"Spoken like a true emo boy."

2012

SIXTEEN, BUT I MIGHT AS well be twenty. A new day comes, and the boy in the mirror display changes as the effects of time consumes him. His voice grew deeper, blemishes made him ugly, and hair grew everywhere, not just on the scalp. He believes someday he'll wake up and see a gorilla in the mirror, staring back at him.

The boy is evolving into a man, a new stage of life is upon him, and that scares him. He learns to get used to it, knowing that it's normal. Though, he'd often stare at the boy and wonder why he doesn't look like any other sixteen-year-old kid. And he remembers that he's nothing like them.

Only a few more years until high school is over, then what's next? College? Work?

I don't know.

The future is unpredictable, and I don't like uncertainty. Regardless, I have no choice but to carry on and see where I end up. Though I'm not eager to begin.

I cruise through the locker hallway, feeling as if everyone is staring at me, but they are all too busy to give a damn. Students were stampeding to their class to avoid detention, cheerleaders by their lockers fixing their makeup, nerds with their noses stuck in a book, and then there's me. A regular student who just wanted to keep his things in his beat-up old locker that god knows how many students had used before me.

"What elective did you join?"

Alexander threw his arm over my shoulders. His force was strong, and I blamed it on his gym class.

"Photography," I unlocked my locker and searched for the books needed for the day, which were basically everything, and a few textbooks. "You?"

He took his arm back.

"Okay, so, I wanted to join kick-boxing—"

"So, you could attack me someday shall I refuse to obey your commands?" I joke.

"Maybe."

I gave him a look that said, it-was-a-joke-dumbass.

"I'm just kidding," he chuckles. "No, I always thought it's better to have a backup elective course just in case the one we want is full. I have three."

I kept nodding, but my eyes were searching in the locker.

"Aren't you going to ask me what those three are?" He sounds eager.

"What are those three?" I turn to face him, leaning to the side, hoping it wouldn't take long. Then I realized that I hadn't seen his face in a while. Even though we see each other five times a week, video calling and occasionally going over to his house for a swim, I've never noticed that his hair had grown longer over the days. His arms are toned, and I can only imagine what's underneath his shirt.

"There's the foreign language society where I'd wanna learn French. There's Journaling, and finally, Kick-boxing," he paused, reaching into his backpack and pulling a piece of paper out, unfolding it before holding it out. "Turns out they were all full, and the only remaining class was Home Economics."

"You don't sound very happy about it."

"Wouldn't you be if you were in my shoes?" He shoves the paper back in his backpack before slinging it over his shoulders. He made it look so easy, and I wonder if he even brings his book to class.

"I would be happy if I didn't need to join any class at all, but I have to because I want to graduate from this hell hole," I resume trashing my locker.

"Spoken like a true emo boy."

"I'm not emo."

"Yeah, and I'm not the greatest thing that's happened in your life."

"Cut it out, dude," I got my things secure in my backpack before slamming the locker shut. "Don't you have class?"

"What's up with you today? You look gloomier than usual," we begin walking, and I notice our height difference, making me look inferior next to him.

"Just thoughts, that's all."

"Remember that you can always tell me anything, alright?" He reminds me of this almost every week.

"Yeah, I know."

"Anyways," his tone changes. "You're free after school?"

"Why?"

"I thought of dropping by your place to have you taste the first recipe Mr. Edgar's about to teach us. Chocolate chip cookies," he speaks like a cartoon character who's in love with chocolate. "You're okay with chocolate, right? I know you have an allergy to peanuts, but that's about it, right?"

"Yes, but why me?"

He was silent for a bit before speaking.

"No one else would help me out," he mutters so softly that I can barely hear him.

And that's on fake friends.

I stole a glance from the corner of my eyes to see his disappointed, depressed expression, and I wanted to punch myself for letting that puppy face get to me again. I knew he was doing it on purpose just to convince me, and it always worked.

"Cheer up, Eeyore, I'll do it," I lightly punched his cheek, bringing his smile back.

"Really?!" His eyes are sparkling with joy now. This imbecile has no right to be this adorable.

I nod.

"Thanks," he throws his arm over my shoulder again as we continue down the hallway to our class.

...

I've been to his house before. Many times. I've seen his room, used his toilet, and sat on his bed where there was only one pillow to support his head and a thick, lush comforter to keep him warm. My fingers traced his Batman action figures on the shelf over his desk. My feet had accidentally stumbled upon his dirty laundry on the floor, my nose had grown used to his scent, and his room reeked of it. As disgusting as it is, I'm actually okay with that. With or without cologne, he has a rather... welcoming scent? If that makes sense.

Whenever I'm there, it feels like I'm on vacation, living in a five-star hotel because it's not my world. It's his. His room was a different dimension, one I wished I could be part of forever. But if there's one thing I learned in life is that nobody will love you enough to keep you forever. At some point, they'll let you go.

Though now, he sits on the edge of my bed, one leg dangling and his back leaning against the leather bedframe. My room is nothing like his. Mine is where I hid from my family, where I'd contemplate the future, and where I'd entertain the thoughts that ran through my mind. I wonder what he feels when he's in my room.

It's clear that he's not feeling any negative emotions because his positive energy is radiating from his body, and I can almost see its aura.

Joy paints his face as he carefully arranges the cookies on a white ceramic plate he'd just finished baking in Home EC. He's eager for my judgment upon his creation.

"Well, how is it?"

"It's good."

It was disgusting, and I wanted to spit it out so badly, but I swallowed it instead because of his watchful eyes on my every movement. The chocolate taste is there, and so is the soft texture of a cookie, but the mushy flour and salt overpower them.

"Though, a little heavy on the salt," I dust my hands to indirectly say I do not wish to take another, even though he's brought a plate full of it. I think I'll see Jesus on the fifth cookie.

"I knew something was wrong," he groans, leaning back against the bedframe, his palms rubbing his face. "Mr. Edgar said I had potential."

He's lost his mind, then.

"But when I ask him to try, he refused," he took the other half of the cookie I bit into and didn't hesitate to eat it. After a few chews, his face froze, but not in a good way. "Excuse me."

He slides off the bed and heads to the bathroom, and the sound of him spitting the cookie out made me laugh, maybe a little too much. The toilet flushes, and he returns to crash on the bed.

"You fucking liar," he hisses.

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings, man," even if he had to find out this way, at least he did, and now he can improve it.

"Just tell me the truth, dude," he said. "Sure, it'll sting, but I'll know to improve."

"Alright then," I start. "The chocolate taste is there, but you added way too much flour and salt that it feels like I'm eating mud drenched in chocolate."

His eyes are wide open, but his mouth remains closed. It looked as if he was about to cry.

"But the cookie is soft, so that's good," I smiled, hoping he wouldn't break.

"Well, the fact that you tried it without spitting it out means a lot to me, so thank you," he lay on his side with his eyes on cookies. "I want to be good at something, and I will. You'll see."

"It's only your first class," I remind him. "It takes practice, and I bet you'll be preparing five-star meals by the end of the semester."

"Thanks," there's that million dollars smile I'm waiting for.

...

I don't know how he did it, but he did it.

He improved, and most of his dishes weren't bad.

Some were pretty good.

Since that day, he'd come every week at least once for me to try his dishes. Aside from baking, his class began cooking cultural food, and the first week, Mr. Edgar taught him ways to cook pasta. Though I thought that was the most straightforward dish to prepare, but I guess not.

Pasta was the second meal he learned, and I got food poisoning due to its diluted sauce—it's like I'm drinking water with a hint of lemon in it— and the use of expired mushrooms, which he didn't know about it until I googled the ways to tell when a mushroom has gone bad.

I managed to convince him that I had eaten rotten pizza by accident and got food poisoning. If he were to know that his pasta was the cause of it, he'd drop out of the class immediately, and for his sake, I'll take the hit because he's having a good time in that class.

Weeks after weeks with more meals, I got used to the sickness that came along with it. I've bought some pills and antibiotics to speed up the healing process, so it's all good. There had been times when I wanted to come clean and tell him I had enough of his cooking. Though, I didn't need to as if his meals were actually improving. It went from intolerable to tolerable to excellent.

I guess that's how we grow, huh?

His empanadas are the best, and I'd often ask him to prepare more. And that's the first for me because I never finish the entire plate of any food he brings, and neither do I request for seconds.

In a way, I'm happy for him and myself, too, now that my body will no longer hate me for eating his food.