Page 21 of I Hear You

I’m laying on my bed, lazily tossing a football into the air with nothing to do when I make the offhand decision to pull out one of my old writing journals. It takes a while because they’re hidden in a box at the bottom of my closet, clothes and old football gear stacked on top of it. These probably don’t have to be hidden away anymore with Dad gone. Mom and I have never talked about my writing, but I don’t think she’d reject my love for it the way my dad did.

The notebook is an unassuming black one with a layer of dust on it now. Wiping it off, I open it to a blank page and start writing. I always loved writing by hand more than typing my stories out on the computer. I only ever typed them when I wanted to share them with Madison. I wonder if I’m feeling this urgency to write because of the time I spent with her today. The words flow out of my mind and on to the paper easily, even now, after all this time. A feeling of pride and a little disbelief at just how easy it feels consumes me.

The story begins with a young boy whose destiny is to become the next King. But the boy fears he doesn’t agree with how the current King, his father, is ruling their land. The people are cast into divisive groups by the King, based simply on how he views their strengths and weaknesses. Those with brute physical strengths are regarded as higher class, while those with strengths related to the arts are lower class, useless in the King's eye. The young boy must make a decision, follow in his father’s footsteps or forge his own path and give the people equality.

I write for hours, getting lost in the story. Lost in the way I’m able to release some of my own demons onto the paper. When I finally finish the short story, it’s dark outside. This story is one of my favorites I’ve ever written. My heart aches at the longing I have to type it out and email it to Mads.

Mom should be home from work soon. I’m feeling renewed and lighter after being able to do something I’ve missed so much. I head down to the kitchen and decide I’m going to make dinner for Mom and me before she gets home. I only know how to cook a few things, and I’m not sure grilling burgers and throwing frozen french fries in the oven counts as cooking, but it’s the thought that counts right?

Mom gets home just as I’ve finished cutting up the vegetables for the burgers and am pulling the fries out of the oven.

“In here, Mom,” I yell.

She comes into the kitchen, looking tired, but her face lights up when she sees me.

“You made us dinner? Oh, Henderson, thank you sweetie. I was going to suggest ordering pizza because I’m exhausted, but this is so much better.”

I notice her eyes are glassy as she looks at me and I have to turn away from her before she makes my emotions come to a head as well. I’ve always been sensitive, but my dad always did anything he could to squash that side of me. With him gone, and with the help of a pretty kick ass therapist, I’m trying to embrace that side of me a little more. Crying because your mom’s happy you made dinner though–that’s maybe a little too sensitive.

I make us both plates and we sit at the kitchen counter sharing the details of our days. I leave out the part about walking Madison to campus. We’re nearly finished eating when I finally find the courage I’ve been searching for all through dinner.

“Mom, can I–can I share a story I wrote with you?” I ask her, staring at the remaining french fries on my plate.

She’s not answering and there’s a tightness in my chest. Was I wrong to bring this up to her? Is she going to react the way my dad used to?

“It’s okay, forget it–”

“No, Henderson. I would love to read one of your stories.”

I look at her. Her expression is soft and her eyes are brimming with unshed tears. She smiles at me and places a hand on my arm.

“I’ve been waiting a really long time for you to ask me that, sweetie.”

I sigh, relieved, and push the handwritten story over to her, watching intently as she begins reading. I’ve had to stop myself several times from taking it back and ripping it up. My nerves and my shame are still bubbling under the surface. The damage my father did is still battling the work I’ve been doing to heal it.

When she finishes about twenty minutes later and sets the papers down on the counter, she doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. But then she wipes at a few fallen tears, turns to me and embraces me in a hug like I haven’t felt since I was a crying kid who had a scraped knee. I stop worrying about what is, or isn’t, too sensitive and let my own tears fall now.

Chapter nine

Madison

Lifehasbeenanendless stream of work, classes and studying. The books in my arms are trying to escape my grasp as I rush to class. My backpack was nowhere to be found, so I just grabbed my books and ran out of my room. I’m going to be late for class, but the quicker I can get there, the less of a scene I’ll make. Said backpack is likely hiding under the laundry I’ve been letting pile up since I skipped doing it to go to the carnival with Taylor and Jesse. It’s easier to go without doing laundry now that my meager wardrobe has grown a little. Totally worth letting a few things pile up, because I ended up having a blast at the carnival.

I still laugh when I think about how Jesse tried winning Taylor a stuffed animal on one of the games. He spent forty dollars on darts trying to pop the multi-colored balloons before finally making a deal with the guy running the game and just buying the stuffed animal outright. I tried saving him and explaining the game was rigged, but Jesse’s confidence wasn’t hearing me. He ended up paying eighty dollars for a stuffed animal that would probably cost ten at the store.

Taylor still gave him a doe eyed look and kissed him like they were the only two at that carnival when he handed her the pink stuffed cat. That cat now lives on her bed and she cuddles up to it every night. Despite their obvious issues over Adam, Jesse and Taylor arethatcouple. They’d make me sick if I wasn’t so jealous.

The door to my class is just around the next corner, but I’m standing frozen. Glued to the spot on the ground by the world’s strongest super glue. The tall and handsome guy I can’t get out of my head is standing between me and the class I’m late for. As if I come with my own personal homing beacon that only he can hear, Henry lifts his eyes away from the conversation he’s having with another student and meets mine. His face brightens, and he blesses me with one of his wide smiles that makes his singular dimple prominent. The speed walking I was doing to get to class isn’t an excuse that would hold up in court for the current flush of my cheeks that are heating as he pats the guy he was talking to on the shoulder and walks toward me.

I’m still embarrassed about practically mauling him after he walked me home yesterday. I don’t know what came over me. My body took over and I just lunged in for a hug. Now he’s almost made it over to me.

I have not moved an inch–class be damned.

“Hi,” he says, when the gap between us is down to just inches.

Even though I’m tall, Henry is taller and I have to look up through my lashes at him and he has to tilt his head to look down at me.

“Hi,” I say, my voice coming out laced with something unexpected.

---