Chapter eighteen – Girls

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"Michael, wait!" I call, clambering up from the grass and running after him. I seriously didn't mean for my joke to aggravate him; it was meant to be fun – and he was meant to pick up on that fun the way I intended him too. As soon as Michael realises I'm running, he runs too, automatically widening the gap between us, "Michael! Come back!"

My calls become somewhat desperate, to try and convince him to come back, but to no avail. He's truly angry at me for what I said. Or maybe ... he isn't angry, as such – more, frustrated because of everything else that's going on in his life already.

The chase ends when we both get home. He can't get inside the house, because I have the key, so he stands by the door with his arms folded, and his foot tapping the floor. Once I've reached him and the house, I take out my door key, unlocking the door.

"Michael," I breathe, but he's already in the house, avoiding talking to me, "Michael, come on, I think you're kind of overreacting now ... " My footsteps follow his, until he enters his bedroom. Before I can enter as well, he closes the door, barricading it with ... I don't know what – but it's to stop me from entering the room.

Surely he's taking this too seriously. He's isolating himself from me, all because I made a joke about Clover? There's no way; he'll have come out before the end of the day, and we'll be friends again. Maybe this is a result of keeping his feelings on this morning bottled up for too long.

Nonetheless, I try to lure him out of his room with my calls once more, "Michael!" I bash the door gently, pressing my forehead against the wood of it, "Please come out ... "

"Give me some time alone," he demands, finally speaking.

I furrow my eyebrows sadly, moving away from the door, "As you wish, Michael ... " As I walk away, a single tear runs down my face, which I allow with no protest. It's difficult to judge whether I went too far, or whether he overreacted. I really can't tell.

Upon arriving downstairs, I enter the living room, before letting myself drop down onto the sofa. Our drawings of my vase are still lying on the coffee table; his photograph-like piece, next to my toddler-standard one. How he can say I won that competition is beyond me.

A sigh passes my lips, as I sit back against the soft cushions on the sofa. Today has been rather eventful, so it's nice to have some peace and quiet, with a comfy place to sit. To be honest, I think that's what I've been needing all day.

* * *

It's been about two hours since I came downstairs, and there are still no signs of Michael showing his face. When he says he wants alone time, he really means it; he always leaves for ages and ages.

What does he possibly do when he's alone for so long? It leaves me curious every time he asks for some time on his own. It really does intrigue me.

Suddenly, soft footsteps are heard coming down the stairs, and a slight feeling of nervousness washes over me. If he's going to start an argument, I don't want it. I hate confrontation as it is; with my best friend, that would be way worse.

The door opens, before a timid-looking Michael enters the room. Undecided as to whether to look at him or not, I keep my eyes locked on the coffee table, as if I'm in a trance. That is, until I feel Michael's arms wrap around my neck from behind me.

"Citria ... " he whispers into my ear. Having ignored him, he huffs and attempts to get my attention once again, "Citria Tiannah Espinosa ... "

Giving in this time, my head turns in his direction, "What?" I demand quietly, hoping that he doesn't start any more arguments.

"Wow ... I'm surprised you didn't kick me out the house for what happened. Look ... I know I overreacted. It's just that ... when the subject of girls comes up, my mind goes funny, and my stomach starts to feel tingly. It's like I'm afraid of talking about my feelings on girls. I got angry because it was my way of brushing the subject off." He removes his arms from around me, before walking around and joining me on the sofa, "I guess ... I need lessons in life. I have no idea how to react to a situation like that. I'm sorry Citria. Please forgive me ... " he pleads.

Believing his little story, I nod, "Okay. I'm sorry for bringing Clover up. It's just ... you seem so close to her. You've only seen each other twice, but it's like you're best friends already. It's understandable that I would think it's something more than it probably is. Plus, it was only meant to be a joke."

He nods in understanding, "I know. As soon as I got angry at you, I regretted it. The alone time was to find a way of apologising ... and a way of making it up to you," he explains, no louder than a mutter.

"A way of making it up to me?" I repeat his last words, earning a nod from him, "What do you mean?" I add.

"Well, after the way I just acted, I think I owe you some kind of apology. Words aren't enough, though, so I have to find some way to apologise that shows how sorry I am." He rubs his chin with his thumb and fingers, in light thought, "Hm, I'll think of something."

My eyes avert to the floor; I don't have a suitable reply to his words, so I can't continue with the conversation. He, however, can.

"And Citria, Clover is just my friend. There's no way I would ever feel any way for her. It's like our friendship, only I like you more than I like Clover. When was the last time I gave Clover friendly hugs and forehead kisses? Never. With you, I know I can do that, because you appreciate it; you're closer to me. You get it?" he explains.

With a small nod of my head, he grins, pulling me closer to him and squeezing me tightly. It's just a playful embrace, really, but it makes me happy because we're friends again, now. Even if just for a couple hours, fighting with my best friend isn't nice for me.

Without warning, he starts to tickle me, which causes me to squirm about like an idiot, "Hey, Michael! Michael! Stop! Please! I'm extremely ticklish! Please, stop!" I cry, flailing my arms around here, there and everywhere to try and deflect his tickling fingers.

He giggles at my reaction, tickling even quicker, and in more places than before. My sides, stomach, neck, and behind my knees. This really isn't fun at all; he must know how ticklish I am.

Eventually, he lets me go, and I begin inhaling and exhaling deeply to catch my breath. I clutch my aching sides, "Whew!" I gasp, an exasperated smile forming on my face, "Please never do that again!" I laugh.

He smirks, "You know, you could just tickle me back – get revenge. Nothing's stopping you," he challenges, folding his arms and looking straight ahead, as if he's suddenly lost interest.

In fact, I will do just that. I'll tickle him.

And when I start to tickle him, he makes no movement. Nothing at all. Why isn't he moving? Why isn't he reacting?

Then, he looks at me, and chuckles in amusement, "Oh, sorry! I forgot to mention an important factor – I'm not ticklish. Nice try, though!" he teases.

I scowl, pouting, "You could have said that earlier. Now I feel like an idiot." I stick my tongue out, giving him a playful slap on the arm.

To this, he pouts too, rubbing the area I hit him, "Oww-ee," he frowns, giving me puppy dog eyes, which cause my heart to melt, "That hurt me, Cit-wee-ah," he adds, furrowing his eyebrows to appear more forlorn.

A light snicker escapes my lips, as I rub his arm with him, "I'm sorry Michael. I'm sure you'll get over it," I taunt, jumping up from the sofa. Then, the telephone rings, "Oh, I'll get it Michael," I announce, heading towards the phone, and lifting it from its receiver, "Hello?"

"Is that Miss Espinosa?" the man on the other side of the line asks.

"Yes ... yes, it's Miss Espinosa speaking," I answer, "Who's this speaking?"

"It's Officer Jexie of Gary Police Department. May I speak to Mr Jackson, please?" the Officer demands politely.

My eyes widen slightly, "Oh, sure, sure. Please hold on a sec." I pull the phone away from my ear, placing my hand over the speaking piece, "Michael, it's for you!" I call.

"Coming!" he answers. His footsteps lead into the hallway where I am, as he takes the phone from my hand, "Hello, Mr Jackson speaking." He listens to the Officer speak, "O-Oh, right, okay ... sure. Um, really?" He blinks back a few tears, biting his lip as he listens to the Officer, "Okay. Thank you. Goodbye ... "

He sets the phone down on its receiver, then just stands there, still and silent, which just makes me curious as to what has been said.

"Michael, what was it?" I question.

He furrows his eyebrows, but he seems as if he's in a trance. I wave my hand in front of his face, which causes him to jump, before shaking his head and looking at me, "What?" he says softly.

"What did they say, Michael?" I repeat.

"Oh ... " he murmurs, "Well, uh, they said that the case is now closed because the criminal is dead; they also said that my family's bodies will be cremated, and we can bury them next week," he tells me.

He looks as if he doesn't know how to react to what he's been told. The expression on his face kind of makes him seem ... lost ... doubtful ... unsure. He's been told a lot today; it must be a lot to take in, in just one day. Poor Michael ...

"But at least they'll finally be put to rest," I attempt to comfort him slightly, rubbing his left arm with my right one.

He doesn't react immediately, as he looks deep in thought. But then, without warning, he furrows his eyebrows, widening his eyes as if he just had a terrible thought. He then inhales and exhales loudly once, and grabs a hold of the banister by the stairs, to stop him from collapsing in grief.

"Th-They're never coming back," he gasps, almost sounding exasperated.

Oh, dear; the huge loss is just sinking in to him. It's been three weeks, and the loss of everyone he ever cared for is just starting to become more real to him. Before, a few tears were shed, but now, he looks in total shock, as if he only just got told they died.

He lets go of the banister, allowing himself to fall to his knees, then he buries his head into his hands, before screaming out in emotional agony, "They're all gone! I-I'm never going to see them again!" he cries, "Oh my God!" His voice has taken on a raspy, painful tone, which makes my heart break for him.

I bend down to his level, rubbing his back soothingly, "I know it's hard Michael ... I know it's hard ... " For some reason, my mind has gone blank. I have no idea what to say to him right now; my motherly nature has just ... vanished. It makes me feel so useless.

He goes to shout out again, but his voice gives out, and it becomes a shriek as he breaks out into loud cries of pure sorrow. Having no decent advice for him, I pull him by his arm into my embrace. I don't say a single word; I just hold him close and rock him gently back and forth like a mother to a child.

"Shh ... shh ... I know, Michael, I know ... " is all I manage to say, and I repeat it over and over to try and calm him down a little.

It almost seems as if he's gone into shock – I've never seen him like this before, apart from the day I first met him, and he ran to the forest and abused a tree, whilst cursing at Mother Nature. But this is a close second.

It takes about twenty minutes, but eventually Michael manages to let his hysterical crying subside, until he's completely silent, just remaining still in my arms. My fingers comb through his curls lightly, just to remind him that I'm still here. My body rocks side to side, almost as if I'm cradling Michael, which leads me to believe that I'm managing to comfort him, even if just a little – I mean, he isn't protesting about it.

With a few moments this way, Michael finally breaks the silence, "I can't believe I'm never going to see them again ... "

A frown of sympathy forms on my face, "I know, Michael. It's hard to deal with. That's why we need to stick together; we're pretty much all each other has now."

"I know," he answers quietly, "We're forever and a half."

A small snicker comes from my lips, "Yes, Michael ... forever and a half. What other best friends can say that, huh? There are no others that can say that; we're special, y'see. Real special."

A faint smile briefly plays on his lips, but then it returns to a straight face, "Yeah, we're special," he agrees dejectedly. He glances up at me, his dark eyelashes visibly wet from his crying, "I'm gonna have such a bad headache later," he states.

"I have aspirin," I inform him, my eyes looking down on his, "But you have a good excuse; you were crying for your family. That's a good enough reason to cry in my books."

He nods, "I guess. But ... do you ever get that feeling like ... you really want a hug, but only from a certain person?" he questions.

"Yes," I answer, no louder than a mutter, "These past seven months, the only person I've really wanted a hug from is my mother ... but I can't, because she's gone ... "

He sighs through his nose, "It's exactly the same here. I would do anything to hug mother, or maybe even father. Anyone who was my friend or family. Just ... someone who isn't here now," he breathes, tears becoming visible in his eyes. Before they can fall, I use my sleeve to dry them away. He then enters the state of confession, "Uhm, s-since everyone I ever knew has gone, it's been kind of like ... I feel guilty if I smile or laugh, because they aren't here to experience whatever's making me smile or laugh. You know what I'm saying?"

I make a small nod clear, "Yes ... I felt like that when mom died. It was like, every time I felt happy, I also felt bad because mom wasn't here to be happy with me. It felt like I was acting as if I didn't care about her."

He nods more frantically, "Exactly. It's like, if I find something funny, for example, and I laugh about it, I feel as if my mind has focused on something else other than my family and friends, meaning that I mustn't care for them. It's so strange ... " he answers.

"God ... " I breathe, "You know, we have a lot of differences in lifestyle and stuff ... but I think we're more similar than we first thought." I stand myself up from the hallway floor, before extending my arm down for Michael to take. Once I've hauled him up from the floor, we enter the kitchen, "I guess we better make dinner, though. What do you want?"

He heads towards the kitchen side, before turning around to face me casually, leaning the small of his back against the kitchen counter, "I'll find something whilst I'm making it," he responds.

"No, no, Michael. I'll make it," I insist, playfully forcing him out of the way of the kitchen counter, "I'm making dinner."

A small laugh comes from him, "Man, you're stronger than I first thought; managing to push me away like that!" he jokes.

It makes me happy that he's feeling okay right now. When his playful, jokey side comes out, it fills my heart with such joy – it really does.

"Yeah, well," I smirk, beginning to look through cupboards for something to have, "I guess there's a lot of things you don't know about me yet," I tease.

He furrows his eyebrows, showing interest, "Oh, really? Well, I thought I knew just about everything about you already?" He gives a mischievous closed-mouth smile.

Finding a bag of flour, I dip my finger in it and tap Michael's nose, "Nope!" I chuckle, seeing his reaction to his new flour nose, "Not everything, Mr Jackson." Before I know it, he's given me a flour nose in return, "Hey!" I protest, taking the bag of flour and pouring a little onto his curls.

"Hey!" he cries, running his fingers violently through his hair to remove the flour, "I need my hair to stay perfect. I like keepin' these curls for my girls!"

A snicker comes from my lips, "What girls are you talking about?" I interrogate.

"I dunno ... just girls," he answers with a laugh.

For some reason, Clover comes to mind. I wonder why ...

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Chapter eighteen guys! I hope you enjoyed it!