Page 2 of Friend
A girlfriend.
I wished.
“No.” A pang shot through my chest, and I wiped my hand against my pant leg. “She’s only a friend. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Georges laughed, obviously thinking I was shy but, thankfully, didn’t pry further. He returned to check on the omelet pan, humming under his breath.
But at least he didn’t ask about her again.
He didn’t understand. I wasn’t shy at all. And if she was my girlfriend, there was no way I’d be embarrassed.
I put the cake in the oven—trusting that Georges would take it out once the timer went off—and left the kitchen to continue my morning routine: a light breakfast, followed by a half-hour of weights and meditation. Check. Then a shower before getting dressed in the most awful gray uniform known to mankind? Also check.
I considered just telling dad how everyone hated these new uniforms. He would probably change them if I asked. But I knew I wouldn’t.
Because I hated my classmates more.
And for some reason, Dad thought they were ‘so dapper,’ so he was a little bit attached. I didn’t feel like watching him cry again while he, before listening, accused me of breaking his heart. Sometimes he was so hard to talk to. And really frustrating. Damen definitely took after him.
I pulled at my tie—even thinking about these uniforms made it seem tighter—and glanced at my laptop. The sun had finally risen, and the early morning light fell over the surface of my desk.
It was time for the most dreaded part of my morning: the daily report.
I couldn’t ignore the guilt turning in my stomach as I sat at my desk and opened my laptop, and with each click of the mouse, I told myself that tomorrow, I’d put my foot down and say no.
That I wouldn’t do this anymore.
But the dread in my chest tightened at the half-hearted resolution. I already knew I wouldn’t. I was in too deep, and every morning I was another day closer to her hating me.
It took only a second for the program to load, and the screen lit up rows of her most recent internet activity. I last checked before bed, but she must have been up all night. There were a lot of new searches this morning.
I knew that would happen. It’d been a new moon, and she was afraid to be alone in the dark. She’d have stayed up late, and she also would have used her phone to distract herself, especially since she wouldn’t have turned on a light.
She wouldn’t have wanted her parents to worry.
So, to distract herself, she’d surfed the internet.
The searches were uneventful so far though.
Mostly reading fashion blogs and looking through stores: clothes, shoes—including one pair she’d searched for specifically on different websites. Of course, they were ridiculously expensive and probably not something she’d wear every day.
I didn’t think she realized how extra she could be sometimes.
I sipped at my water as my eyelids drooped from sheer boredom as I scrolled through the activity. Generally speaking, this level of monitoring was mostly unnecessary—and most things I would never talk about.
But then, sometimes, something would pop up that was cause for concern.
Sometimes, she’d look for something that resulted in her having an episodic attack. And she’d need to be monitored while we tried to figure out what might have triggered her.
Even with the help of technology, it was almost impossible to figure out what caused one of her breakdowns. She had countless triggers: touching, hearing a dog’s growl, raised voices, enclosed spaces, the dark, or being the center of attention. Being so easily triggered was terrible when combined with her natural curiosity, and the fact that she refused to work in therapy, but—
What is seven minutes in heaven?
I almost spit on my laptop screen but turned away just in time. I pressed my fists to my eyes, rubbing them as I glanced back, hoping I’d misread.
But no, right there, clearly on the screen, was the phrase, ‘What is seven minutes in heaven?’
Thankfully, I’d added ‘seven minutes in heaven’ to my ever-growing list of flagged keywords, because I just happened to notice—two days ago—that she’d been eavesdropping on the boy’s talks during physical education class.
