chapter 15: do I wanna know

Walt's glasses are broken to no return. The frame is shattered and spectacles nonexistent. He has borrowed his dad's glasses more than once, but he needed them for work. He hasn't moved in three days. Moving means having to face life and at the moment, that doesn't seem like a good idea. His spirit is hiding under his bed and he's so ashamed that he fears his spirit will be sitting there, with a sharpened knife and tears.

He hadn't expected it to stop; the bullying. With Holly, he wasn't as scared as he was before. With her, he could face the world. She can protect him, as much as he hates to admit it. He's safe with her. Alone, he is a fish full of meat in a shark's home. He doesn't belong anywhere, without her. She makes him feel like he belongs somewhere. Like for once in his life, he isn't the genius who's had his arms broken too many times through out ten years.

His mom called the police, she did. The second they heard the sirens, they were off like a light. She screamed and pushed the boys off in vain. She begged them to stop. She cried and stayed by his side all night. His dad cried too, but the tears never drenched Walt's bed, they drowned in the thick mustache. His sister kissed his head and asked him why God let things like this happen. He didn't know what to say. He didn't understand. He knew life wasn't fair, but it had stepped on him for so long that he didn't know how to stand up.

Holly calls him two days after he's gone. Her voice is laced with worry and covered in cool breath. "Walt? Now, you answer? Where have you been? Blowing me off like that isn't cool, you know."

He talks for the first time in long hours, "sorry. I'm a bit sick."

"You missed an English test. It must be a hell lot more than just a bit sick to keep you home. What happened?"

"Nothing."

"You sound like shit. What the fuck happened?"

"I said-nothing, Holland. I need to go."

She draws in a sharp breath. "Son of a bitch," she murmurs. "Are your glasses broken?"

"Holland."

"Walter. Are your glasses broken?"

"Yes," he sighs.

"Fuck. Do you have trouble seeing near or far?"

"Far."

"Okay. I'll be over in exactly an hour. Go shower and stop moping around; I'm coming to your rescue."

"I don't need you, Holland."

"You're funny. Bye, Walt."

He knows that counting down the exact hour is dumb. But he does it anyway. He stays in bed, watching a show on his laptop and doing the opposite of what Holland asked. He'll be in trouble for it when she comes, but he doesn't give a flying duck.

She arrived just as the hour passes. His mom lets her in despite his protests and she pushes the door open with no mercy. Her hair is wild around her head, it is at a bed-head level that he'll never reach. She holds a plastic bag and the project notebook under her arm.

"Walt?" she scrunches up her nose, "what the fuck? And plaid pajamas? Really? What did we say about fucking plaid?"

"No cussing."

"Your sister isn't even home."

She sits on his bed and observes him closely. He wants to hide under a paper bag. Her eyes scrutinize his colorful bruises and she grumbles. "Walt, what the fuck happened?"

He can't answer.

"You're ignoring me now?"

"..."

"Fine. Take these," she ushers to the bag. It takes him a few seconds to get the guts to open it and soon, he is holding a pair of glasses in his hands.

He turns to her, "You bought these?"

"Meh," she bobs her head, "bought's a big word. They're the best I could find. Try them on."

The frame is dark blue, the lenses are both clear and clean and best of all; Walt sees properly. Suddenly, Holly's features are zoomed in upon. He notices the freckle under her eye, the scar on her nose, the edges of her lips.

"Thank you," he says. His words are too easy, he wished he could put more emphasize on the power of his feelings. He's never had anyone by his side at times like this, besides his family.

Her eyes do not soften, "who did this? Dave? When? How? Where?"

It could've been easy to lie to her. To tell her to go, to tell her that she doesn't have to care. But having someone care about him is different. He's not alone. She's here, for him. She got him glasses. She might care about him. She, a beautiful girl with more mysteries than truth, might care about him, Walt, the boy who's been bullied since he can remember.

"Dave," he sighs. "After you left. In the rain."

The muscles in her shoulder tense and her hands fell on the duvet, "oh, fuck. I should've been there." It's her way of apologizing, he sees it in her eyes.

"You had no idea," he says. "It's fine. I'm fine. You don't need to worry."

"Bullshit," she replies, and tells him to move to the side in his bed. She then sits and leans her head on the wooden board behind her. His bruises don't hurt so much.

They don't say anything. Her hand on her leg and his on the laptop. They stare into a distance, different thoughts mingled together. He wonders if she will be there the next time, or if there will be a next time. He wants to learn how to fight and if Dave approaches him, he punches him and breaks his nose. She wonders if their worlds could combine. She thinks of the premonition in her heart that day and letting it disappear. She vows to never let this happen again.

He can smell the soap in her hair. It doesn't touch him, but it is all he can take in. She washes her hair with soap, he thinks. It reminds him of a baby's fresh head, except her hair is longer. He imagines her with long hair, one that reached the curve between her back and her butt, he almost laughs at the imagery. Nothing suits her better than her current self.

Her hand contracts, centimeters away from his. For a moment he thinks that she wants to hold his hand. She reaches for his hand and sets her hand back down into its original place. She mumbles "fuck" under her breath.

"Walt," her voice is low.

"Holland."

"You want to learn how to street fight?"

"You can teach me?"

She hums, "no. I know the basic moves. I can knee a guy in the balls so hard, he will have no genitalia."

Ouch.

"I throw a good punch and I can kick the shit out of someone, but I'm not what you need."

You are, he thinks.

"Then who?"

An almost smirk appears on her face, "meet up with me tomorrow after school. If you don't come to school, I'll drag you there myself. I'll come over early to help you dress."

"You're not my mother," he says.

"Thank God for that," she chuckles. "But you need me, if you want those damned bruises to never appear again."

"Okay."

And she launches herself into another lesson, one about making easy friends.