Bobby braids bracelets, he thinks and smiles. "Bobby braids bracelets.
Bobby braids bracelets. Bobby braids b-bracelets. Bobby braids break-lets.
Bobby brays break-lets." He makes himself finish, five times as fast as he
can.
He needs something to do with his hands so he practices making threads of fine ice, something he can't think about, something that won't let him think about other things. He doesn't mind that they break under his thumb or how long it takes to properly form each strand, so it's rubbery and not just wet.
It's the fact that the window cracked from the cold that gets him. Or rather, the fact that his room is always ten degrees too cold below comfortable for Marie, or Jubilee, or even Logan. And there's no reason to care. No reason to ask his mom to keep doubling the deserts or to hide the Krimpets.
Marie's been asking him why he's been so quiet. She's been giving him those along-the-eye-liner looks, and Remy said that now Kitty thinks he's cute. But Bobby knows she'll never act because everyone's afraid of Marie's spider web ways and maybe Kitty's afraid her skin will melt if she gets too close to him, too. Maybe she thinks he spends too much time with Marie and picked up her coma touch. Or enough time with John to lose whatever virtues he had.
He could move on. He can move on. He should. It's just hard because John replied to his email and Bobby knows he's a pansy because he's afraid to open it. He could shimmy up the drain pipe two seconds behind John and not be afraid Scott will catch them breaking curfew or that Logan will smell the beer. But he's too afraid to open his bank account in case his father asks him why he bought a passport. He can kiss a boy and not care if anyone walks in because that boy was the first he's ever met to tell him that 'Johnny Quest' was cool, and Race the coolest, but the CG episodes were the best, because that boy was leaving and he couldn't do anything. But Bobby can't tell his dad he's a mutant. But he can't tell his dad a lot of things. Can't.
But he can smile, he thinks. Maybe that's in the email- John moving on.
And he has to start doing homework again.
And smiling at Marie because she's a good friend, not that he'd ever date her again.
He has to realize, he thinks. John's hot blood isn't his concern anymore. It couldn't be. It can't.
"Hey. Bobby. Psst. Why do women watch porno films to the end?"
"I dunno. Why Remy, why?"
"They think they'll get married." Bobby smiled. See, it wasn't that hard. Then again, there was also the image of Scott making Remy repeat the joke in front of the class to make him smile harder.
He had read the email. Reread. And then a third time. John had gotten there ok (the exact phrase being 'the plane ride was a little too much time spent in close confines with my father and four different exits from which he could throw me'). His dad hadn't said much to him. He was planning on coming down with an acute case of aphasia (Bobby had to look up that word but had liked what he found: Partial or total loss of the ability to articulate ideas or comprehend language). John hoped he was well. And that was it. Seven friggin lines. But John had arranged them in almost Hemingway formation, each idea garnering a separate paragraph.
Bobby still didn't know what to write back. 'Marie's great I think she wants to date me again.' No, because that would bring up whether John and Bobby were dating, or whether they ever had been. And Bobby knew that it was his fault no one knew about the little 'us' there had been, that was his request but now that John was gone he still had all the feelings and the imagination he had before, but no roommate to at least imagine talking about them with.
'My mom wants to know why she can cut back on the food supply.' Because that sounded like he was moving on and damn it, he didn't know where that would mean he was moving to. Back to girls? Back to what was now his own room? Moving on. But he had to start moving on.
'I'm doing my homework again,' he started writing in his notebook, ignoring the lecture on log and natural log functions. He could probably cop it from Marie later, or Remy if he didn't write it in French again. 'Laugh John. It's ok; I surprised myself with my deviance in your honor. So, meet up with your old friends? Has your father hit you? Maybe, maybe now you're back and he won't. You can pessimistic, I'll be your optimistic side.
'Have you and him talked about anything? And if you get aphasia, can you spread it to me, like an email virus or something? Cause I'm not sure what to say to people anymore, what I'm hiding and what I'm not, and how to act like I've moved on when I don't think I have.
'And speaking of, do you want the Krimpets because I haven't felt much like eating them and I don't know how to explain to my mother that she shouldn't send them anymore so maybe I can care package them to you. I hope you're well.'
The bell rang and Bobby gathered up his things, heading for the bedroom, ignoring the smell of lunch, heading for the Internet. Maybe this was enough to start. Maybe John could tell him what to do or what he was really doing. Maybe Bobby could stop braiding bracelets then and start smiling, start joking, stop looking so surprised when people laugh and talk to him. Moving on, he guessed was all in the first step.
He needs something to do with his hands so he practices making threads of fine ice, something he can't think about, something that won't let him think about other things. He doesn't mind that they break under his thumb or how long it takes to properly form each strand, so it's rubbery and not just wet.
It's the fact that the window cracked from the cold that gets him. Or rather, the fact that his room is always ten degrees too cold below comfortable for Marie, or Jubilee, or even Logan. And there's no reason to care. No reason to ask his mom to keep doubling the deserts or to hide the Krimpets.
Marie's been asking him why he's been so quiet. She's been giving him those along-the-eye-liner looks, and Remy said that now Kitty thinks he's cute. But Bobby knows she'll never act because everyone's afraid of Marie's spider web ways and maybe Kitty's afraid her skin will melt if she gets too close to him, too. Maybe she thinks he spends too much time with Marie and picked up her coma touch. Or enough time with John to lose whatever virtues he had.
He could move on. He can move on. He should. It's just hard because John replied to his email and Bobby knows he's a pansy because he's afraid to open it. He could shimmy up the drain pipe two seconds behind John and not be afraid Scott will catch them breaking curfew or that Logan will smell the beer. But he's too afraid to open his bank account in case his father asks him why he bought a passport. He can kiss a boy and not care if anyone walks in because that boy was the first he's ever met to tell him that 'Johnny Quest' was cool, and Race the coolest, but the CG episodes were the best, because that boy was leaving and he couldn't do anything. But Bobby can't tell his dad he's a mutant. But he can't tell his dad a lot of things. Can't.
But he can smile, he thinks. Maybe that's in the email- John moving on.
And he has to start doing homework again.
And smiling at Marie because she's a good friend, not that he'd ever date her again.
He has to realize, he thinks. John's hot blood isn't his concern anymore. It couldn't be. It can't.
"Hey. Bobby. Psst. Why do women watch porno films to the end?"
"I dunno. Why Remy, why?"
"They think they'll get married." Bobby smiled. See, it wasn't that hard. Then again, there was also the image of Scott making Remy repeat the joke in front of the class to make him smile harder.
He had read the email. Reread. And then a third time. John had gotten there ok (the exact phrase being 'the plane ride was a little too much time spent in close confines with my father and four different exits from which he could throw me'). His dad hadn't said much to him. He was planning on coming down with an acute case of aphasia (Bobby had to look up that word but had liked what he found: Partial or total loss of the ability to articulate ideas or comprehend language). John hoped he was well. And that was it. Seven friggin lines. But John had arranged them in almost Hemingway formation, each idea garnering a separate paragraph.
Bobby still didn't know what to write back. 'Marie's great I think she wants to date me again.' No, because that would bring up whether John and Bobby were dating, or whether they ever had been. And Bobby knew that it was his fault no one knew about the little 'us' there had been, that was his request but now that John was gone he still had all the feelings and the imagination he had before, but no roommate to at least imagine talking about them with.
'My mom wants to know why she can cut back on the food supply.' Because that sounded like he was moving on and damn it, he didn't know where that would mean he was moving to. Back to girls? Back to what was now his own room? Moving on. But he had to start moving on.
'I'm doing my homework again,' he started writing in his notebook, ignoring the lecture on log and natural log functions. He could probably cop it from Marie later, or Remy if he didn't write it in French again. 'Laugh John. It's ok; I surprised myself with my deviance in your honor. So, meet up with your old friends? Has your father hit you? Maybe, maybe now you're back and he won't. You can pessimistic, I'll be your optimistic side.
'Have you and him talked about anything? And if you get aphasia, can you spread it to me, like an email virus or something? Cause I'm not sure what to say to people anymore, what I'm hiding and what I'm not, and how to act like I've moved on when I don't think I have.
'And speaking of, do you want the Krimpets because I haven't felt much like eating them and I don't know how to explain to my mother that she shouldn't send them anymore so maybe I can care package them to you. I hope you're well.'
The bell rang and Bobby gathered up his things, heading for the bedroom, ignoring the smell of lunch, heading for the Internet. Maybe this was enough to start. Maybe John could tell him what to do or what he was really doing. Maybe Bobby could stop braiding bracelets then and start smiling, start joking, stop looking so surprised when people laugh and talk to him. Moving on, he guessed was all in the first step.