other. She loves me.”

My molars started to sting. I was grinding them to a paste before they could let any defence slip out. I sat with the toothache in silence.

My phone buzzed.

“Phones off the desks, please.” The teacher cleared her throat.

Our attention was directed to a generic grey PowerPoint slide projected at the front of the room. Lists of definitions. Motifs. Symbolism. Categorization. The hour drawled as my phone continued to buzz with the minutes.

I found myself developing the ability to categorize elements of a story into smaller labels and definitions until they lost all meaning entirely. Green light as the American Dream. The American Dream as an undying love. Undying love as the flaws of one man.

Where would the categorization finally end? How would I classify myself?

The lecture slowly became a quiet hum as I slipped into the confines of my own mind.

I pictured an unlocked door and thick condensation rolling down a mirror. My body was pinned to the floor. The steam was too thick to push from my lungs. I thrashed. Invisible weights kept me in place. The purple scratch on my hand burned as clumps of my hair tore from the roots. The room let out a playful laugh. It’s always just a joke.

I wanted to scream: It isn’t a joke. Friends don’t do that.

A bell rung and pulled me back to the classroom. The last PowerPoint slide listed more categories and tools for essay writing. I absently began packing my bag.

How would I classify myself?

I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

I wasn’t classifiable.

I wasn’t.

Kat nudged my arm. I stood up with her.

“You don’t need Brooke, you know.” Kat told me in the hallway. “You’re not alone.”

I hesitated for a moment.

“I’m not alone.” I agreed.

For the first time, I meant it.