mr. brightside || task 001
Location: Dr. Besty “Bee” Dobson’s Office Date: August 16th Time: 2:30 pm Inspiration: Mr. Brightside by Run River North
Arlo takes a deep breath – in through the nose, out through the mouth – and schools his expression into a lazy, relaxed grin. He knocks on the door in front of him before burying his hands into his pockets in an effort to keep them from fidgeting.
Betsy doesn’t keep him waiting for long. The door opens and he’s hit with the familiar (if slightly unsettling) smell of chocolate and evergreen – an odd combination for the middle of August. But, Bee’s always been a little odd. A little off center, for a medical professional. Probably why she’s been able to deal with the Foxes (and all their many, many problems) for this long without turning tail and running for the hills.
“Arlo!” She exclaims warmly, gesturing for him to step inside. “C’mon in.”
Knowing he’s alright with physical contact, she gives his shoulder a light pat as he passes by and… It’s nice. The whole thing is nice: as inviting as a shrink’s office can be, and yet.
He still hates coming here.
Every year, it’s the same. Every year, he has to psych himself up for this. To sit here, for an hour, carefully maintaining every inch of armor he’s crafted, perfected, over the last decade.
It’s so much harder, with her. She’s not like his teammates. Not like Brayden, or Jazz, or Jen. Not like Wymack or even Abby. She’s sharper. She knows. Every button to press, every weakness to exploit. Every year, she chips away at him as he sits and sips hot chocolate and talks about the weather. About practice and the constant construction going on on campus. About the rising price of gas and which team he’s most excited to play this year.
It’s a game of chicken. Which one of them can outlast the other as the clock on the wall ticks down.
It’s exhausting.
Like playing chess against an opponent who can read his mind. Predict every move he makes before he makes it.
Impossible.
Arlo plops down on the most comfortable, worn-in leather chair in the room, adjacent to Bee’s desk. Crossing his legs underneath him, he settles back, accepting the piping hot cup she presses into his palms. Despite knowing the hot chocolate is a gimmick, a way to loosen him up, to make him feel at ease…. He still drinks it. If he’s gotta’ come here, he’s at least going to get some sugar out of it.
Bee slides into the chair behind her desk and sets her own cup to the side. Leaning forward, she props her elbows on the table and rests her head in her hands, giving him a fond smile.
“So. Senior year! That’s exciting, huh?”
“Yeah, actually.” Arlo takes a small sip of hot chocolate, fighting the urge to twist the mug around in his hands. To squirm. “I honestly can’t believe it’s already August. Time has flown by.” He smiles softly and shrugs. “I don’t think it’s even hit me yet. That I’m a senior. It probably won’t until the first game. Or at least until classes officially start, you know?”
Bee nods, her gaze steady and unwavering.
“Time has flown by, lately. I agree. I feel like I haven’t seen you in quite a while.”
“Aw Bee. Did you miss me?” He throws her a mischievous grin and winks, for good measure.
“Yes,” she replies, and genuinely seems to mean it, “of course I did. I’ll be honest, I was… surprised that I didn’t see you at all over the summer.”
The atmosphere in the room changes instantly. Arlo feels something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach and his chest tightens uncomfortably. He knows what she means. And she knows that he knows.
Coming out of the gate swinging this year, then.
“Well, you know,” he hedges sheepishly. “I was pretty busy. Someone has to keep Brayden entertained. Otherwise he’ll start chain smoking and tearing up the carpet and dragging trash all over the house. Like one of those small, yappy dogs when you leave them alone for too long.” From anyone else, the joke might sound harsh, or critical. But Arlo’s tone is fond, and the smile creeping across his face is the most genuine one he’s had all day.
At the mention of Brayden, an imperceptible expression flashes across Bee’s face and, for a brief moment before her features even out again, Arlo thinks she might say something. But she stays quiet, and the silence stretches out awkwardly between them. Arlo takes another sip of cocoa and swallows hard, chancing a look at the clock.
God, it’s only been ten minutes.
“Arlo,” Bee breaks the uneasy quiet that’s descended on the room. “Your father died last semester. You don’t want to talk about that at all?”
Of course he does. Jesus Christ, it’s all he wants to do. Ever since he got that call, since his initial freak out, he’s been pushing it away. Shutting it out. All of it. The pain, the grief, the confusion, the isolation. The all-encompassing, ever-present hurt that’s ripped a savage hole right through the middle of him.
All he wants is to just admit it.
To tell someone, anyone, that he’s not okay.
To say it out loud:
I’m not fine.
I’m not fine.
I’m not fine.
But that would require admitting it to himself.
That would require ripping open that hole – that wound – again, after he’s tried all summer to haphazardly tie it down. Sew it up. Cut it out.
Admitting it would require going through it, all over again. Every bit of it.
And he’s not strong enough. Never has been. It’s why he hides, constantly. Why he protects himself with goofy grins and casual touches and the perpetual need for attention. For affection. Because he’s not strong enough to wear his heart on his sleeve – to flaunt his problems, his fears, his anxieties, in plain sight.
He’s not strong enough ask for help.
It’s easier to cower.
To run away.
To put on a mask.
He can’t face it. Can’t face himself.
He won’t.
“Bee, I’m fine.” He laughs, waving his free hand in a vaguely dismissive gesture. “Seriously. It’s all good, okay. Made my peace with it.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m having a hard time believing that, Arlo.”
“And I have a hard time believing that we didn’t fake the Moon Landing.” Arlo gives her a helpless sort of shrug, and carefully sets his rapidly cooling cocoa on the desk in front of him. “But, what can ya do?”
“Arlo.”
“Bee.”
She sighs.
“I know that I can’t make you talk about it. Not if you’re not ready. But, I do hope you know that… What you’re doing, it will catch up to you. One day, it’s going to be too much to carry. Too much weight to hold up on your own, and you will crumble beneath it. But you don’t have to. It doesn’t have to be that way. You have people who care about you. People who want to listen. To help. You need to learn to lean on that: on your support system. Your teammates. Your coach. Your friends.”
She doesn’t mention herself, and Arlo is almost grateful. That she knows. He could never, ever come clean here. In a setting like this, surrounded by white walls and textbooks and leather sofas that a thousand other people have sat on before, spilling their problems like marbles on a wood floor, watching with satisfaction as they all bounce and roll and slide away for someone else to deal with.
“Thanks, Bee.” And it’s the most that he has. The most he can give her. It’s just barely enough. She relents, and the rest of the hour passes almost easily. They trade small talk about his new teammates, about the upcoming season and Abby’s new haircut.
As she walks him to the door, she rests a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, practiced and careful.
“My door’s always open. You know that.”
It’s not a question, so he doesn’t respond. Just shakes his head and laughs, throwing up a hand as he strides out of her office and back into the overly air-conditioned main hallway.
He makes it halfway back to the Court before he’s choking, scrambling to find a bathroom. Luckily, he’s near the Applied Sciences building – and he already knows the layout. He bursts into the men’s restroom on the third floor after a frantic rush up the stairs, and barely gets himself into a stall before he’s shaking apart. He doubles over on the ground next to the toilet, face buried in his knees as he takes in great, heaving breaths that do nothing to soothe his panic. His chest, tight before, now feels like it’s clamped between an iron vice, slowly squeezing all the air from his lungs. His sides are starting to ache from the strain, and he wraps an arm around his middle, as if he can somehow hold himself together through sheer force of will. His free hand snakes up to tangle itself in his hair and he squeezes his eyes shut, so hard black spots dance behind his eyelids.
He focuses on the whine of the florescent lights overhead.
The sound of the stall door next to his, squeaking back-and-forth on uneven hinges.
He focuses, and he waits.
Eventually, his body begins to unfurl on its own. Breathing gets easier in increments. In fits and starts, like an old farm truck, backfiring until the engine finally rumbles reluctantly to life.
He pushes himself up off the floor. Flushes the toilet, though he didn’t use it, and let’s himself out of the stall with slow, clumsy hands.
The mirrors above the sink are harsh. Unyielding. Unwilling to participate in his lie, they highlight the paleness of his skin. His shaking limbs. His dry, red rimmed eyes.
No tears. He’s not sure why.
Maybe he just doesn’t have it in him.
Mechanically, he washes his hands. Scrubs at his skin with a paper towel until he’s bright pink and rosy. He practices a smile in front of the mirror, and though it’s likely to fool no one, right now –
it’ll have to do.