Young Writers Society

I was bored, so I wrote this. Not sure if I'll continue, it's just something I randomly thought of. I like the way I wrote it, so read and review, pretty please. If I do continue, the title will probably change, that's just the name of a song.

“And do you ever feel things here aren’t right?”

-Angels & Airwaves “Everything’s Magic”

The orange, red, and yellow leaves chased each other across the cobblestone path laid out in front of me. The gusts of wind burned my cheeks, making them look bright red in contrast to my pale skin. A woman walked briskly past me, pushing a stroller holding a small child, probably freezing.

Finally, after the long weekend, I was home from my dad’s house. Manny would be waiting for me; he was there whenever I needed someone to talk to. He hadn’t attended school that day.

Our dysfunctional families were a common enemy for the both of us. We understood each other in that sense; we could relate to each other’s problems. We both knew what it was like to be alone. It was sunny outside, but still bitter cold. I hugged my black duffel coat closer around my body, trying to warm myself. My feet were freezing, since I wore ballet flats to school.

Then, he came in to my view, sitting on the bench in front of the large oak tree, towering over all the rest of the trees. “Manny!” I called. He looked up and smiled weakly at me. Emmanuel was his full name, but he really hated it. His dad liked it because it meant “God is with us,” and Manny’s dad was very religious.

I approached him quickly and plopped down on the old wooden bench. “Hi, Opal,” he said. I noticed he was only wearing a navy blue sweatshirt; the cuffs of the sleeves were starting to tear.

“Why weren’t you at school?” I asked him. His green eyes seemed distant, as if he wasn’t really paying attention to me. He sniffled and blinked twice.

“I was sick,” he said and stared ahead. It was like he was there, but not really there. He sniffled again; I assumed it was for affect. “Dad told me it was the flu or something.”

“Didn’t he take you to the doctor, or something?” I asked.

Manny turned to stare me in the eyes. His bore in to me like a knife. His plain, dark brown hair blew in the wind. “He had to work, Opal. He has things to do. And my mom sure as hell wasn’t gonna take me.”

His mom was home a lot, but she was usually sleeping or doing something by herself. Manny hated her guts; they could barely stand to be in the same room without fighting. I’d witnessed it first hand, and it was terrible to hear the things they said to each other.

I nodded. “Want to go to my house? It’s really cold.”

“We have to work on that project,” Manny said. “I have all the stuff there, so why don’t we just go to my house?”

I swallowed the bad taste in my mouth. “Um, is your mom home?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Does it matter?” He clasped his hands together and set them on his lap, staring at me intently.

“Well, I just don’t want you two to fight,” I murmured, failing to meet his eyes with my own.

“Regardless, we’ll fight. But, I think she’ll be out anyways.” He pulled his hood over his head and stood up, picking imaginary lint off his sweatshirt.

I stood up, too. He gestured for me to follow him, so I trudged along beside him. “I don’t see how you can be only wearing a sweatshirt. It’s freezing!” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders and we continued walking. “It’s not that bad.” He coughed onto his hand and wiped his nose.

“You’re sick, you shouldn’t be out here,” I told him. He looked pale and a bit disheveled. But, he always seemed to have a disheveled look.

“I’m fine,” he said. We were coming out of the woods, and on to the regular road towards his house. I was still unconvinced about his health because he kept on coughing.

It was fall in Illinois. The leaves and weather were changing, and not necessarily for the better. Manny’s white sneakers were becoming dirty. “How was your dad’s?” he asked me.

My dad and I got along, but I’d much rather be with my mom. I really hated my step-mom. The reason was sort of cliché, but I just couldn’t stand her; she was evil. “OK,” I replied.

“How was Merry?” he questioned about my step-mom.

“She wasn’t around much; she had to work a bunch,” I said.

He nodded and stared ahead as we neared his suburban neighborhood. We kept in silence as we turned down the road. His house was first. We approached the door and he cracked it open, peering inside. He let me in and glanced around. “No ones here besides me,” his sister, Stephanie, said.

Manny nodded and closed the door behind him. “Hey, Opal,” Stephanie said.

“Hey, Steph,” I replied. Their living room was warm and cozy. Stephanie had a fire going in the fireplace and the light bounced off the beige walls.

“You can come in my room. I have all the project stuff in there,” Manny said.

“Manny,” Stephanie called. “Get a haircut.” I knew she said it to annoy him.

Manny ignored her and I followed him to his room. When we got there, he closed the door and grabbed a plastic bag out of the corner of his room. He dumped the supplies on the floor. We needed to make a poster about a book we read for group reading. “Hey, so what did your dad say about you illness, again?” I asked out of curiosity. He had been diagnosed with type one diabetes when he was five. But, that was basically his only health concern.

He looked up. “He said the flu or something.”

He grabbed a large piece of white poster board and yellow paint. He was pretty good at art. Manny stood up and walked into the bathroom connected to his bedroom. I heard the water running and he came back with a glass.

He dipped the paintbrush into the water, and then into the paint. He traced the letters easily, each stroke perfect. The Catcher in the Rye.

“I didn’t like the book, did you?”

I shrugged my shoulders. It was interesting, but sometimes Holden, the main character, rambled too much. “It was alright.”

We heard the front door open and Manny said, “It’s my dad, he gets home from work at this time.” He set down the paintbrush. We heard footsteps and then Manny’s door opened.

“Hi, Manny, Opal,” his dad, Mike, said and turned to Manny. “How’re you feeling?”

“OK,” Manny answered. I looked in to his eyes, he felt worse then OK. I could tell. There were purplish bags under his eyes, and his hand was trembling when he picked up his paint brush again. Also, his face was slightly flushed.

Mike nodded. “Well, make sure you take insulin and that. If you start throwing up, make sure you check for ketones every two to four hours.” He stepped out of the room and closed the door. Manny looked up at me. His lying would never get him anywhere, and I knew that, just as well as he did. Because, he was definitely feeling worse then he was letting on, inside and out.

“What’s a ketone?” I asked Manny.

“Acids in the blood,” he told me matter-of-factly. “Sometimes if you get sick when you have diabetes you get diabetic ketoacidosis. It can lead to a coma and stuff sometimes. My dad told me I have some of the symptoms of it. So, he wants me to be safe.” Manny looked up at me. His lying would never get him anywhere, and I knew that, just as well as he did. Because, he was definitely feeling worse then he was letting on, inside and out.