It's technically Friday already, so...
Disclaimer: I do not own the original Ed, Edd n' Eddy characters. I only own my interpretation and usage of the plot, and whatever miscellaneous characters I may add. This story will also include scenes not suitable for children or bigots. You have been fairly warned.
Enjoy!
It's Complicated
2/46
His mornings were really quite simple.
He woke-up to the combined nuisances of his favorite song in use as the alarm ringtone for his cellphone, and the nudging and licking and barking that came from his two Pit Bulls.
"Alright, alright — I get it!" He shouted, although not necessarily in an angry tone. While he had a 20-lb Pit Bull on his abdomen licking his face and a 30-lb-er at his side nudging at his arm, he could not be angry; part of the reason why he loved his dogs and felt better in the mornings was because of their excitement at his awakening.
Sitting up on his bed, the 20-lb tan-colored Pit Bull, named Lacey, moved aside to let him get up without any sort of hindrance. He immediately went to wipe at the saliva that was left on his cheek from her morning kisses. The 30-lb Pit Bull, Trix, was sitting at the side of the bed and watching him — waiting for him in anticipation, really. When he had the saliva cleaned off as best as he could, he stood and briefly stretched his arms above his head.
Lacey was now next to Trix, and the two just watched him.
When he put his arms down, he took a moment and registered that his alarm was still ringing. When he dismissed that, he yawned. He stood perfectly still for about a minute, just looking at his two dogs.
Then he chuckled. "Alright, let's get this day started."
The two female Pit Bulls began to bark happily, and followed him on his way out of his room and into the bathroom. As the girls had a habit of following him into the shower, he entered and closed the door some; leaving just a small gap so they could see his face and hand.
"Stay…" He said. If he had to dry both Pit Bulls before taking them on their morning walks, there was no way he would get to school on time. He already had a deal with his dad going in regards to his attendance — he could not mess it up now that he was three weeks into school without any lateness or absences. The two girls listened to him, and he fully went into the bathroom, and closed the door wholly.
Standing in front of his bathroom mirror, he looked at himself. His red hair was disheveled; there were a couple of eye-boogers just waiting to be picked; and his muscles could not help but feel sore from all the work he did yesterday. As he only ever slept in his boxers, the red mark on his shoulder from when he had been hit by one of his co-workers accidentally yesterday, was very visible; even though he had put on an ice-pack for a few hours last night before he fell asleep, he still felt the soreness and could not help but not look forward to today. He hoped his shoulder would not act out on him.
Ah, fuck it, he thought. It was not the first time he had to go through a full day semi-injured. He had been through worse; a little shoulder pain was nothing.
Before he bathed, he washed his hands and face. He always brushed his teeth first before entering the shower, and there was no way he was going to grab onto his toothbrush and brush his teeth with Lacey's saliva still on his hands and face. After he was done, he grabbed his toothbrush and made quick work of his dental hygiene. He smiled into the mirror after he brushed, checking his teeth.
Sexy, he thought; never one to shy away from a healthy dose of narcissism.
With that done, he took off his boxers and left them on the floor, and headed into the shower. He washed with warm water, letting some water hit his red shoulder for a few seconds, in hopes that that it will help it some. He bathed with soap and a bath-sponge that he had gotten a while back, and used that same soap to wash his hair — he had run out of shampoo the other day and had meant to get it yesterday, but got distracted by the sudden injury.
Whatever. He would try to get it today before he headed to work.
Finished, he stepped out of the shower — it was then that he realized that he had left his towel in his bedroom. He heaved a deep sigh. Heading towards the door, wet and leaving soppy footprints on the tile, he gave a peek. He flinched when he saw Lacey and Trix sitting right in front of the door, loyally.
"Jesus shit—!" He said when he noticed the two dogs. He quickly calmed himself, however. As he was not about to walk naked in front of his dogs, he told them "Go get the leashes, go, go!" so they would head down the stairs in a rush at the sound of the familiar words. When they did just that, he rushed into his bedroom and closed and locked the doors.
He breathed.
"I gotta remember to take my towel with me…" He mumbled as he fished it from a pile of clothes that were on his bed and he was meaning to get to. Besides the clothing pile, his room was rather neat and tidy with everything in its place and more-than-easy to find. He had not been much of a slob during his childhood, and even now, the only reason those clothes were not in his closet was because he had run out of hangers — yet another thing he meant to buy.
He dried himself and changed into his choice outfit for the day; deciding on something simple, as he was not in the mood for anything too extravagant or time-consuming. He put on a fresh pair of underwear, and a white beater, on top of which he put on some blue jeans that were not too loose nor too tight, and his work shirt. His work shirt was a standard, old-school mechanic's shirt; it was light blue in color, long-sleeved, and had "Kev" stitched onto the area that fell over his left breast. He rolled up the sleeves of the shirt just before putting on some socks and tying a pair of boots over them.
He then went to the dresser with the mirror on top in his bedroom, and grabbed his brush as he fixed his hair. It was still slightly wet, but he did not mind it too much. He brushed it out and then slapped his hat on backwards before maneuvering his bangs through the front gap. His signature style, which did more than enough to secure his hat on his head for the day.
He finished everything off with some lotion and cologne.
Nice, nice, he thought. He was ready for the day, and it was only 7 o'clock. That gave him enough time to walk both Lacey and Trix, and drive by McDonald's to get himself some breakfast on the way to school. He got excited about that.
Stepping out of the room, he was none-too-surprised seeing the two female dogs with their separate leashes in their mouths. He smiled and bent down to grab the leashes and attach them to the dogs' collars; he rubbed their heads saying "good girl, good girl," when he did this.
"Alright, let's go." With the two dogs secured, he made his way down the stairs and exited his house.
Walking Lacey and Trix was always quite the adventure. The two dogs were energetic in the mornings and strong in their own rights, and more than once, he found himself stretched out as he tried to control them both. However, for the most part, they were obedient and stayed moving forward — and fast, allowing him to also get a morning jog in.
They went around the circumference of the park near his house, and stopped at the water fountains there for the two girls to get a drink. Even though he could last until he got home, there was no guarantee that they could. He was just glad there were not any people around the park to scrutinize them; dogs drinking directly from the fountains were not allowed, and he had already gotten many looks from previous park patrons and a warning from a cop that just happened to be around when he did that, some time ago.
With the girls rehydrated, then, they resumed the walk and continued their run-over of the park. As they were on the last leg of their morning walks, they picked-up speed — wanting to finish their pseudo walks strong.
Under his skin, his muscles pleasantly — painfully — worked themselves to keep up with the animals' speeds. He had to stretch his legs more and take strides that were significantly longer than what he was accustomed to; he had to bring his knees up higher and more quickly; he had to bring his feet down harsher, yet be fast and light enough to position his body for the next set of steps. Truly, walking his dogs in the morning was the best workout he could get — he had often considered bringing them to his practices with him. (If only the school did not have a "No Pets" rule.)
When the three of them reached their home, he was quick to remove their leashes and set them loose. The two dogs ran into the kitchen, where food and water were already waiting for them, courtesy of his father.
"You're running water like a leaky faucet." His dad said. The man was eating his breakfast on the kitchen island; briefly he stopped to tear a perforated sheet from the paper towels on the table, and handed it to his son.
"Thanks, pops." Kevin said as he kindly accepted it and began to wipe the sweat off of his face.
"Staying for breakfast?" His father asked as he gestured towards the fridge. "I think that some waffles are still left in the freezer."
"Nah, I gotta go." Kevin said as he glanced at the clock; it was almost 7:45am, and he had to be school by 8:00am if he wanted to keep the bet with his dad going. "But I'll try and stop by McDonald's and get something to eat."
"Need money?"
"Nah. I still have some leftover from my paycheck. It'll hold until Friday."
"Tell me if you do. You have a job, yes, but it's only $6 an hour. That's not a lot given how independent you wanna be." His father said to him. He, Kevin, gave a laugh as he tossed out the now-damp paper towel.
"Calm down, old man. It's enough. I promise."
"Hey, watch it." His dad said as he rose from the island and went to put his dish and cup in the sink. "I'm only in my late 40s — got tons of years ahead of me ya hooligan."
"Hooligan? Are you gonna smack me with your cane now?" He teased.
His dad looked at him in mock-irritation before his face melted in a smile. The two men gave a laugh before Kevin went over to his father and, like he did every morning, gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
"Don't work yourself too hard, Kevin." His dad said. "And watch that shoulder."
"I will, I will. Thanks. Bye." He said to his dad; and because the two girls seemed to recognize his words and were now barking at him — saying goodbye, really — he rubbed their heads at the same time saying, "Bye Lacey. Bye Trix. You girls be good."
"Don't forget your backpack!" His dad called out.
He snapped his fingers. "Right." He rushed up the stairs and quickly headed into his room, where the red backpack sat on the floor next to his studying desk. As he headed back down, he said, "Thanks, pops!" He always seemed to forget to take his backpack with him; it was such a miniscule detail compared to almost everything else that was on his mind.
He then left his house and locked the door behind him, and headed to his motorcycle — his pride and joy. When he had first gotten a job back at age 14, the minimum age to get a working permit, he saved up all of his money for three-and-a-half years with the hope of upgrading from his bicycle, to a motorcycle in the coming years. He remembered the day he first saw the beat-up Harley; he had been pining for that very model but everything new was way out of his price-range; but he had faith in his refurbishing skills as a mechanic, and was excited to see that the motorcycle that his father had dug up for him through his network, needed minimal repairs.
He sat down on the Harley and, as it had only been a few weeks since he was finally able to ride it on the streets, reveled yet again in the fact that it was his.
Hell yeah, he thought.
"Hey Kevin!"
From across the street, he could spot his friends Nazz and Johnny. Nazz was waving at him while the pair was walking to her a car; a convertible that she received as a birthday present two years ago on her sixteenth.
"Headed to school?!" She called out.
"Yeah!" He called back.
"Cool! We'll go together!" She and Johnny then entered the car and started to pull away from the driveway.
He did the same on his motorcycle and turned it on before moving out of his driveway. Leaving the cul-de-sac, he was at the front with Nazz and Johnny following behind him; Nazz had her favorite radio station on and bopped her head to the beats of the songs that played, while Johnny's attention was focused on his cellphone with the custom, "Plank" phone case. They came side-by-side when they streets were no longer narrow. At a red-light, though, he saw the McDonald's and remembered his promise to get himself some breakfast.
"You guys go ahead." He told them. "I gotta get me something to eat."
"We'll see you at school, then." Nazz said.
"Yeah — later, Kevin." Johnny said.
"Later."
The light turned green and as Nazz and Johnny continued on their way to school, he pulled into the McDonald's drive-thru. He briefly glanced at the time on the receiver; it was ten minutes until 8:00 — he still had plenty of time.
.
.
At school, Kevin had his red bag slung over his shoulder and was munching on hash-browns when he walked into his first period class. He got to the Math II class three minutes before the bell, and sat at his assigned table — with the only other person who sat at the table being May Kanker. The blonde girl was known in the class for getting more questions wrong than right, but Kevin knew that she probably worked harder than anyone else to get those few questions right.
She nodded up at him in greeting; focused more on the notes in front of her as she began to copy down the objective and warm-up lesson that were present on the board. He nodded back before taking his seat next to her; every morning she always smelled like food, and today he could smell syrup and bacon on her. He gave a pleasant hum — what he would not give for some pink candy.
The teacher, Mr. Ahn, was already in the classroom and took quick notice of the fact that he was eating in class, when he turned around after writing the homework on the right side of the board — it was to study for the unit test tomorrow. "Kevin, food away." He said.
"Right, right." He replied back. "Just let me finish." He scarfed the rest of the hash-browns down and then got up from his seat to throw away the paper bag and wrappers it came in. When he sat back down, he was quick to get his materials out.
"Before class starts, is there anyone that needs a graphing calculator?" Mr. Ahn asked. Five students raised their hands, and he went to his desk where old versions of the Texas Instruments graphing calculators rested. He passed them out to the unprepared students — one of which being Kevin, who discovered to have left his (a TI-89), on his studying desk in his bedroom. He had been in such a rush to sleep last night once it passed 12, that he had not been paying much attention as he put away his materials and just shoved all the papers he could find, in, and whatever was caught between them. Apparently his calculator was not one of those things.
"Be prepared next time, Mr. Barr." Mr. Ahn said; as he had done to all the other students whom he had given those calculators to.
"Right. I know. Sorry." Kevin said.
With the materials situation settled, Mr. Ahn officially started the class and gave them five minutes to solve the warm-up problem on the board; a stopwatch magnetically clasped onto the whiteboard timing them. The students who were there early-enough had either already finished solving the problem or were well on their way to it; May was one of these students, and Kevin watched as she checked to see if her final answer was correct — it was not.
Her face contorted into a confused expression as she began to go over the problem again to see what was missing. As Kevin had been writing that very problem, he was able to see immediately where it was that she had gone wrong.
The three on the board had been morphed into an eight.
"This isn't a three," he said as he pointed to that exact spot in the problem. "It's an eight — and this is a seven, not a one." He told her as he spotted another issue.
"Ah! Thank you, Kevin!" She exclaimed as high as she possibly could in the hushed-tones of the room. "I really appreciate that." She gave him the giggle that she had also become well known for.
"You're welcome."
When the five minutes were up, Mr. Ahn went to his teacher's desk and grabbed a cup full of popsicle sticks with Kevin's grade and class period marked on the side of a Styrofoam cup using black Sharpie. There was a noticeable sense of anxiousness as Mr. Ahn moved the popsicle sticks around to shuffle them; they always hated when he cold-called in the mornings using those sticks. Finally, the shaking came to a stop, and he lifted one popsicle stick; the student's name was facing him, and written on it in Sharpie as well.
"May Kanker." He said as he put the stick back. "Go up and solve the warm-up on the board."
"O-okay." May said nervously. She had finished re-writing and solving the problem on the notebook after receiving Kevin's suggestions, and grabbed it as she headed up to the board.
Kevin knew May always got nervous when she was called up. The eyes were always on her from a combination of people wanting to see whether she would get this question correct or incorrect (betting, most likely, that she would fail in answering correctly), and from them staring at her body. It was commonly said that the reason why May Kanker had trouble using her brain was because the nutrients that were meant for it were soaked up in her hips and thighs, making her very bottom-heavy and eye-candy for when her back was to people.
He caught himself slipping the few times his eyes lowered to land on the shape of her butt in the jeans she wore that day, but otherwise, he focused entirely on her writing as she solved the problem. In the middle of this, he noticed that she had again confused the three and eight, and seven and one. He wished he could point it out to her, but was happy he did not have to when she reread her work and matched it to her notebook, and noticed the mistakes, herself.
"Is that your final answer?" Mr. Ahn asked when May turned around with her back to the board.
"Um…. Y-yeah." She said, none-too-confident. She had caught the mistake on the board, but there was still the chance that she had gotten the calculations wrong in her notebook to begin with. Kevin knew this, and noticed the grip on her notebook had tightened.
"You are correct. Good work."
She beamed, giggling; not her infamous giggle, but a more toned-down version of it that was just enough to express her happiness and release her nerves.
"Thanks."
"Sit down, now. Or would you care to explain your work?"
"I'll just sit down." She did not want to push her luck.
When she sat back down at the table, May turned to look at him and said, "Thank you so much for earlier. You saved me."
Kevin grinned. "It was nothing. You're welcome."
.
.
During second and third period, he found himself wearing his gym uniform and running laps on the school's athletics field. He had run into his football coach on his way to second period, who told him that there would be an impromptu training session as punishment for misconduct.
He had originally thought, Misconduct for what? when he heard this. He did not remember any of him or his teammates doing anything noticeably bad in the past couple of days— but his confusion was quickly resolved after he had gotten changed and was on the field among the rest of the team members. Turns out, last night, a number of them — identified through the team jackets that they had been wearing — had vandalized the local candy shop for reasons unknown. As the coach did not know who personally did it, and did not have the patience to play Sherlock, he decided to punish them as a group in the hopes the wrongdoers would get the message — vandalizing the candy shop had not only been morally wrong, but looked bad on the team.
Thus they were forced to complete 10-laps and 100-pushups. One water break.
The laps were easy for him. He was able to complete them well near the record time, and was one of the first to move onto the pushups — which he dreaded. His shoulder still was not at its best from yesterday, and he had been happy at the fact that there was no football practice on Monday, because that meant there would not be any extra physical strain on his arm besides what he would have to do for work that afternoon. Now this discipline session had ruined that as, by the 70th pushup, he found himself under uncomfortable strain on his shoulder.
Crap, he thought. He took a moment to breathe and sat on his knees as he lifted up his shirt at the base of his neck, and saw the red spot burning brighter. He groaned.
"Barr! This ain't the time to be slacking on your teammates! Or do you wanna give them more punishment?!"
"No, sir!" He screamed back.
For now, he had to bite down on his lip and suck up the pain; despite him feeling the grind of his muscles as he got to the 80th pushup; despite the spot getting redder and redder by the 90th pushup; and despite the extreme ache he was now feeling by the 100th pushup.
He groaned when he completed the last pushup. His shoulder felt absolutely morbid.
"Finished, Barr?" The coach asked him as he came up to him.
"Yes, coach." He responded; trying to not let the excruciating pain he felt from his shoulder, show through. So far, he had a good reputation with the coach, and he was not ready to ruin that just because of some little injury.
"Shower up, then and get back to class — fourth period should be starting soon."
"Right."
He got up from the ground, his legs aching, yet not as much as his shoulder was. He hurried himself off to the locker room inside the school, and cringed when he lifted his shirt above his head and his shoulder decided to act up.
"Fuck!" He screamed when the pain came near-close to unbearable.
"What the hell, Kevin?" A teammate asked. He had finished a few minutes before Kevin and was putting on his clothes after showering. "Something the matter?" When his teammate looked over at where he stood near his open locker, his eyes spotted the angry red mark. "Shit. Your shoulder's fucked up."
"No shit, Sherlock." Kevin responded.
"Go to the nurse, man. It'd suck not being able to play during Homecoming in a few weeks."
"I know. I'm gonna — just gotta shower first."
"Want me to help?"
Kevin looked at the blond male; he had a harlequin-like grin on him that Kevin snorted at. He knew the male was not serious and just wanted to get a rise out of him; this was confirmed when he let out a laugh at Kevin's reaction.
"Beat it." Kevin said.
"Alright already, damn." He closed his locker door and slung his backpack on his shoulder. "Just don't fuck it up more than it already is." On his way out, he slapped Kevin directly on his injured shoulder; he hissed.
"Asshole!"
"Thank you, man. Thank you."
When the nuisance had left the locker room, Kevin pushed through and straightened himself up, and continued putting his clothes away in his locker; he threw in his gym shirt and got out his towel and regular clothes; he closed the door and locked it once again. He then headed to one of the three private stalls in the locker room and made sure that the door was secure, before setting up all his clothing items on the inside and finishing undressing.
It was not that he was self-conscious about his body; he could hold himself against the best of them in terms of muscle and shape and confidence, but he would not allow anyone else to see him struggling with his shoulder. The extra element of eyes on him and whatever commentary that may arise from that, was not necessary.
In the closed shower stall he removed the rest of his clothing and underwear and hung it with the rest on two hooks, and then turned on the water. He did all of these things with his one good arm and hand; he was keen on not moving the other as much as he possibly could, in the hopes that that would help it recover without the need for extensive medical attention.
He showered, having some difficulty without the use of his other arm. Drying was easier, but at one point it had felt as though he would slip, and he was forced to reach out with his injured arm and hold onto the shower handle. He regretted it almost immediately; he would much rather have preferred the fall on his opposite arm.
Dumbass, he thought, berating himself.
With his injury feeling worse and worse, he tried to put on his clothing on as fast as possible — this meant cutting corners, such as ignoring his wet hair and body entirely and just focusing on getting clothed. His socks got wet when he put them on and stood in them while putting on his boots one at a time. He was certain his white beater was inside out, and he skipped out entirely on putting his work shirt on over because that would require messing with his injured arm more than he would have liked to. When he was decent, however, he collected the rest of his things and exited the stall.
The locker room was now filled with more members of the team; those capable of completing the disciplinary workout at an average time rate, flocked in one after another. He went immediately to his locker and put his towel away, and quickly dabbed on some deodorant before closing the door and slinging his backpack on his one good shoulder, and heading out.
.
.
"Um, hey, can I get some help here?" He asked, walking into the nurse's office.
The nurse, a woman by the name of Florence — Flo, for short — who seemed rather young for her age and yet held wisdom far beyond her years (or at least, constantly showed herself as having such), turned around to look at him after putting a thermometer in the mouth of another student. "Hold that for a few seconds under your tongue," she told the young child, who looked worse-for-wear than he currently did.
"How can I help you?" She asked him. Before he could answer, however, she scrunched up her face as she tried to piece together the information in front of her, and said, "Kevin Barr, right? Twelfth grade. Football team."
"Right." He responded.
"Your hair's wet and— shit." She said, her eyes landing on his red shoulder. "Ah. Sorry. I was told not to curse around students, but… gosh darn it. Your shoulder looks awful. Come, have a seat here." She gestured to the empty bed next to the sick-looking student. Briefly she turned her attention to them as she took out the thermometer and checked their temperature — 102.8 degrees Fahrenheit. A definitive sign of a fever. "Lay down Rosanne. I'm gonna have to call your parents and have them pick you up. Give me a second, Kevin. Let me take care of her first."
The girl next to him, Rosanne, looked a bit mortified that her parents were being called home. He could hear her mumbling something under her breath; about a big test she had to take next period, and how she had just come in here for some medication to get her through it — but now she was going to have to go home, and obviously could not take the exam anymore. She was frustrated.
He could hear nurse Flo talking to the girl's parents and seeing if they could pick her up. It looked as though they simply were not capable of fitting time into doing that, as she came back into the area where the two of them sat and said, "Looks like you're just gonna have to stay here for the rest of the day."
"P-please, is there… is there any way I can go take my exam and then… come back?" The young girl looked at nurse Flo with eyes drowning in disparity. She was chewing on her bottom lips, her fingers clenched and body tensed as though to brace herself for battle — or disappointment.
Nurse Flo looked at the girl; her lips wiggling a bit as she seemed to physically chew over what the girl was asking of her.
"How important is this exam that it's worth risking your health and that of your classmates?" She asked. The young girl looked at her with wide eyes framed by her messy brown bangs. She seemed to understand that no test was worth the risk of health— especially not those of her classmates and teachers. She frowned and bowed her head in shame, and nurse Flo sighed. "Relax. Sit back. I'll give you some Tylenol and you try to get some sleep between now and the time school ends — and write down your name and your class and teacher for that test of yours. I'll talk to them about a make-up."
The girl nodded and while Flo went to get a bottle of Tylenol and a small plastic measuring cup for her to drink from, she, the girl, Rosanne, got out a pen and paper and with a shaking hand and some visible difficulty (she must have been incredibly sick — too sick, even, to take the test at all if she could barely hold a pencil), she wrote down the information nurse Flo requested from her. She handed said slip of paper to her when she came to give her the Tylenol, and then settled back on the bed. Nurse Flo made sure to fully pull the covers that helped to separate the bedding sections, to give the girl maximum privacy.
"Now," she said as she went to stand in front of him; her eyes immediately fixated on the burning red spot that had become of his shoulder. "Tell me how this happened."
"I had work yesterday at the garage place downtown, and I was inspecting the engine of this really nice car—" (Flo rolled her eyes at his emphasis on the quality of the car) "—when my co-worker accidentally removed the hood pole that held it up, and it slammed down on my shoulder. It was sore but fine, until it got aggravated with an… impromptu football drill a few minutes ago — 100-pushups. I was dying by the 50th."
"I see." She said. "Would you mind if I touched it some?"
He shook his head, and nurse Flo put her hands on his shoulder. Her hands were cold, and she gently moved her thumbs along the redness. He flinched when she kneaded a particularly bad area.
"Sorry," she said, taking her hands off of him. "Good news is that it doesn't look like a fracture of any sort — which I doubted in the first place, but it never hurts to check. But there's definitely some unnecessary grinding going on. To stop that, you need a sling — but first, some ice."
"I can't get a sling." He said when she went over to a wall of one long counter with cupboards both above and below it; the cupboards above had glass windows that let her see the medications and other items that were inside. There was a sink in the counter as well, nice and deep. She had gone to that very area to grab the Tylenol and small cup for the now-sleeping girl, and now sought after a compressed ice-pack in a small refrigerated section of the cupboards below the counter.
"Why?" She asked as she found the ice-pack and went to place it on his shoulder. He hissed a bit when the cold pack came against his shoulder, but a few seconds later, he rejoiced in it being there. He had desperately needed that.
"I just came for some meds. I have too many other things to do today and I can't have a sling holding me back."
"Well it's either a sling or amputation. Your choice."
He looked up at her with mild shock. "Are… are you serious?"
"Of course not." She responded, removing her hand from the ice-pack. He immediately replaced it with his good hand, and added more pressure onto the blaring red spot. "I told you there aren't any fractures, didn't I? However, that doesn't mean that you can just choose to not get a sling. You need one regardless. I think there are some left here— hold on."
"I said I can't get one." He said again. "I have work almost all this week. And the days where I don't have it, I have football practice. And I have to practice — Homecoming isn't that far away and we can't mess up. I can't mess up. The team would chew me out for it."
Nurse Flo snorted quite audibly. For a moment he contemplated her age and wondered if she was really as young or old as she looked. She seemed to switch between mid-20s and mid-30s at his separate glances of her; and when she had been very close earlier, she looked more into her 40s, almost, from the crow's feet prominently decorating her eyes. Yet there was no denying her youthful demeanor; from her black, red-tipped hair to her large square "hipster" glasses and converse sneakers.
"Don't be an idiot, boy," she said, suddenly displaying signs of her being much older than he felt she was. "If you do anything with your shoulder like that, it'll likely be the last time your shoulder will ever work like it originally did. You're looking at future ligament troubles and mobility issues if you keep this up."
"I know, but—"
"No buts. You're getting a sling." She went to the wall of cupboards once again and found what she had been looking for. She grabbed hold of a blue sling that looked like it would fit perfectly on him, and then went over to him stating, "Lower the ice-pack and your shirt strap. I gotta apply some medication cream first to help with the swelling."
Kevin did as such. He no longer felt as though he could argue against her. He let her apply the medication and then put his arm up in the sling. Once it was secure, he felt bitterness inside of him. This was surely going to set him back for the rest of the day — nay, the entire week.
"There. Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" She said as she finished cleaning up and went to wash her hands of the cream she had applied on his shoulder. "Just keep it in there for… I'm gonna say, up to two weeks from now. It could get better before then. But make sure to come see me when you feel like you should remove it — the school only has so many slings. As for care, well, simply, take it off when you're bathing and sleeping. Otherwise, it is on at all times. Understood?"
He nodded.
"Good. Now get out of here." She said with a grin.
He nodded and wordlessly hopped off of the bed and slung his backpack on his good shoulder, and exited the room. His arm was secured pretty tightly in the sling, and he could already feel some relief from it being inside of there — but, he could not go around wearing this all day. At home, maybe, but only after he had done everything he needed to do — at the end of his days. Not at school, though, and certainly not at work.
On his way to class, he detoured into the closest boys' bathroom and, when inside, wasted no time in taking his arm out of the sling, in front of the mirror. When the sling was off of his body, he shoved it into his backpack. He put on his work shirt slowly, then, and tried to make himself look as normal as possible.
He told himself that because she had applied some creams, he would still get the same effects on his shoulder as if his arm was in the sling (he knew he was likely lying to himself, but hoped desperately that this was the case in the end). He would wear it at home after he did all of his chores, after all. He would even wear it to bed if that helped offset the time he spent not wearing it during his working days. He will wear it at all other times of the day, he promised, just not when he had to be around others who could be perturbed by his condition.
He noticed, then, when he was finishing fixing himself up, that his signature red snapback had been left in the locker room. He had been in such a rush to get out of there, after all, that the small detail had slipped past his eyes.
He went back to get it; being very careful about his sling-less arm.
.
.
After school came to an end, he hopped onto his motorcycle and headed to downtown Peach Creek to Mo and Tasha's Garage. It was the only auto-body repair shop in all of Peach Creek, and also where his father had brought him to see his Harley back when it was not his and beat-up.
The owner, Mo, was an old friend of his dad's and a greasy mechanic constantly in a red jumpsuit with oil on him like lotion. He had dark brown eyes and balding red hair, and was quite the absent-minded character; but an overall nice guy who had found the Harley and sold it to him cheap, and then constantly checked up on him to see its progress. When he saw his skill in mechanical repair, he offered him a job as a crew member — starting off small with minor repairs like flat tires and some work on bicycles — and he immediately took it.
It was then that he was introduced to Mo's wife, Tasha; a short Asian woman whose hair seemed to be dyed blacker than black by the oil, as she always said that it was naturally a visibly dark brown. Tasha always wore red lipstick as her staple, along with a green jumpsuit matching her husband's in style, and her hair constantly pulled up into a messy bun through the use of pencils or pens. She did not have the old type of mechanic knowledge that Mo did, but she was key on everything new and modern and used that to her advantage to help with the new "breed" of car that constantly came in. Tasha had seemed to make a pet project out of his Harley, though, and always gave him pointers on how to improve it, and even did some hands-on work. She had a motorcycle herself.
He would not lie. It was from the stuff he learned working at Mo's that he was even able to repair his Harley to its current exemplary state; and for that, he was extremely grateful and did not want to disappoint.
When he rolled into the employee parking lot, he was greeted by Tasha, who was pulling up herself, in Mo's red pickup truck with what looked to be spare parts for auto repairs in the back.
"Hello, Kevin." She said as she killed the engine and hopped out. "Right on time as always."
"Of course." He said to her, putting his motorcycle keys in his pocket. "I would not dream of being late — I love working here, after all."
"Well that's good to hear. Hey listen, how's that shoulder of yours? I hope that oaf didn't mess it up too bad." She said, referring to the employee who had somehow missed an entire body being hunched over and inspecting a car's engine and removed the hood holder without a thought.
"Nah, I'm fine." He said, grinning; trying his best to not let anything be a dead giveaway to his lie. "Some sleep helped me brush everything off. It doesn't hurt at all, anymore."
"That's good to hear." Tasha said. "I was so worried. Well, since you say you're fine, go in and put your backpack away then come help me out with these parts. I got a huge haul from the junkyard today, as you can see." She said smiling proudly as she tapped the top of what looked to be a bumper that rested atop a pile of other various metal car parts.
"Right. I'll be right back."
"Hop to it."
He went inside the large garage facility and quickly headed to the employee lockers. He got out his keys and pulled out the small locker key and opened the door. His locker was nearly empty except for a water bottle that he kept around for work, and some auto repair magazines that Mo had given to him a while back when he was fixing his Harley. (He had wanted Kevin to make a custom piece of the Harley, but in the end, he had decided against it; having a motorcycle was enough for him, he did not need it custom.)
He put in his backpack and then locked the door. Before exiting the area, he punched in his time card. On his way back outside, he came across Tasha who was hauling in some tire rims.
"Start with the small things first. We'll tackle the big stuff together."
He nodded.
The hauling-out process took about a good thirty minutes. It had been relatively easy work until he got to the large bumpers. There were four of them and while Tasha had told him that they would tackle them together, he went in thinking that he could handle them just fine, and immediately regretted it when one slipped and pulled his injured shoulder down with it when he tried to grasp at it.
He had never bitten onto the inside of his cheek so hard, before.
Fuck, fuck! He inwardly screamed. That's gonna leave more than a mark. Fuck.
"Kevin, are you alright?" Tasha asked him when she came back outside. She saw the bumper on the floor and Kevin hunched over and clutching his shoulder, and her facial expression immediately took into one of curiosity and concern.
"I'm fine, I'm fine." Kevin said. He forced himself to straighten up and bite back the exploding pain that emitted from his shoulder. He was barely a half-hour into his 6-hour shift, and could not let his messed up shoulder get the best of him so soon.
"Mmmmm…" Tasha did not look convinced, so he put on a show of fully straightening himself out and grabbing hold of the bumper. He lifted it to rest on his good shoulder.
"See? See? I'm fine, Tasha. No need to worry."
"If you say so, then. But didn't I tell you we would handle the big stuff together? Honestly…"
He chuckled. "It's fine. We'll do the next one together. Lemme just bring this one in first." He then moved to walk into the garage and headed to where he and Tasha had been stockpiling the junkyard-treasures next to Mo's office. He flinched at the movement it took to bring the bumper from atop his "good" shoulder, and down onto the ground. In the end, he was happy to have the pressure alleviated, but hesitant to go back out and help Tasha with the rest.
Just suck it up. It'll be over soon.
.
.
At the end of his shift, he had never felt more excited to leave and go home. Normally, he was content with his shift finishing, having felt that he pulled in a good day and earned his hours — a feeling he prided himself on. However, he had never quite been anxious to leave, as he did now. He had never stared at the clock as much as he did that day; wishing that somehow time would speed up and he would blink and be in his bed and no longer putting more pressure on his more-than-jacked-up shoulder.
Driving home, he had visions of a warm bath and tension releasing from his muscles; a warm meal and cold drink; finishing his homework as quickly as possible; and finally, falling into a deep sleep on his bed.
He was eager to get home.
Pulling into his driveway, the front light of the garage that he knew his father turned on specifically for him around the time he was set to get home from work, and the faint light of the streetlamps, were his only source of illumination. Everyone was already in their houses, and the majority of them had their lights completely off.
Getting off of his motorcycle, though, he noticed that he was not the only one out on the street at this time; across from him, he could spot a person staring in his direction. Upon closer inspection, he recognized the person to be Eddward.
Eddward raised a hand in greeting; He gave a nod in Eddward's direction, back.
With that, he went into his home with his backpack still hanging on his good shoulder, and could not help the smile that came across his face as Lacey and Trix greeted him with hugs and wet doggy kisses.
So I managed to keep the word count down for this chapter (yay!) but it's still not quite 5k... mmm... I'm gonna have to figure that out. However, that is not important. What is important is this:
Any products mentioned in the past, present, or future of this story that you are familiar with, are obviously not my own and only included for realism. These babies all belong to their respective trademarks.
The characters Mo and Tasha in name and appearance belong to the Delicious! series game creators. If you haven't heard of it before, it's this amazing series of time-management games that can be found on GameHouse (gaming site, Google if you wish). Honestly, I highly recommend the series because it's one of my absolute favorites.
Next Chapter: Eddward and rain.
Updates Mondays and Fridays.
~ Inkle
