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III

The Sorrows of Young Mike

When I reached home, I directly rushed upstairs. Ignoring the voice coming from the kitchen, calling "Mike? Is that you?", I ran into my room, shut the door close behind me, with some force, turned on the stereo, really loud, the volume about four bars below the maximum, threw myself onto my bed, buried my face into the pillow and – Yes, I know what you're thinking: Boohoo! Mike is such an emo! – and cried.

I must have been crying very hard and what felt like for a very long time when I heard the door open and footsteps crossing the room, approaching me. Someone sat down on the bed next to my head.

"Hey, Mikey? What's wrong?" a voice full of loving concern asked.

I only managed to answer by sobbing even more heavily, gasping for air as my nose started running.

"Hey. Come on." A hand ran through my hair gently. Oh, great now my hair is a mess too! Like my whole life!

The hand stroked my head. "What is it, Mikey? Can't be that bad, can it? It's only been the first day of school, right? Tomorrow all will be fine again." Yeah, and pigs can fly. Hello?! On which planet do you live? This is high school! Nothing will be fine, ever!

Nevertheless, I turned my head to the voice, still sobbing violently. First thing I saw was that white apron with the ridiculous flower print on it. But I couldn't actually see the individual flowers, just blue blurry dots. My vision was kind of, well, blurred.

Then the hand reached at my cheek, gently brushing a tear away.

"Now come on. Cheer up, Mikey-Pooh", my dad said, having lowered his head to mine and looking me straight in the eyes, beaming with an encouraging smile. I sobbed loudly. I guess for the effect of it.

"Now, tell me. What happened at school that was so terrible that it made your blue eyes turn red?"

I took a deep breath – I guess for the effect of it. – and opened my mouth, ready to speak and sob, when my mother suddenly entered the room.

"What's that noise? How many times do I have to tell you…?!" Saying, no, yelling this, she switched off my stereo. Only then I realized that Avril Lavigne had been playing. Not mine! I swear! My cousin Jenny gave it to me. I don't listen to chick music!

By then I sat upright in my bed. We stared at each other for a moment before she addressed Dad.

"Richard, I think something's burning in the kitchen."

I sniffed but couldn't detect any odd smell.

My dad patted my hand lightly, smiled at me, got up and left the room without a word, leaving my mom and me engaged in a staring contest.

"Don't you have any homework to do?"

"First day!" was all I managed to mutter, my voice still unsteady from the sobbing.

"I'm sure there's something you should do. – And wash your face before you come down for dinner. – And comb your hair. It's a mess." I knew it!

Without waiting for any response from me, she left the room, without closing the door, of course, and I collapsed into my pillow again, with a moan. I took the iPod from the drawer next to my bed and switched it on to some rap. Much better. That's my kind of music. Yeah, that half-a-dollar-guy. Yeah. Gangsta Rap. That's what I call music. – Dammit! The tears kept on running down my cheeks and I switched to Christina's "Beautiful", putting it on repeat, giving in to the weeping. My life sucks.

-+-+-+-+-

Dinner was consumed in silence. Well, I was silent at least. My mom kept on complaining about I don't know what the whole time and my dad answered. But I did not say anything.

" – And I cannot, I WILL NOT tolerate this behavior any longer. –"

I looked up. Is she talking about me?

"And I've told her that. God knows how many times I've told her that!"

No, not talking about me.

" – irresponsible", Dad nodded.

Me?

"And then her boyfriend. He's in the store with her like the whole time. As if he worked there. – IF they would work that is! You wouldn't believe what they were doing when I saw them in the tents aisle this afternoon!"

No. Not me. – Yuck. I hate peas. They are so green and round and tiny, and green. And they taste green, too. Makes me shudder. And Edward Cullen is green, too. – No, wait. What?

"Okay. Then it's settled."

Suddenly my parents were silent and glared at me.

What? Did I say something aloud? Something about peas? – Or Cullen…?

"Mike?"

"Huh?"

"I've asked you a question. It's only polite to answer."

"Huh? What?" Peas and Edward Cullen I hate.

"Richard, your son drives me mad… – Can't you for once listen when you're talked to?!"

"Sorry," I mumbled, looking down at the peas scattered over my plate.

"I said you're helping out in the store this Saturday. 'Cause that –" she took a deep breath to compose herself, "Tiffany told me she can't come to work this Saturday. Has something better to do. I should have told her she'd better look for a new job as well. THAT would be something better to do. Ha!"

"What? Work? In the store? This Saturday?"

"Jeez, Richard, your son is really slow sometimes."

"But why? I mean – huh?"

"Your mother's just told you, Mike. You have to help in the store on Saturday because Tiffany can't come to work that day."

"And it's about high time you earned some money yourself. We can't always pay for you!"

"But Saturday? The game's on Saturday!"

"What game?" She glared at me reproachfully.

Basketball! – or Football? Volleyball? – Actually I don't know…

"The first game of the new school year!" That was a statement.

"And?" She kept glaring at me and smiling evilly I would say.

"The whole school will be there! I have to go!"

"No, you won't. End of discussion."

"But, Mom!" She kept her eyes focused on the plate before her. I swear she was grinning evilly. – And had way fewer peas than me!

"Da-ad?" I pleaded.

"Mike. If your mother says she needs you in the store, then that's settled."

"But why? Please," I mouthed. I knew he was about to melt under my famous Mike Newton puppy look when a shrill voice announced:

"I said you're working on Saturday and so you will! END OF DISCUSSION."

Dammit. I couldn't help sulking, which only made my mom roll her eyes and grin, yes, evilly.

Though I didn't actually plan on going to the game, I had really no intention to spend my precious Saturday at Newton's Outfitters. I hate my mom and her stupid store. Yes, though it says Newton's on the sign and my dad's father founded it, my mom is in charge of all and everything, quite the businesswoman she is. And dad? Well, he does work, too. Doing the marketing, doing the housework, oh, and managing the online shop – though I seriously doubt that anyone has ever ordered anything online from Newton's Outfitters – and he's currently working on a novel. Anyways, work sucks. My life sucks. I hate working and peas and Edward Cullen!

-+-+-+-+-

After dinner I went straight up into my room and switched on the computer. I don't know how or why, but after checking my emails I was suddenly typing Edward Cullen's name into google. I didn't get many results. There was something: Edward Cullen Harvard graduate of the class of 1986. Can't be the same.Let's look at the other results. – Wait! Why am I googling him? Oh, yes, right: Know your enemy. – Maybe I should try image search?

Fortunately I was saved from this peculiar design by my cousin Jenny logging in on the chat.

xoxoxTomWelling'sFutureExWifexoxox: hi mike!!!

She has that ridiculously long username.

blondeboy1988: Hey, Jen

Actually I wanted to have something with Mike. Yet, the only name available was Mike46.

xoxoxTomWelling'sFutureExWifexoxox: wazzup???

blondeboy1988: Not much. My life sucks. And…

xoxoxTomWelling'sFutureExWifexoxox: what and…???

blondeboy1988: Everything… -sighs- Okay, I didn't type that because I think typing your actions or emotions on the chat is ridiculous.

xoxoxTomWelling'sFutureExWifexoxox: bad day???

blondeboy1988: bad life. -sobs- Again, I didn't type that.

xoxoxTomWelling'sFutureExWifexoxox: wanna tal kabout it???

blondeboy1988: Wouldn't help though… – Anyways, there's this new guy at school. And he's such a prick, he's like, he thinks he's so much better than us. And he has this hair. It looks like, It's like he doesn't comb it properly and it's red, well sort of, okay maybe it's not red but bronze brown and shiny and soft and, yet, it's still… And he's tall, too tall for his age. And he has pale skin. And no freckles. Flawless pale skin. And you know how long it took for me to get such skin. But his looks like he never even had to worry about getting spots. Maybe it's because he hasn't reached puberty yet. But that's impossible as his – And he wears contacts and his thighs

I deleted all of that before sending only:

blondeboy1988: No.

xoxoxTomWelling'sFutureExWifexoxox: ok sry mom calld gotta go cu!!!

blondeboy1988: See ya.

xoxoxTomWelling'sFutureExWifexoxoxlogged out.

Dammit. I could have told her about the girl. Girls. Alice and the blonde one. Though I doubt if she could have been any help with them. – Not that Mike Newton would need any help with the girls!

As life still sucked afterwards, I put on my TV, determined to watch the whole first season of Dawson's Creek on DVD – Jenny's! Not mine! – and meanwhile crying myself to sleep. Yet, I got all annoyed as they were talking so annoyingly much and weird elaborated stuff. Do teens in New England really talk like that? Hence I switched off the DVD and switched on to excessive crying only.

A/N Awww… Poor Mikey-Pooh… Don't you feel sorry for him? I do. And I hate his mom. Yes, his parents somehow reversed their roles. Actually I thought that Mike's mom was really quite bossy when she had that very small appearance in Eclipse. Don't you think Mike would have deserved a mom like Esme? Well, he's got his father.

And I'd like to say THANK YOU SO MUCH to all that reviewed and/or favorited this story!!! I'm so glad you somehow like my Mike! Yet, I hope I haven't annoyed you too much with this rather weepy chapter. Please review though!

And, I wonder: Is it just me, or do you also google whenever you have a crush on someone – someone you met, a celebrity, or a fictional character – just to find out everything about him?

Oh, and now I wonder what Mike might be dreaming that night… hehe…

P.S.: I hate peas.

The Sorrows of Young Werther (1774) by Johann Wolfgang Goethe