Stan didn't pick up. Big surprise.
The sun streaming through my window awakens me the next morning. The alarm says I have 15 minutes left to sleep, but I don't need them. I fly through my morning routine and grab my coat, crunching through last nights snow. Trails of fog chase me as I march to Stan's house.
Shelley's car isn't parked in the driveway which means she probably stayed at her boyfriends after work. I knit my brow, going over what I'll say to Stan when the door creaks open. That's when I notice my fist in the air. I guess I already knocked.
"Hi Kyle," Mrs. Marsh greets me. I feel like I haven't seen her in years, but it's only been a month and a half, maybe. Has she always looked this tired?
"Hi , Mrs. Marsh. Stan and I are supposed to walk to the bus stop today," I lie.
"Oh." She seems confused. "Stanley said he wasn't feeling well today."
Is he trying to skip school? Again? "Can I talk to him?"
She steps aside and opens the door a little wider. "Sure, come on in."
I take a good look around on my way to the stairs. I know Stan's dad moved out a couple of months ago, but for the most part, everything looks the same. I guess it's because Stan's mom made him keep all his junk in the spare bedroom. I climb the stairs, carefully studying the pictures on my way up. Oh, man. There's Stan and I when we were six, playing on the swings. Dude, look how happy he was.
"Stan?" I call out, nearing his door. No reply. I knock, and wait. "Stan? It's Kyle. Can I come in?"
A tiny groan form the other side of the door lets me know he's awake. I take this as a 'yes, you may enter,' and crack the door.
"Oh, dude, it reeks in here!"
It smells like the entire carpet is made of weed. In actuality, it seems to be made up of all sorts of stuff. Clothes, silverwear, cups, papers. You name it, it's on Stan's floor. Carefully I tiptoe around everything and that's when I realize he looks like total shit. He's curled into the fetal position, eyes red and half closed.
"Kyle?" he sniffs. Has he been crying?
"Jesus, dude, are you all right?"
Stan squints, using the long undershirt sleeve to rub the gunk out of his eyes. He sits up and yawns. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought we could walk to the bus stop together."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Well, did my mom tell you I'm not going?"
"Your mom said you were sick. You seemed fine yesterday," I add, suspiciously.
"Yeah," he says, and I grimace. His breath smells like dogshit. "I'll—I'll be all right, though. I just gotta…just need to sleep it off." He sniffs again.
"Sleep it off? Sleep what off, Stan?" the words fly out of my mouth.
"Just, this." He throws his hands out, palms up.
My eyebrow raises. "What's 'this' mean?"
"I don't know, dude," he groans, a hint of irritation in his voice. I can tell he's starting to get defensive. "It's a cold or something. Anyway, I'm not going to school today, so you're wasting your time."
"Okay, Stan," I say flatly, but don't move.
He looks at me, icily. Challenging me. I look right back, standing tall. I know he knows I'm not about to give up that easily.
"What?" Stan asks. "Kyle, WHAT? What do you want? Go to school, already, damn."
A million thoughts run through my head. I could yell. I could plead. I have so many options. I think back to how he acted all those years ago. Honest to God, I couldn't stand to be around him. I felt like I was losing my best friend. But things started to get better out of nowhere one day, and I was content to just let it go, because I had my friend back. Now, I'm afraid he's falling back into old habits. I mean, look at his dad. "If I go over to your dresser right now, I won't find a bottle of whiskey, will I Stan?"
Stan slowly turns to face me. He looks so outraged, like he can't believe I'd even THINK that. I KNOW that look, Stan. I know when you're lying. You try so hard to look offended, but you can't even look me in the eye. "Get lost, Kyle."
"No!" I shout, bolting for the dresser.
He dives off the bed and slams into me, grabbing my wrists and bending them back. Stan is a little stronger than me. If I don't stop him, he might break something.
"Let go! Stan, let go, you're hurting me!"
He forces me into the wall with a dull THUD, just holding me there and glaring, glaring at me like a wild animal. I've never seen him like this before.
"Stop lying, Stan! We can get you help."
"You think you know everything, Kyle," Stan says coldly. He releases me and violently starts tearing the drawers off the dresser. "Go ahead, dig through them if you don't believe me!"
I shrink into myself, cowering. He's like an animal, screaming at me to search through every single thing if it will make me happy. When I don't move, he starts doing it himself. Shirt after shirt fly through the air and land on the floor, followed by socks, underwear; everything. When he's finally through, he turns to me, daring me to say I still don't believe him.
He's out of breath, and so am I.
"I…I-I…" My heart is beating wildly, my face flush and my arms tingling. When it begins to fade, I notice my wrist still hurts. I pull a glove off, and there are four perfect little half moon shapes cut into my skin. "Stan, you hurt me."
Suddenly he's my Stan again. The wild look in his eyes is gone, replaced with concern and shame. It's like he's seeing what he's done for the first time. The clothes, my wrist—"Kyle, I-I'm sorry. I don't know what…"
I stare angrily at him, my mind completely blank. I have no words.
Head still swimming, I march down the stairs past Mrs. Marsh, who keeps asking me what happened and if everything is okay. I pause, considering if I should say anything. I don't think I can, though. I'm still in shock. I opt to just march past her and out the door, not even bothering to slam it behind me.