(05) Where Are You? I Need You

"Love is a strong word. It's easy to spell, difficult to define, and impossible to live without." —Anonymous

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'Well, it looks like we're stuck together for the night, amigo. And hey, thanks for . . . er . . . donating so much money to . . . Brown Cow,' Jack told Cristóbal awkwardly as the two of them made their way down the street. He just couldn't say, "Thanks for buying me for so much". It sounded so whore-ish, and Jack was past that stage in his life . . . right?

'I didn't do it for the restaurant. I did it for you,' Cristóbal said in his thick Spanish accent (1).

'Touché,' Jack murmured. 'That's very flattering, but . . . why?'

Cristóbal suddenly stopped walking.

'I thought that would have been obvious.'

Jack stopped as well and looked at his companion as if he had just seen him in a new light . . . Not exactly, though. They were really just standing beneath one of the dingy streetlights that bordered the street.

'Er . . . Look, Cristóbal, you're a really nice guy. I like you a lot, but . . .'

'But?'

'Um . . . I have to apologize if I've led you on in any way,' Jack stuttered uncomfortably.

'You haven't led me on,' Cristóbal replied in a very gentlemanly way. 'You were just being you.'

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jack wondered. His thoughts were soon answered.

'From the first moment I met you, you had . . . intrigued me,' Cristóbal said, beginning to walk once more.

'But you don't even know me!'

'I know enough.'

Jack sheepishly scratched the back of his neck, hoping that it wasn't his old reputation coming back to haunt him . . . again.

'Look, Cristóbal, this probably isn't the best time to say this, especially since you just blew two hundred bucks on me, but there's something that I have to tell you.'

The other teen stopped walking again to stare at Jack.

'I . . . I'm not exactly . . . "available" right now.'

'Because you're with Ralph.'

'Yes, because I'm with—' Jack stopped in mid-sentence. 'How did you know about that?'

'That day in our computers class. You're a slow one, aren't you?' Cristóbal teased.

Jack smiled in spite of himself.

'So . . . you knew and you still . . . uh . . . bought me?'

'I had some spare cash lying around,' Cristóbal shrugged mildly.

Jack was feeling very uncomfortable by now, and it wasn't just hesitance this time. There was something very . . . appealing and mysterious about Cristóbal, and Jack could feel himself being drawn towards the other teen.

"No!" he scolded himself. "Remember Ralph!"

'Jack, I know what you must be thinking right now,' Cristóbal began, 'and I promise that I would never do anything to get between you and Ralph. I am a man of honour, and to do that would be . . . dishonourable. All that I am asking is that you get to know me better. Give me a chance to be your friend if not your . . . lover.'

Jack bit his bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

'Why do you have to do this?' he asked suddenly. 'At least if you were trying to force yourself on me, then I could hate you in peace. But now . . . now there is no hope of that.'

'The last thing that I would want to do is hate you, so why would you want to?'

"Because it's the only way that I can distance us," Jack responded inwardly. "If I can't do that, then there's no telling what might happen."

'Uh . . . Listen, Cristóbal, I don't know if I can do this. I . . . I think I'll just go home,' Jack said. 'I'll raid piggy bank tonight—and maybe for the next two months or so—and pay you back the two hundred dollars.'

'Don't worry about the money,' the youth said. 'It was a gift. I don't need it.'

'But—'

'But if rumours are true,' Cristóbal interrupted, 'then you do. You don't have to give me your money to compensate for tonight. I . . . I guess I'll see you at school tomorrow.' With that said, he spun around on his heel and left.

Jack stared disbelievingly at the other's back as he departed. There was nothing going on between him and Cristóbal except perhaps the beginning of a friendship. Why, then, did he feel as if his heart had just rang a hollow note in his chest? Why, then, did he feel as if he had just lost a great part of him?

Why, then, did he feel as if he was in love?

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Late that evening, when Ralph had just been about to settle in for bed, he heard the phone ring down the hall. Knowing it couldn't possibly be Jack, he let it continue to ring until the answering machine picked up.

'Greetings, you have reached the Macpherson residence,' his mother's automated message played. 'We are unable to take your call at the moment, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, we will get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.'

Beep!

'Uh . . . Hey, Ralph, it's Jack.'

Ralph started when he heard the other teen's rather nervous-sounding voice.

'Um . . . I guess I caught you at a bad time. Listen, we have to talk. It's important. Please call me back as soon as you can, babe. Thanks.'

The second beep, which signaled the end of the message, never had a chance to . . . well, beep! Ralph had dashed down the corridor and picked up the receiver but seconds before.

'Hello? Jack?'

'Hey, you're there!'

'Yeah . . . Sorry I didn't answer before. I just didn't expect you to call again so soon. Wow, two days in a row.'

Jack laughed.

'So . . . What's this important "thing" you have to talk to me about?'

'Er . . . Nothing big, not really.'

'It didn't sound like that a second ago.'

'I miss you, Ralph. I haven't seen you for . . . what? Two months?'

Ralph sighed irritably.

'You're avoiding the subject, Jack. You're the one who brought it up in the first place, too. Tell me what's up.'

'Uh . . . Sorry, Ralph. Just a second.'

The teen heard some faint dialogue. Apparently, Jack was talking to someone at his end. The former vaguely wondered what was going on.

'Er . . . I have to go now, Ralph. My mum just got home and there's something that she needs to tell me. I'll . . . I'll call you when I get the chance,' Jack said hastily. 'Bye.'

Ralph blanched.

"Okay, something is definitely up," he thought, a lump forming in his throat. "That was the first time that Jack left without saying that he loved me."

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Jack's face, already rather pale from the night's events, only grew paler by the minute as his mother recounted her day to him. This was truly turning out to be a horrible night. The worst part of it, which was also—coincidentally—the most recent, was . . . Mrs. Merridew lost her job!

'There have been so many rounds of layoffs these past few months,' she was saying, taking his hand within hers. 'I think we've had six of them in the past ten months. Our company is going under, Jack, but they're trying their best to stay aloft with those they can afford to keep.'

'And they can't afford to keep you?' Jack asked, trying to lighten the mood with a little humour. 'You're just so good at what you do that they can't afford to keep you anymore, eh, mum?'

A slight smile appeared on her face.

'Don't be silly, Jack. This is serious! I've worked for that company for . . . what? . . . five years? That's hardly long enough to be reconsidered when compared to the ancient employees.'

'But you put so much of your time and effort into that place!' Jack said earnestly. 'The least they can do is give you some reward or something.'

'They did, baby, but it's hardly enough to get us through the next few months. I know that we're already going through some tough times, but I fear that they're only going to get worse!' Mrs. Merridew said. 'Until I get another job, we're going to have to make some more sacrifices.' She sighed heavily.

'Don't worry, mum, we'll get through it,' Jack said, pulling her into a one-armed hug. 'We always have before; I don't see why we shouldn't again. You'll get another job soon. We'll be just fine.'

Despite his words, however, Jack believed that they were going to be anything but. It had taken his mother months to find that job! Things hadn't been so hard on them way back when, because his father was a very hard-working man, not the mad drunk that he is now. Yeah. Life was sweet then, he just didn't have the wisdom to see it until now. Since that damned island fiasco, things had only seem to take a turn for the worse, and Jack just did whatever he could to make a better life for himself. He looked for something that would make him happy. His dreams came true the day he came face to face with Cristóbal . . .

NO! RALPH! He meant Ralph!

"Oh, fucker," Jack thought, burying his face in his hands.

Mrs. Merridew, believing that he was overcome by grief of their situation, wrapped her arms around him tightly and drew him to her shoulder, like she used to do when he was still a young boy in preschool.

He felt like that boy now, and he gratefully leaned into his mother's loving embrace.

'I'm going to try my best to find another job, baby,' she whispered brokenly. 'But the unemployment rates in Britain (2) are so high right now! I don't know how long it will take me to.'

'I'll help you, mum, and I'll try to find a part-time job myself. You know, just to earn a little bit of cash for us.'

'Oh, Jack, you're so generous. But I could never ask that of you!' she exclaimed, pulling away to look him in the eye. 'You'd be giving away your free time—'

'—to help earn us a living,' Jack finished for her. 'Besides, you didn't ask; I offered. Lots of guys my age have gone through a dozen jobs already, mum. And . . . I've just taken it for granted that I would never have to. Things have . . . changed since then.'

'Yeah, but some things never will,' she said, lovingly stroking his back. 'Never, baby.'

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Faces.

They were cruel faces of darkness, glaring at him with red eyes. Ralph felt trapped in their lair of shadows. Every which way he turned, unseeing eyes would stare into him, making him feel as if his very soul was exposed for the world to see.

Twisting . . .

Turning . . .

Mocking . . .

Now there were hands as well. What seemed like hundreds of hands descended upon his mind, grasping at the frail thoughts encompassed within it. The hands were positioned in various ways. Some were claw-like, tearing apart his heart. Others were in tight fists, beating him mercilessly, heedless of his pleads to stop. The last had to be the worst . . . A single pair of pale hands wound their way through the forest of black, extending out to him with open, welcome palms. However, every time Ralph tried to reach for them, they would vanish once more beneath an onslaught of darkness.

Somehow—intuitively, he supposed—the teen knew that he had to grab of hold of those hands. Somehow, he knew that the person who they belonged to was the only one who could purge his spirit. Somehow, he knew that he would never achieve this goal, never be able to grasp those hands and feel their support within him.

'Ralph . . .' a voice said, trailing away into mystery; the pale hands forced their way through the masses of darkness once more. 'Come to me . . .'

'I'm trying!' Ralph wailed, frustrated by his futile attempts to escape this madness.

'Ralph . . .' it repeated. 'Come to me . . .'

'Ralph . . .' the faces echoed.

'Ralph . . .'

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With a start, Ralph fell off his bed. The blankets were twisted uncomfortably around his legs, and he vainly tried to peel them off. It had definitely been a strange dream, though it made him question the philosophical meaning behind it.

Unwittingly, a remembered quote entered his head:

"Better never to have met you in my dreams than to wake up to hands that aren't there."

He couldn't quite recall who had said that, though it was probably just a quote he had come across in some book or other, signed "Anonymous". Whatever. The creator of the quote wasn't important, but the content.

'Damn you, Jack!' he cursed the darkness. 'DAMN YOU!'

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'Um . . . Hi, Cristóbal,' Jack said nervously, catching sight of the other teen before school the next morning. The former had actually arrived early for once, if only to speak to the Spaniard.

'Hola,' Cristóbal replied with a smile.

'Hey, listen, man, I'm really sorry about last night. I felt terrible.'

'Felt?'

'Feel,' Jack automatically corrected himself. 'Is there any way I could make it up to you?'

The other teen thought about it for a moment, his brows furrowed in thought.

'Spend the lunchtime with me?' he asked shyly.

'Uh . . . You're not asking me out, are you?'

Cristóbal laughed.

'Stop being so paranoid, Jack! I ask only that we be . . . friends.'

'Friends? Okay, yes, friends I can handle.'

'Good, and when I am saying "friends", I mean with advantages of course.'

'Cristóbal!' Jack exclaimed, flushing blatantly.

The other teen laughed again.

'It was just a joke, Jack,' he said. 'I joke only!'

'So . . . where do you want to meet up then?'

'The caf is always good place to start. Where we go from there . . . Well, it is up to you.'

Jack's face became redder, if possible, upon hearing "up".

"Why is that affecting me?" Jack wondered. "Sure, he's an attractive guy. And he has that cute little Spanish accent. And he's definitely fit—he could probably last for hours. And he seems to genuinely like me. And . . ."

"GAH! What are you doing!" demanded the voice of reason. "He's not Ralph!"

"I know, so I shouldn't be having sexual thoughts about him, right?"

"Oh, now these thoughts are 'sexual'. Since when?"

"Huh?"

"Well, you haven't exactly had 'sexual thoughts' about him. You just flush every time he says something that can have even the slightest implication of . . . you know.'

"That's not my fault!"

"No, it isn't. It's the little-man-who-lives-in-your-head's fault, right?"

"That would be you."

"Fuck you. My existence is a result of your filthy, filthy, filthy mind."

"Why you little—"

'Jack?' Cristóbal asked, interrupting his inner argument. 'Are you okay?'

Jack sighed and forced a smile on his face.

'I'm fine,' he responded charmingly.

'Good.'

'Right.'

'Yes.'

'Uh . . . I guess I'll just meet you later then.' He turned to go.

'Wait, Jack . . .'

Jack tensed slightly and whirled around to face him once more.

'Shall we go to class together?' Cristóbal asked.

The other teen relaxed noticeably.

'Sure. We should get there nice and early, too. I want to give Ms. Levington a heart attack.'

'That is cruel, Jack.'

'Meh. It'll be fun. . . I just need to make a quick stop to my locker first

They obligingly made their way down the corridor to Jack's locker. Unfortunately, when he opened it, a large pile of books and homework papers fell on top of his and scattered to the floor.

'Holy shit! Jack, are you all right?'

Jack was currently rubbing at his forehead, which had taken most of the brunt.

'I think so,' he replied, his head reeling. 'I'm just a little dizzy. Whoa, that's never happened before . . . at least, I don't think it has.'

'Do you need to see the school nurse?'

'Nah, I'm fine,' Jack said.

'But . . . you're bleeding.'

'Huh?' Almost immediately, his senses cleared up and he was able to perceive a wet, sticky substance on his fingertips. 'Crap,' he muttered under his breath.

By now, other students in the hallway had noticed the commotion.

'Hey, Jack, man, you okay?' someone asked.

'Yeah, what happened?' another inquired.

'Ouch. That looks like it kills.'

'That's what you get for never cleaning your locker, eh, buddy?'

'Screw off,' Jack muttered, and the curious teens abruptly left him alone, though more than a few glanced at him every now and then.

Cristóbal chuckled softly.

'It may have been easy for you to get them to leave you alone, but I won't. Let me see it.' He took Jack's chin in his hand and tilted his head in a way that light would filter onto the wound. 'Well,' he began, using his other hand to brush some stray hairs away, 'it doesn't look too bad, but I still think that you should get the nurse to check it out.'

'Don't be stupid, I'm fine,' the other teen insisted. 'I just need to wash it off.' His gaze suddenly fell to the belongings littering the hallway. 'I guess I should pick some of this stuff up first though, huh?' He slowly kneeled down and started gathering his papers.

Without saying a word, Cristóbal followed suit, collecting the ones that had fallen further down the hall. Finally, there was only one sheet left. When they both leaned in to take it, their hands brushed softly; Jack immediately snapped his hand away.

'Uh . . . Here,' Cristóbal said, handing it to his companion.

'Thanks,' Jack muttered, unable to meet his gaze.

"This is so embarrassing!"

He was not exactly embarrassed by the fact that their hands brushed. I mean, come on! It was so cliché that it just lost its "cuteness". No. He was embarrassed that Cristóbal had to see what was on that paper. Written all over it, in Jack's handwriting, was:

I love Ralph

Ralph + Jack Love

Ralph Ralph Ralph

It was just a scrap sheet of paper that Jack tended to scrawl on when he was bored in class, but he had never intended for anyone to see it . . . So why—oh why—did Cristóbal have to see it?

RING!

The first bell rang, signaling the five-minute limit for everyone to get to his homeroom class. All around them, the other students started making their way to class.

'So . . . shall it be the classroom, the restroom, the nurse's room, or the bedroom?' Cristóbal asked with a grin.

Jack rolled his eyes, wondering if the other had always been this horny or if he was only like this today.

'That was clever,' he said sarcastically. 'Did you think that up all by yourself?'

'You know it.'

Without bothering to reply, Jack unceremoniously stuff the papers at the bottom of his locker before making a move to stand.

'Whoa . . .' he murmured, clutching at his head again when the room began to spin.

'Jack?'

Jack sighed in defeat.

'Okay,' he said, shoving his locker closed. 'Let's go to the nurse's office.'

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(1) I didn't know until this year that there are actually "different" Spanish accents, did you? Man, do I feel . . . er . . . slightly stupid. Apparently, the accents (as well as the slang, obviously) differ from Mexico to Puerto Rico to Spain to Colombia to Venezuela to . . . I think you get the point. The ones that are located close together are similar, but then again, different parts of the country can also have different accents. Bizarre, huh? Just as a side note, let's say Cristóbal is from Spain. Apparently, Spain Spanish (the language) is the . . . I don't know . . . highest form of Spanish. I just heard that, though! I mean no offense to other people! Please don't throw moldy bananas at me. -Dodges sudden torrent of bananas-. Grr-ness to those damn plátanos.

(2) I don't really know the statistics on British unemployment, but it doesn't really matter. The point is that they're really high in this story.