Chapter Nine: Wimp |Scott|

Since I became friends with Rosette. I spoke to Larry less. While I didn't think I'd stop talking to Larry altogether, I the need for him become less intense. If that's I good thing, I can't say, but I can say talking to Rosette cleared my head and as foreign a feeling it was I liked it.

However, it only took one incident to bury my mind in haze and since I figured it would be annoying if I ran to Rosette each time something happened, I turned to Larry.

Talking to him seemed like a downgrade, or maybe talking to Rosette all the time spoiled me and my normal ways of dealing with things now seemed insufficient.

Then again, if my usual ways of processing my thoughts and emotions were sufficient, I probably wouldn't need Rosette and our first conversation on the roof wouldn't have been such an eye opener for me.

Maybe I needed them both. Perhaps Larry and Rosette worked in tandem like medication and psychotherapy.

Which is which, I wondered

I imagined Larry sitting on the floor next to me. It'd been a while since I'd seen him. For a second I forgot his face. I filled it in with a pair of kind brown eyes, a beard and a half smile. He seemed off—but I made due.

You look down, Scottie.

"What gave you that impression?" I asked.

Don't know. Perhaps the fact you're huddled up in the corner alone like a stock picture of an emo kid.

What's bothering you?

"It's stupid."

So are most of your problems. Just because something's stupid doesn't mean it can't upset you. If that were the case, you'd never be upset. Probably wouldn't need me either.

"I might."

Yeah, Scottie. Cause whenever people vent to themselves it's always about how happy they are. I remember all the times you go "Hey Larry. Boy am I happy right now."

"So me not needing you would be a good thing? Like, that'd mean I'm doing well for myself?"

Larry shook his head.

We both know why I exist. I'm the strain you used to filter all the garbage in your head. Your insecurities, anxiety, and self doubt will be there wether I'm around or not. But if you want to find another strain and use that to filter all that stuff out then go ahead. Whether that strain works better than me that's for you to decide.

"Maybe using one shive at a time isn't enough. I should get a lot, get a multi-step purification thing going on."

That could work. Guess I'm the first step in your purification process... That means I get the worst bits. Go on tell me what's eating you.

"My dad called me a wimp the other day—well he called me something else first but wimp was the name he stuck to after the fact."

Okay so what happened?

I told Larry what happened a few mights ago. Mom and Dad were arguing about me. Midterm report cards came in and while I wasn't failing, I wasn't doing exceptionally well either.

Most parents, my mom included, would see a midterm like that, be happy their kid is doing okay and have them improve in some areas.

My dad however, looked at it with an entirely different lens. With him there's no such thing as "average" there's exceptional and there's mediocrity. There is no "just scraping by" no "slipping through the cracks" there wasn't even such and thing as "trying your best". With him there was going above and beyond and there was not trying.

It's safe to say instead of low B's and high C's on that paper, he saw I's. He saw failure.

I can't say Dad's way of seeing things is wrong because it makes things hard for me, but I can say there are times his mentality opens a freshly closed wound.

And it stings.

Dad ranted and raved, but Mom held her own as always. "Stop it his grades are fine," she said.

"You're overreacting." "No. He doesn't need tutoring again, besides he doesn't like it."

He doesn't like it. Those were the words that made Dad snap, more so than he had already.

"He doesn't like it—this is the problem you baby him too much." He said.

Mom denied it.

"Yes you do. That's why he's such a little bitch all the time."

I wasn't in the room. So I didn't see what expressions my parents made. My best guess is mom looked at him in a way that made him instantly regret what he said. Or maybe he reacted what he said all on his own. Either way he clarified:

"Okay, bitch was too far. But you have to agree, Scottie's a wimp."

"They talked more after that, but I stopped listening in after that." I said.

Well, over the years he's called you a lot worse, both to you face and behind your back.

"I know, but it's different this time."

How?

"Cause I know I'm a wimp. I mean I'm not like Dad, I'll never be big, or tough like he is. I'm not even brave. I can't even—I've been in love with a girl since middle school and she may never know cause I'd rather die than tell her."

"The excuse that I'm not ready can only last so long. I think the reason I'm not ready is that I choose to be. It's easy that way. Because I'm so attached, so afraid of being rejected I don't know what I'd do if she turned me down. And the small chance that I might end up with her isn't enough to counter that fear."

"The thing is, I've felt me being a wimp was another bag of head garbage. Something only I saw or knew about. But, if Dad said it that means he sees it too. And if he can I'm sure everyone else can."

I rested my head on the wall.

"Including Cecile."

For a while I waited for Larry to speak. For him to give me some advice or a shred of reassurance. I wanted to hear, "Scottie, you're not a wimp" in someone else's voice. But I forgot Larry can only say what I think, what I perceive, what I hold to be true. I wasn't desperate enough to lie to myself. Instead, I started at my mind's projection of a guy in his twenties until reality settled in and all I saw was empty space and the wall next to me.