Even without a true understanding of just about anything related to science, I still know this to be true: a break starts with the smallest of cracks. It’s when more pressure is applied to the crack that it grows larger, until the thing finally breaks.
A crack can be caused by any number of things. Sometimes, the crack is there to begin with, or it’s from an impact. Sometimes, it’s from wear and tear, or it’s from bending the thing over and over.
Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the real starting point of a break.
For me, it starts on a Wednesday.
Wednesdays are my favorite day of the week. I like the feeling of reaching that crest of the week’s wave, knowing that anything after would be a downward slope, easily gathering momentum until it had finished, sliding into the weekend with ease. Wednesdays mean my mom works late and I have the house to myself. Wednesdays mean fried ravioli in the cafeteria for lunch. Wednesdays mean new releases at the school library. Wednesdays mean Marcus.
It’s become a routine, by now. It’s something that has become so ingrained in us that it’s natural and expected. Human beings, after all, are creatures of routine. We awake each morning around the same time, and go about our days similarly. After my six o’clock alarm, I shower and get dressed, eat breakfast, pack my school bag, and then head to school. The school days are the same, with just slight variations in schedule. Then, I go home, do my homework, have dinner, and then play games or read or something else I enjoy to help me relax before I go to bed.
Of course, there are day-to-day differences. I have club meetings on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Monday nights I go to therapy. And Wednesdays are for Marcus.
Even though it’s the start of a new school year, the routine will be the same as it has for the past three years, only changing slightly from the middle school routine prior to that. And to be honest, I like it that way. I like knowing what to expect; there’s a comfort in it.
Which is why it makes changes so much harder, sometimes.
“I’m so sorry, Cici!” Marcus says with a groan as he slumps against the locker next to mine. “I totally forgot to tell you about it.”
I smile brightly at him as I take out the books I need for our first class after homeroom. “It’s okay!” I tell him. (Even though it really isn’t.)
“I’ll make it up to you,” he insists. “I’ll pay for your lunch today.”
I shake my head, my smile never faltering. “My mom pays for lunch and dinner for me on Wednesdays, you know that, Marcus. Really, it’s fine,” I repeat. It’s still a lie and it tastes bitter on my tongue. But I don’t want to tell him about the cold feeling in the pit of my stomach, the ache in my chest at the idea that he didn’t just have something else to do on Wednesday—on our day—but he hadn’t even told me about it. I hate the look on his face already, and I don’t want to make him feel worse.
As it is, I hug my math textbook closer to my chest as though it will ease the pain, clutching it like a shield. I feel almost more upset over the fact that I’m upset—it’s something so small, so trivial, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I bite into my bottom lip harder than I should, as though the quick sharp pain will clear my head.
I make a mental note; maybe this is the type of thing I’m supposed to be telling my therapist, in order to make the sessions actually mean something. I don’t really know.
Marcus runs a hand through his hair, pouting slightly as he does. Finally, I feel my lips tug into a real, genuine smile at him and the way he looks so childish when he does it. I bump my shoulder into his—or I try to; the few inches of height difference mean I get his upper arm. Still, he turns slightly to me and raises an eyebrow in amusement, giving a small smile in return.
“Come on,” I say. “It’s fine. I’ll survive one Wednesday without you.”
“Yeah, I know,” he sighs. “But I’m bummed about not being able to hang out, too. Especially now that summer’s over. You know?”
“I know,” I tell him quietly. “You can make it up to me by buying ice cream next Wednesday. How does that sound?”
He beams at me. “Deal,” he says.
“Now, come on. Let’s head to first period.”
We make our way through the crowded halls, chatting casually, like a few moments ago he didn’t just completely pull the rug out from under me. As we find seats in our first class of the day together, I take the classroom environment as an excuse for us not being able to talk anymore and for me to fall silent. And as I do, I ask myself what is wrong with me.
Why is something so small bothering me?
The guilt and shame I feel for being angry and upset is an ugly thing. It crawls beneath my skin uncomfortably, and I’m tempted to scratch at it to make the feeling disappear. But it won’t just disappear. I know it won’t.
It’s when a voice in the back of my head quietly whispers, “Maybe he doesn’t want to see you in the first place. Maybe he doesn’t care at all,” that I force myself to stop. I close my eyes, inhale through my nose, and then exhale slowly.
This is Marcus. Anyone else and maybe I’d believe it, maybe I’d let that voice carry me away into the deepest and darkest corners of my mind, places I’m regrettably too familiar with. But this is Marcus.
And somehow, by repeating that, the feeling in my stomach dissipates. For now, reminding myself of who Marcus is has helped calm me down.
I try not to think how it’s only a matter of time before my brain tries to play the same trick again.
Comments (1)
See all