Pretty Boy [bxb] | ✔️

Chapter eleven: Spaghetti is Italian

𝙎𝙥𝙖𝙜𝙝𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙞 𝙞𝙨 𝙄𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙣

Alex didn't come into school the next day or today, so I couldn't talk to him, which strangely disappointed me but also made me feel slightly nervous for him.

There is a considerable possibility that after coming out via tweet, he could have received hateful messages and threats from people at school that he's been affected so much and hasn't been able to come into school.

It feels so weird caring about Alex like this. It's hit me so suddenly. I have never given a shit about what happens in his life before.

I still don't like him, that apology didn't change that except maybe I dislike him a little less, but I want to protect him somehow, to shield him from the homophobic abuse that people might throw at him. I take my own experiences in account. This is something Alex and I both share a similarity with, and I know what when I come out, the thought of someone caring about me would offer some sort of consolation.

When I walk into the kitchen wondering what's for dinner, and to also see if there's time to have a cup of coffee beforehand, the view takes me aback.

My mother has tidied everything. Italian cookbooks that always litter the counters have been closed and placed upon the shelf they are supposed to be. The stack of newspapers and magazines have disappeared. Mum has put the school books, usually on the breakfast table, on the counter in a neat pile. She has also taken the time to polish the countertops so that they are sparkly clean.

I take a look through the glass doors which are connected to the kitchen in the dining room and see that my mother has brought out her classy cutlery and covered the dining table in a posh white table cloth with lace around the edges in an attempt to make the table look more...stylish? I don't know. Our dining room never looks stylish.

She's rushing around the kitchen, wearing a fancy, floral apron looking flustered, as if she's expecting the queen to pop in at any given moment.

She comes rushing up to me, shoving a bunch of knives and forks in my hand, "Oh, can you please set the table for me?" and then she's back at the stove, mixing some sauce with a wooden spoon with one hand while wiping the sweat off her forehead with the other.

I have to hold the knives and forks to my chest to prevent them from falling to the ground as my hands aren't big enough to carry the amount she has shoved onto me.

I count the knives and forks in my hand as best as I can without dropping them, then look back up at my mother. "I think you gave me too many knives and forks. I've got ten pairs here. We only need seven." I count them again just to be sure. "Yep, I've got ten pairs here."