Threebranch: You're right, the link did screw up. FFN is really strict with not letting you post links. I put a space between each word but it didn't work this time. I couldn't say why. The link to my can be found in my profile. I offer all kinds of stuff there for anyone who's interested, including editorial services and critiques for writers and other fun things. On the lowest tier (3 dollars a month) I offer a 10 percent discount on all commissions, which I figured would be a nice perk for people who might want commissions in the future.
Lily Loud poked her head into the hall, looked left and right, then scurried out, her books pressed to her chest. Kids streamed by on either side of her, and she had to shoulder through a group of boys to get to her locker. She input the combination, looked around again like a timid mouse scanning for hawks, then shoved her books in. She slammed it, locked it, and turned toward the main doors, relief washing over her. Whew, looks like I slipped my bullies, now I can -
"Looks, girls," a snide voice rose behind her, "it's Lily."
Darn it.
The smart thing to do would have been to ignore them and make for the exit, but Lily was just a little proud, and if she ran away with her tail between her legs, she doubted she'd be able to look at herself in the mirror for a while. Instead, she stood there, stock still and stiff as a board, as they surrounded her, three seventh grade girls who all seemed somehow much bigger than her even though they were only a year or less older. The leader, Amanda Hugginkis flashed a cold, tight lipped smile and crossed her arms with a flourish, her hip cocking to one side. She reminded Lily a lot of her sister Lola - she was pretty, fashionable, and so stuck up she needed a telescope to see her feet. Ahoy, thar they blow. Her friends were equally stylish...and equally mean: Chanel, a black girl with big hoop earrings and clad in a denim jacket, the hem of which rested just above her stomach (I take it you put your little sister's on by mistake), and Brooke, who really had no place making fun of anybody with all the zits and whiteheads on her face. She wore a black sweatshirt with ABERCROMBIE across the chest in white cursive.
Lily took a deep breath. What were they going to make fun of this time? Her clothes? Her teeth? The fact that she got a free school lunch? That was the most funneriffic thing about these girls - you never knew. At least it keeps me on my toes.
That was sarcasm, sweetie, as Lola would say. She tried to look on the bright side and turn all of life's lemons into lemonade, but, let's face it, there is no bright side to being picked mercilessly apart by people who were bigger, richer, prettier, and all around better than you, to having your every flaw held up and ridiculed day after day after day. And don't say oh, honey, you're beautiful, like Mom does. She had two eyes and owned a mirror, she was very well aware that her overbite made her look goofy. It wasn't very severe (if pictures are to be believed, Luan's was waaaay worse), but every time she looked in the mirror, it seemed to have grown just a little bit. At this rate, she'd look like Butt-Head by the time she was thirteen - she pretended to not care about things, both to everyone else and to herself, but that eventuality scared her.
She stole a quick look around - the hall stood largely empty save for a crowd of kids filing through the doors, and another milling around the entrance to the gym. A metaphorical tumbleweed blew across the floor and, wouldn't you know it, not a teacher in sight.
Sigh.
If someone's bullying you, tell. Okay, but how can I do that when the faculty is all MIA?
Uncrossing her arms, Amanda reached out and Lily flinched in expectation of a slap, scratch, or poke. Amanda's fingers brushed her hair, and the older girl sniffed. "A prime example of what knot to do. Get it?"
Amanda's toadies giggled, and Lily's face burned with a mixture of righteous indignation and shame. "When's the last time you brushed your rat nest, Lily?" Amanda asked in a patronizing tone and batted her eyes mockingly. "It's been a while, huh?"
"No," Lily said, even though, come to think of it, it had been a while. She didn't exactly, you know, what do they call it? "Take care of herself." There were so many things to do and think about that brushing her hair kind of fell by the wayside. She'd rather draw, or explore the park, or sing (to herself, alone, because she wasn't any good), daydream, analyze, and hang out with Lincoln. How could she do any of that stuff if she spent all her time primping like Lola? Her looks mattered, sort of, but not...like...all that much.
Amanda chuckled in the back of her throat. "You guys know what Lily's favorite movie is?" The corners of her mouth sharpened and she leaned in; Lily cringed, and hated herself for it. A cruel glint shone in Amanda's eyes, and when she answered her own question, she spoke slowly, her pink glossed lips carefully pronouncing each letter. "Tangled."
Chanel and Brooke threw their heads back and laughed snottily. Amanda pursed her lips and crossed her arms again. "What's her favorite food?"
The blush on Lily's cheeks deepened and she hung her head in humiliation.
"Knot-chos."
Brroke and Chanel laughed even harder.
Was her hair really that bad? Her fingers tingled with the urge to check, but she resisted it; the key, she had learned, was to not let them know they were getting to her. If she pretended not to care, they'd go away.
"I think I see gnats jumpin' around," Chanel said.
"I smell it," Brooke gagged and pinched her nose. "Do you even take baths?"
"Yes, I take a bath every night," Lily retorted.
She wasn't lying that time, she really did bathe daily. Hey, she might have to fix her hair or put on makeup, but she wasn't dirty. At least she didn't think she was. Now she really wanted to sniff her armpits and make sure she didn't stink - did she put deodorant on this morning? She didn't think so but she wasn't used to having to do that. She was "becoming a woman" as her mom said, which was really code for hairy and stinky. Oh, and her chest ached sometimes buuuuut she'd rather that than smelling bad.
Amanda snorted. "Do you wash your hair every night?"
"Yes," Lily said truthfully. She was starting to get mad. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? Why are some people so damn mean?
"It doesn't look like it," Amanda said. "It looks nasty." She flicked her eyes distastefully up Lily's body and wrinkled her nose. "Just like the rest of you." Shaking her head in disgust, Amanda turned and held her hand up, a signal for her troops to follow. "Come on, let's get out of here before we catch Lily's crabs."
Rage boiled up in Lily's chest and her hands closed into fists so tight her fingernails bit into the soft padding of her palms. Blood pounded hard against her temples, and the edges of her vision suddenly grayed. Her eyes, normally open and filled with warmth and curosity, narrowed to predatory slits and zeroed in on the back of Amanda's dumb blonde head. Every slight, every snub, every shitty remark came back to her in a black crest, and her lips tugged back from her teeth in a hateful sneer. She smoldered from the tips of her toes to the top of her horselick, and a violent shudder ran through her like the rumble of a nuclear blast felt before it was seen. She saw herself springing forward, grabbing Amanda's hair, and wrenching back with all of her might. In her mind, she crashed her fist into the side of Amanda's face. The bully cried out in pain, and savage satisfaction came over Lily like a warm blanket. She did it again and again, moving to her face, shattering her nose, knocking her teeth out. When she was done, she was panting, and Amanda was covered in blood, her eyes pooled with misery.
That image snapped her out of it, and her anger drained away with an almost audible sucking sound. Her eyes widened in horror, and her heart twinged. Amanda and the others were gone and Lily stood alone; she realized her hands were still fisted, and released them with a start as though they were repulsive. The vision of Amanda's bruised and battered face lingered before her eyes like the visage of a terrible phantom, and Lily's stomach twisted.
She was so close to actually doing it...to hitting someone until they were bleeding...that she trembled. Why was it so hot in here? She pressed her hand to her forehead, and her skin burned as if with fever. She remembered the vivid feeling of Amanda's nose breaking under her knuckles like glass in a velvet bag, and hot bile rose in the back of her throat. Amanda's eyes, pleading and desperate, like an abused kitten in one of those ASPCA commercials, filled her sight, and that was it - she was going to puke.
Clamping one hand to her mouth and the other to her stomach, she took off toward the girl's room at a frantic, headlong run, fighting the coming tide back down and praying she made it to a toilet in time. An Hispanic girl with her black hair in pigtails came out, drying her hands on a paper towel, and Lily bumped into her.
"Hey!"
Ignoring her, she whipped into the bathroom, slammed one of the stalls open, and dropped to her knees just as the contents of her stomach shot from her mouth in a bitter, stinging rush. Tears welled in her eyes and her tiny fingers gripped the porcelain rim. She gagged, and her stomach muscles contracted, squeezing a groan from her like toothpaste from a tube. Another spasm wracked her, and she dry wretched, her body having nothing left to give.
Quivering and panting for air, Lily closed her eyes and attempted to catch her runaway heart; the acrid taste of intestines coated the inside of her mouth and the hot reek of partially digested food pinched her nostrils, pushing her dangerously close to hurling again.
Ugh.
Amanda would piddle with delight if she knew she sent her scrambling for the bathroom, and that made Lily mad. Mad or not, however, the thought of hurting someone, even if they deserved it, shook her. She didn't want to hurt anyone - she didn't have it in her to be mean or callous. Some people might, but not Lily Loud. She was kind of weak and dumb. Lincoln said she was a sofite, and he was right. That's me, soft as a warm dinner roll. They were hanging out in his room when a small, black spider climbed up the wall from behind his headboard like the rising sun; he went to smack it with a notebook, and Lily's heart leapt. No! He looked at her the way one might look at a blithering madwoman, head cocked/brow raised, but she didn't care. It might be a yucky spider but it was still a living creature. Getting up, she went over to the wall, cupped her hands, and took it into her palms. Be right back, she said. She carried it downstairs and released it in the backyard, where it scurried happily away back to its family. Lincoln told her she was soft and she blinked. But that spider's someone's Lincoln, she said innocently, if you got squished, I'd be really sad, and so would that spider's Lily.
Now he really looked at her like she was crazy. She didn't know why, it made perfect sense. Lincoln was special to her, and it stood to reason that other people (and animals) felt the same way about their loved ones. If she swatted a fly or cold cocked a bunny (or beat Amanda Hugginkis to within an inch of her life), it would be the same as someone doing it to Lincoln.
She didn't want that.
At all.
Swallowing thickly and grimacing at the flavor of vomit, she reached over, pulled the flush handle, and pushed herself to her feet. She shuffled to the sink like the living dead (brains...brains…), turned the faucet on, and washed her mouth out. In the mirror, her face was wan and drawn, the red given way to pale, bloodless white and her eyes rimmed pink. Avoiding her own gaze, she cut the spray and went out into the hall, stopping to peek around the corner for bullies more from force of habit than anything else - Amanda and her goon squad were gone, and if Lily was lucky, they'd all catch the measles and not be back for a long, long time. She was at the door when she realized she forgot her jacket. And her galoshes. Heh. I was kind of in a rush...really didn't want to get picked on.
Lot of good that did me. She sighed, went back to her locker, and grabbed her stuff, carrying it to a bench by the door and sitting. The janitor, an old man with white hair, a white beard, and a bandana tied around his head, rolled a wheeled trash can down the hall, the sleeves of his gray coveralls pushed up to reveal his tattooed forearms. Lily watched him warily from the corner of her eye until he went into the gym, then hurried pulled her boots over her shoes before he could come back. Call her paranoid, but she didn't like him; he had a creepy aura about him, like cold emanating from a block of ice, and Susie Carmichael swore she caught him staring at her butt once (he was licking his lips and everything, it was so gross). Lily bet he was a pedophile, which is probably why he got his job in the first place - easy access to little fifth grade loli girls. Hey, honey, wanna help me clean the head?
Ew!
Standing, she slipped into her jacket, flipped the hood up, and shoved through the doors. The rain had tapered off at some point, and errant sunrays filtering through cracks in the clouds and dappling the wet asphalt. Cars whizzed by in either direction, their tires kicking up sheets of muddy water, and a black man in a Northface jacket walked a dog along the opposite sidewalk, which skirted the northwest edge of Mary Walters Park; through a dense stand of trees blazing orange and red, Lily spotted the playground and a blue porta potty. She hated those things; every time she went into one, horrible visions of it tipping over raced through her head. Oh, come on, Lil, she could hear an imaginary audience scoffing, you're being paranoid again. Uh, no, I'm not - you're telling me you can't see some butt head kid getting his sick thrills by knocking one of those things on its side after someone goes to use it? You're either gullible or really optimistic.
Kids are cruel.
I know that first hand.
Sigh.
Buuut, that doesn't matter right now, because I'm gonna hang out with my big brother, where nothing can hurt or bother me. We're gonna draw together, and talk about our day (I'll omit the part where I got picked on, I wouldn't want him to worry), and...I don't know, all sorts of fun stuff.
Warm, fuzzy happiness swaddled her chest, and she smiled dreamily to herself. Being with Lincoln, or even just thinking about him, made her feel unlike anything ever - it was like electricity that started in her stomach and radiated through her entire body. He really was the perfect brother and when she saw him, she was going to give him a hug.
Imagining his arms around her and his body pressed against hers sent Lily's heart thumping and her knees quaking.
She was so lost in thought that she didn't realize she passed Franklin Avenue until she found herself on Main Street, a line of businesses flanking the sidewalk and thin trees spaced evenly apart along its length. She furrowed her brow and came to a shuffling stop. Uh...since when is the barber shop before the turn off home?
Answer: It wasn't. She was woolgathering again, and you know what happens when you woolgather. NOTHING GOOD. She did that a lot - she'd let her mind wander like a flower petal on the wind, and next thing you know she was floating through outer space and screaming in terror as she was drawn inextricably farther away from earth, the globe shrinking until it was a pinprick in the distance and IS THAT A BLACK HOLE? IT LOOKS LIKE A BLACK HOLE! HELP ME, PLEASE! Black holes were terrifying because no one knew what was inside them. Were they portals to other dimensions? The absence of existence? A cosmic vacuum? They were The Great Unknown (trademark symbol). Like death. Death was scary too; she tried not to think about it, but it's kind of hard to not wonder what lies beyond the grave. Another thing that -
Aaaaaand she was doing it again. Focus, Lil, you need to get home to Lincoln. She spun on her heels and started in the direction she came, adults streaming by on either side like giants. At the corner, she stopped and waited for a line of cars to pass. She tapped her foot impatiently and looked around to kill time. To her right, inches away, the front window of a cafe -
She blinked.
Lincoln sat behind the glass, his elbows propped on the edge of the table and his fingers threaded strickenly through his hair. His downcast gaze was troubled and his lips a tight slash across his pallid face. Lily didn't see his obvious distress...she saw only him, and her stomach fluttered.
Everything else in the world forgotten, she whipped excitedly around and went inside.
Once upon a time, before Lincoln was in middle school and long before his older sisters moved out of the house, Mom and Dad were pretty serious about their Catholicism. Not enough that they repressed their children or spouted scripture, but enough that every other Sunday, they'd decide to attend Mass at St. Peter's in Elk Park, a grand gothic style building with stained glass windows and a massive, vaulted nave that always reminded Lincoln of a subterranean cavern. They eventually lapsed entirely and stopped going altogether (except for Christmas and Easter), but for a while there, Lincoln was intimately aqquainted with the God squad, and it was there, in that great citadel, that he learned the basic bible stories, the one that every kid with even a tenuous link to Chritianity knows, even if in passing. The Great Flood, Job, the birth and death of Christ, and the Garden of Eden.
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth, then populated them (the latter, but who knows, maybe the former too) with creatures, the last of which was a man named Adam. Adam lived in the Garden, which was basically paradise, and spent his days eating fruit, naming animals, and walking around balls naked. He soon grew lonely, and God created Eve, the first woman. God had one rule for these love birds, and one rule only: Do not eat from the Tree of Knowledge (is that what it was called?). Long story short, a serpent (el diablo himself) came along and tempted Eve to eat from the forbidden tree, then she, in turn, tempted Adam, like a disease ridden dollar passing the plague from one hand to another.
They ate the fruit...and they gained knowledge or something (stupidity and blind faith are both enshrined in the Christian tradition, go figure). God got mad and kicked them out of the Garden, forcing them into a hardscrabble, wind-swept wilderness that we eventually came to call The Real World.
As he wandered aimlessly up and down Main Street, head hung and hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, Lincoln felt just like Adam and Eve must have. Lost. Set adrift. A ship without a rudder. He transgressed and God smitted him. Adam had Eve to blame, but Lincoln had no one to put the burden of culpability on but himself.
And Professor Jordan.
But mainly himself. Dean Howard was right, he did act like a child. He knew that - he hid from the light of revelation, but it was not blind to it. He immersed himself in a fandom and put more of him time and focus into it than he should have specifically so he didn't have to face his demons. Social Awkwardness. Mild Anxiety. Low Self-Esteem. The trifecta of destruction - each one of those things bred malignant thought and action the way standing water breeds mosquitoes. The first begot his vague sense of isolation; the second birthed his general disdain of people; and the third spat forth his obsession with creating art and the fandom. In his day-to-day life, he was nothing - a none too bright community college on track for a useless degree with an embarrassing job and no friends. In the fandom, however, he was someone; whether people loved him or hated him, they didn't ignore him. He wasn't just a face passing in the crowd, he was LincOSuave. The thrill of finally being more than a silhouette led him to sacrifice his so-called life, because in the fandom, he got what he wasn't getting elsewhere.
Kind of fucked up, huh?
He always suspected that he was broken in some fundamental way, and the events of the past few hours served only to push him into absolute certainty. He ate from the tree of knowledge and was forced into the stinging light of day, saw for the first time just what a petty, pathetic wretch he really was. He turned his back on everything to bask in the praise of strangers on the internet, sought and seized upon the feeling of validation it wrought.
Stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He sighed. The rain beat steadily against his head and shoulders, soaking his hair and seeping through his shoes and socks, but he didn't care. He deserved it.
How was he going to tell Mom and Dad?
That thought sent a shudder of dread through his stomach. They were going to be so disappointed in him, and probably mad too.
At some point, he came to himself and realized that he was standing in front of Patricia's Place, a corner cafe that served "comfort food" - he ate there once or twice and "normal food" seemed a more apt description to him: Burgers, sandwiches, meatloaf, fried chicken, apple pie. He didn't have very much money, but he was wet, cold, and if he couldn't use a little comfort, his name was PinkBoiDooDooPants.
He pushed through the door, a bell announcing his arrival like a royal crier (hark, King Loser is upon you!) and scurried to a booth in front of the front window. A long counter stood against the far wall, built in stools lining its length. An old man sat by the register and pecked the keys of a calculator, a pair of reading glasses sliding down his nose, and a harried looking waitress in a pink uniform filled a red cup from a fountain. A smattering of patrons occupied tables on the other end, the scrap of forks on plates and the low, chattering din of a dozen voices combining to form a soothing cacophony. The sounds and smells of cooking wafted from an order window, and despite his mood, Lincoln's stomach rumbled.
The waitress took the drink over to a fat man in a suit, then came over, whipping a notepad from her waist apron pocket. She was older, about fifty, with glasses and frizzy red hair. A silver name tag over her heart read DELILAH, which reminded Lincoln of that old song (what's it like in New York City?). "Hi, hun, can I get you something to drink?" she asked in a vaguely southern drawl - doesn't matter where someone's from, once they start working at a place like this, they naturally slipped into that accent like a hand to a glove.
Lincoln didn't normally drink coffee, but he ordered one anyway. The waitress nodded and rushed off.
While he waited, Lincoln looked casually around, his gaze going from the Coke sign on the back wall to the jukebox in the far corner. He wondered absently if it still played - a lot of places like this used them as decorations only. The truck stop on Route 28 had a diner with an old Pong cabinet next to the bathroom. Lincoln worked there for three years in his teens, and the thing never worked once: The screen remained dark and cold like the hearth of an abandoned house, its casing scratched, dented, and pock mocked by years of rowdy kids, long haul sore losers, and careless employees. He liked video games and was endlessly fascinated by their history and evolution, so finding a real life original Pong cabinet in the wild was like spotting the ultra rare first issue of Superman in a gas station magazine rack.
Too bad he never got to play it.
He sighed, suddenly depressed.
Just another in a long line of regrets.
The waitress returned and sat a mug in front of him, then a laminate menu. Lincoln nodded his thanks, and she went off again to take care of an old couple. Lincoln scanned the menu as he sipped his coffee, its warmth spreading through him and melting the ice in his bones; the future wasn't exactly bright, but right now, in this moment, he was okay.
If only he could stay here.
When the waitress came back again, he ordered meatloaf with a side of green beans and mashed potatoes. She jotted it down on her pad and took it to the window. The old man by the register had traded the calculator for a newspaper, which he stared down at with a sour expression bespeaking displeasure, indigestion, or both. Lincoln's stomach gurgled and he winced. Yeah, I feel the same way, mister.
Propping his elbows on the table, he weaved his fingers through his hair and stared down into his coffee as though he'd find the answer to all his worries if he just looked hard enough. He saw only his rippling reflection in the surface, which was kind of funny. I'm not the solution, I'm the problem.
Well...actually...he was the solution. Change, they say, must always come from within, so it fell solely to him to turn himself around. But how? He was a fuck-up with emotional issues that, honestly, he had no reason for. His parents worked a lot, sure, but they loved him, and before you asked, yes, his Mom and Dad both hugged him plenty. His younger sisters (with the exception of Lily) were all banal, vain, and self-centered, but what is a teenage girl supposed to be? Mother Teresa? It didn't bother him that Lana, Lucy, Lola, and Lisa didn't have their heads up his butt 24/7 (oh, dear brother, let's hold hands and tiptoe through the tulips like the Stepford Siblings!), in fact, who wants their little sister joined to their hip? Certainly not him. His life and relationships had always been normal, and though he'd searched many times, he could find no logical root cause of his feelings. Some people, he decided, were just born the way they were, wired wrong (or right) and fated to develop along a linear, predetermined path. Lisa was a genius from birth; Luan was always laughing and pulling pranks, even when she was a little girl; and from time out of mind, he suffered intermittent bouts of anxiety, depression, and hopelessness, a general and organic maliese without cause or cure.
In a way, he almost wished something terrible had happened to make him like this, because at least in that event he'd had some idea how to fix it. As it stood, he didn't know what the hell to do. Stop being like this? Jeez, I never considered that. *Sarcasm* If he was broken the way he thought, he could no more put himself back together than a shattered vase can.
He would need help for that.
That would come later if it came at all; first up was breaking the news to Mom and Dad that he ate from the tree of knowledge and was banished from the garden. They paid ten thousand dollars for his tuition and fees...just for him to flunk.
What was he going to do now?
Ha, now? What was he realistically going to do before? An art degree was virtually useless. He knew that going in, but like every other college kid, he figured, hoped, prayed that he would be the exception, that if he worked hard enough he could find a tenable position somewhere until his real career took off: Drawing art for Fantasum, the publishers of Ace Savvy. He wanted to work on Ace as he had since he was a kid, but he would settle for one of their other comics - Blob Man, Alex and Jessy Fight Evil, Titanic: 4039, 'Cest League Alpha, and Slayer's Children. From the time he was ten, he idolized the men and women who wrote and drew those titles, with a special emphasis on the artists: It was their work that brought the story to life, and after turning the last page of his first issue of Ace Savvy, he knew, with absolute certainty, that he wanted to be just like them. He wasn't very good at first, but he knuckled down and practiced, hours and hours every day, never stopping, never giving up, learning from every mistake and striving to do better next time. It took long years and thousands of drawings, but he improved...slowly, bit by bit, day by day, but he did it, and that lead him to think that maybe...maybe he could do it again. He set a goal for himself and reached it; if he could do it once, why not twice? Or three times?
The self-confidence that flowed through him was electric. He really could do anything he set his mind to, just like his parents and guidance counselor said.
Then...his train derailed. How? Hell if he knew. He submitted art to a dozen magazines and websites, but none of them were accepted, and he began to wonder if he really had improved. After being around a foul odor long enough, you grew desensitized - perhaps he was just used to how shitty he was. That depressed him and for a while, he gave up, the thought of sitting before his tablet or a sheet of paper sending pangs of nausea through his stomach. Not drawing, after eight years of doing nothing but felt strange and wrong; after a week, he sketched an Ace Savvy piece just for something to do and posted it in a Facebook group. He came back hours later and was astonished by how many people liked and commented on it. From there -
Someone dropped into the seat across from him, and he jolted. He looked up and blinked in surprise. "Hi," Lily said and slipped out of her coat, her horselick rustling as she sat it aside and laid her hands on the edge of the table; her brown eyes glowed with light and the corners of her mouth twitched up in a tight grin, as though she were trying to contain its true intensity. Her teeth slightly overhung her bottom lip - she worried that she looked like a rabbit, and while he told her she didn't, she kind of did. In a cute way, though.
He forced a wan smile of his own. "Hey," he said. "What are you doing here?"
She laced her fingers on the table - reminding him for some reason of Dean Howard right before he dropped the hammer - and flicked her gaze guiltily to her hands. "I, uh...I was wool-gathering again and missed our street."
Lincoln snorted. Lily was a space cadet, head forever in the clouds. She thought deeply about things, some of them pragmatic, some of them fanciful. He saw in her traits of all their sisters, but especially Lana, Lucy, Lola, and Lisa, the ones she had been around the longest - she was observant and analytical like Lisa, loved animals like Lana, liked horror movies like Lucy (even if they gave her nightmares that she wouldn't admit to), and she had a temper on par with Lola's, though you had to push her really hard before she'd snap; for better or worse, she was a softie and too compassionate, maybe, for her own good. He couldn't say he didn't find that endearing...because he did. It was one of the things he admired most about her and wished he saw more of in the world. She got on his nerves with her old mother hubbard routine, but he appreciated it, and loved her despite it...also because of it.
She nodded to herself as if to say Yep, I'm a dweeb, and Lincoln chuckled. "You're gonna get hit by a car one of these days."
"I checked both ways," she said quickly, "...I think." She looked up, and her features softened in concern. "Are you okay? You look...sad."
Did he? He wouldn't be surprised if he did, but he also wouldn't be surprised if he didn't and Lily somehow sensed it anyway. She was perceptive to a fault - he didn't know how she was with the others, but he couldn't hide a thing from her.
That didn't stop him from trying, though. "I'm fine," he said, "just tired."
Lily narrowed her eyes and leaned forward like an old woman trying to read small print without her glasses. Lincoln reflexively shied away, a nervous smile streaking across his lips. She was four feet tall and weighed just over a hundred pounds (he thought), but sometimes, like now, she could be downright imposing.
"No you're not," she declared, "something's wrong."
Sigh. It was worth a shot. "Really, I'm okay."
She stared at him for a moment, unwavering and almost...sad? "What's wrong?" she asked again, a needy inflection in her voice. Need to help...need to nurture and heal his wounds. "You can talk to me, Lincoln," she said, "you can tell me anything. I promise." Her big, loving eyes shimmered with tender sincerity, and Lincoln had the strangest feeling that he could tell her anything...and it would all somehow be okay.
Color crept across his cheeks and he cast his gaze to the table. He didn't know how or why, but she thought the world of him - she got it into her head that he was big, strong, smart, and infallible. She looked at him the way a little girl might her father, or a boy his favorite major league pitcher. It bemused him, but not until now did he realize how much it actually meant to him...and how much he despaired at the idea of breaking that illusion. There comes a point in every child's life where revelation is visited upon them, like the dawn of a new day. Santa isn't real, the tooth fairy is Mom, and Dad isn't wise and indestructible, he's just a normal person with fears and insecurities, and he can't protect me from everything, no matter how much he promises me he can. The magic dies a little, and the light dims - Lincoln didn't want that for Lily, didn't know if he could bear the shame of failing in front of his adoring little sister.
He glanced up at her, and she pouted. Pwease tell Wilwy what's wrong? He would have laughed had the atmosphere not been so suddenly grave. He was vaguely aware of the other diners, their voices like the quiet whisper of winter wind through barren treetops, and a peal of laughter lasted a little too long, the quality a little too mocking - a dead thing cackling from an open crypt at the lost, frightened child unlucky enough to find himself lost on unhallowed ground.
The thing was...he wanted to open up to her, wanted someone to confide his fears and secrets in, all of the dark little things that had been locked in his chest for months and years, things he dared tell no one. Everyone needs a confidant - a best friend, a lover, a little sister who looked at you like you were Jesus Christ. Confession, the priest used to say, is good for the soul, like a cleanse, purging toxins from the body; he'd never been particularly forthcoming with his emotions, but gazing into his sister's eyes, he felt himself cracking. "It's nothing," he said, "I just...I got…"
She watched intent, silently urging him on.
"I got kicked out of school," he said in a rush.
Lily's jaw dropped open. "What?" she demanded. "Why?"
He told her about the meeting with Dean Howard but left out the unflattering self-reflection. As she listened, Lily's face twisted in a thousand different expressions ranging from outrage to downcast sympathy. When he mentioned getting his last assignment in late, her soft, delicate features hardened, and her stormy eyes flashed in anger. "It was one minute," she said, "is he really that petty?"
"No," he muttered contritely, "it was my fault. I should have had it in on time."
"Lincoln," she said firmly, as though to a disobedient child, "one minute. That's like if I was handing my teacher something, and the bell rang, and she said, no, sorry, Lily, you fail." As far as he knew, Lily's teacher was a woman, but when she did her impression, she deepened her voice. "That's not fair."
Part of him agreed with her, but another part didn't. "It was my responsibility. I should have done it sooner instead of...slacking." He started to say drawing, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to speak the word, as though if he did, he would reveal how pitiful he was - drawing a picture like a flippant child instead of focusing on what was important.
"You were not slacking," Lily said, "you were working and time got away from you. It happens to me all the time. It's normal."
No, it wasn't. His priorities were askew and he put too much emphasis on the wrong things. He said as much, and Lily rolled her eyes so hard they nearly popped out of their sockets and rolled away. "Your work was done. So what you didn't get it in until sixty seconds later? Your professor should have been a little more understanding. He sounds like an anal-retentive jerk."
He thought the same thing, he realized with a twang of guilt. That meant she was thinking like a loser (because he corrupted her) or that he was thinking like a child. "No, he set a deadline and I should have met it," he said with no conviction. "It's my fault, Lily. I let my grades slip and I let other things come before my schoolwork." He sighed, sat heavily back, and stared down at his lap. "I'm a screw up."
Lily's jaw dropped again. "No you're not, don't say that, Lincoln!"
Her shocked tone drew a humorless laugh from his constricted throat. "I am. I'm an idiot and I'm getting exactly what I deserve." He blew of puff of air. "I just don't don't know how I'm going to tell Mom and Dad." His stomach knotted and he felt like he was going to be sick.
"Don't," Lily offered.
Lincoln sighed. "I can't do that. I'm gonna have to tell them sooner or later. Might as well be sooner - it'll be worse if I draw it out."
For a long moment, Lily was silent. "Just...wait a little while. You're all…" she threw her hands up and hooked her fingers. Crazy, scatterbrained,keyed up. "Take some time to let the dust settle. That's what I would do."
He opened his mouth to argue but closed it again. He didn't want to wait, if he waited he'd dwell and the suspense would grow to fever pitch, but he also didn't relish the prospect of doing it right now. Maybe she was right; he wasn't in the best frame of mind, so it stood to reason that waiting a day or two would be smart. He mulled that over for a minute while Lily watched with a hopeful smile, her eyes pooled with unconditional love and her face glowing like a lamp in the dark. She was unfailingly upbeat and that annoyed Lincoln sometimes, but right now he was grateful for it.
"Alright," he said "I'll hold off."
"Good," she said, "you know what else will help?"
"What?"
Lily grinned. "Drawing with your little sister."
