Tease [Larry]

Six

For once, it'd been a quiet morning.

The birds were seemingly missing from the sky, Niall wasn't anywhere to be found, and Anne hadn't been up early enough to dampen Harry's day. He'd made himself breakfast; a lukewarm cinnamon porridge topped with an array of colorful berries, washed down with a glass of orange juice. His favorite professor had waved hello at him in passing. He'd even been complimented on his shoes.

So when Grimshaw rounds the corner, branding his fist like a prince would a sword, it seems like it comes out of nowhere. One second, Harry's carding through his locker, humming one of the rock songs he can't get out of his head. Moments later, he's laid out flat across the cold, hard ground and being laughed at by Nick and his posse. Luckily, they'd made it quick and painless this morning. Harry's got a presentation in half an hour.

He doesn't know if it's because he starts to feel bad for himself, or if it's just his luck, but he forgets his flash drive, so Mrs. Q has to manually pull his project up on her computer. And he'd practiced what he was going to say a thousand times the night before, but when he's stood in front of his entire class, his mind gets all foggy and his eyes start to drift off and suddenly he's teetering, falling off the face of the planet.

Mrs. Q shakes her head disappointedly before handing Harry a rubric with a great, red C- printed at the top right corner of the page. Harry accepts his passing grade, and goes about his day.

When the bell rings, he doesn't even think about Gemma waiting for him out front, impatiently pounding down on her Volkswagen horn. On instinct, he takes the backroads home, passes by the local retirement home and the only grocery store for miles. It might be in the way his children wiz past him on their tricycles, or even the bite of Joe Harmony's Chevron tires crunching as they roll down old, crumbling roads, but through a sudden burst of energy, Harry begins to sprint. If he can beat Gemma home, he'll have first dibs on the T.V. downstairs.

His lungs are tight, his mouth is dry, and his hair is a greasy mess atop his head, but the wind is blowing just right, cooling the light sweat at the nape of his neck, his backpack is a little lighter than usual, and the birds are back, loud and boisterous as they race him in the sky.

And just like that, he's back on top again, hopeful that he can salvage another one of his typical shitty days.

Except when he bursts through the front door, Gemma and Aaron are already spread out starfish style across the sofa, cigarettes and soda pops in tow.

And his mother's surprisingly home, and she's not alone.

"Mom?" Harry blinks his big, green eyes blankly. The man she's with turns from where he's shuffling through their fridge, dressed in nothing but a pinstriped bath robe and a pair of boxer briefs. "Who's this?"

Anne doesn't even look up from where she's solving her cross word puzzle. She's got a pot of lukewarm coffee on the brewer, and the remains of their cold breakfast soiling on the stove. "His name's Steve. He lives next door."

Steve grins from ear to ear before pulling out a carton of orange juice from the fridge. Harry's carton of orange juice. He outstretches his hand for Harry to shake. "Nice to meet you. Harry, is it?"

Harry stares at the foreign man's hand, shuddering at the mere assumptions of where they've probably been. He's almost certain Steve has become his mother's newest fixation (of the week). She'll declare her love on Wednesday, boast over a promise ring on Friday, then ask him to move in the following weekend, but he gives their relationship two months, if that.

"Hard pass," Harry says. And then he gets the fuck out of there.

When he reaches the living room again, Aaron is beckoning him over with puppy dog eyes and two meaty, wailing arms. Harry pretends not to see him, trudging up to his bedroom instead. He spends the rest of the night forlornly petting at his grumbling stomach, mindlessly paging through one of the dusty books on his shelf, and flipping through countless amounts of television channels. Once he's finally decided on a show, he watches it until his eyes grow tired and his body becomes lax. Within half an hour, he's out like a light.