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He didn’t come to school the next day, and I couldn’t have cared less. After everything I did for him! Freaking ingrate.
He called me two days later, our first conversation since he threw me against a wall and screamed that he hated me. “I don’t hate you,” he said immediately, because he knew my voice when I picked up. “I’d sure hope not,” I snapped in return. Silence. He’d only said that because the last time he told someone he hated him, the guy had kicked the bucket an hour later. “Are you going to apologize?” he asked, and anger flared inside me. “I have nothing to apologize for.” Silence. “But by the way,” I added. “If you ever hit me again, it’s over. You have a lousy way of repaying me for everything I’ve done for you.” He hung up. But it was just as well, for I had nothing further to contribute that didn’t involve my raised voice and several swearwords.
He came back to school the day after, unshaved, and looking as if he hadn’t showered. His gaze was bleary and unseeing, his clothes were rumpled and didn’t match, and there were band-aids on the backs of his hands. He gave no excuse for his absences, and from what I could tell, he didn’t speak to anyone the entire day.  I felt his gaze on me a few times in the hallway, but as soon as I looked up to meet it, he turned away hurriedly and hid himself. He slept through Spanish with his head turned away from me, and he spent lunch in the nurse’s office, probably so he wouldn’t have to face me. When I did see him, he looked so tired and gross and miserable I wondered why he bothered coming to school at all, since he was obviously too far gone to complete anything requiring brain power. I was angry with him—for a while. The first day or so I wanted to scream every time I thought of him, and I couldn’t imagine how I could love someone so completely ungrateful and selfish. I’d been there for him—I had!—I’d suffered for him in order to make him feel better, and he repaid me by stealing from me, throwing me against the wall, and screaming that he hated me. What a friend! How many times was he going to abuse me and then come crawling back, all pitiful and self-loathing? How many times was I going to take him back? He’s Roger, though, and one thing about Roger is that he generates sympathy easily. He’s childlike when he’s upset: shy and lonely and quiet, with big eyes and a full, slack mouth. He doesn’t have it in him to falsify such emotions; he’s genuine, and it shows with every slump and mope of his body. And, for whatever reason, I did care very much about him, even when I wanted to take those powerful, crunching hands of his and snap each of his fingers backwards, one by one. I don’t hold grudges long, for I’m naturally a forgiver. Plus, I was tired of watching him sulk like there was a cloud raining over his head. I worried about him, obviously—its what I do, isn’t it? He was so darn miserable, I started to not care what he’d done to me; I just wanted him to stop looking so sad. I wanted my old Roger back. When we weren’t on speaking terms, my days were painfully silent, and wretchedly lonely. He didn’t come to school that Thursday. On Friday he showed up late, as disheveled and tired as ever. In Spanish I watched him bite the back of his hand, sinking his teeth harder and harder into the flesh, until small drops of blood popped from the indents in the crimson skin. After that, I knew without a doubt that I had to talk to him. Apprehensively, I approached him after school. He stood off to the side, in the shadow of one of the school’s nooks. I don’t know why he bothered, since he could drive himself home whenever he chose, but he seemed to like to wait for the high school populace to clear out so that he could drive home in peace. “You look like you haven’t showered all week,” I greeted him, not wanting to immediately lapse into my typical “Aww, poor baby, let me hug you and make it all better.”  “Fuck off,” he muttered. I punched him in the jaw. It was a sign of how disoriented he was that he actually fell, for most girls punch harder than I do. He collapsed limply to the snow, a hand on his newly tender cheek. “Don’t give me that,” I spat. He stared blearily at my sneakers, rubbing his jawbone, and not making a sound. I sighed and held out a hand to help him up. He took it warily and got to his feet. I waited for him to say something, but he only stared at the ground, silent, silent. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked, not necessarily a nasty question. “I have no reason left to live,” he replied in a baritone mumble and the innards of my ribcage choked. “That’s not true!” I screamed at him, and he cringed at my raised voice. “What about your future? What about your mom? What about me?” “What about you?” My face burned. “Goddamn you, Roger, do you have any idea how much I care about you? Do you have any idea how much I worry about you?” I seized a handful of his shirt with one fist and pounded his chest with the other. “All I’ve ever done is care for you and watch out for you and been there for you, but you’re still so miserable and ungrateful and—and I just…!” I trailed off, shaking, my fist shivering against his collarbone, my face against his chest. “Why do you bother with me at all?” he whispered. I swallowed, determined not to lose my composure. “Because I love you,” I said. “Because you’re my best friend.” “Why do you love me?” My jaw shook, and I pounded him with my fist again, not hurting him, just needing to release my frustration. “Don’t ask that.” “I wish you didn’t. I wish you’d never met me,” he breathed. I gripped his grimy shirt with both hands, pressing closer to him, losing the battle for my composure. “Wh-why? D-don’t you care about me?” “Of course I do,” he whispered. “You’re the only one I care about. But I’m always making your life hell—I’ve never done anything for you—I just keep hurting you. It’d be better if I were dead so I wouldn’t bother you anymore.” I reached up and covered his mouth with my hand. “Stop it,” I begged desperately, “please, just stop! Look, this has been a bad time for both of us, but it can’t last forever. Things will get better, and it will be like old times again. We’re best friends, Roger, we just had an argument—these things happen! I still want to be with you, I just get so worried about you—I’m just trying to take care of you, can’t you see that?” He closed his eyes, his face scrunched and red, and cried. His body shook beneath me as the tears rolled down his cheeks, and he cried and cried. I pulled away and stood by as he sobbed and sniffled, wiping my own eyes and biting my lip. He covered his face with his hands and wept into them, and then his sobs tapered off, and he wiped his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped. “I know,” I said, chancing a small smile. He always was, wasn’t he? At least he meant it when he said it. “Can we please be friends again?” he begged. I nodded, forcing a second grin. “Just, please, take care of yourself, okay? Things will get better, I know they will.” He leaned towards me and embraced me tightly. I didn’t hug him back. I felt so sick. Shouldn’t I have felt relieved?—we’d made up after all, hadn’t we? But I felt sick. He pulled away. “Why don’t you go home and take a shower?” I said, forcing a light tone and a smile, and I fled. |