At least, Dad didn’t let me get a Divergent tattoo. Because, hello, it would have been so NOT cool right now to have that shit on my skin. I am getting something else inked as soon as I am eighteen, though. I am having ‘Own it’ tattooed on my wrist. Just to remind me.
When I feel like the world is closing in on me and my illness makes me see everything in black and white, that is when I need to remember that it’s not what I am. I am me. With all that comes with it.
I will probably get a ‘Dad’ tattoo at some point. I mean, I think things on your skin are supposed to mean something and tell the story of your life. And however much my Dad is a twat, I do love him. He has been the best Dad. However clueless and messy and fucked up he may be. He owns it too. And I am bloody proud of him.
“There are fourteen Lukas Myrtengrens in Stockholm,” Dad says as I stumble into the kitchen, throwing myself on the chair, then Dad pushes a bowl of oatmeal towards me. Blackberries and Chia Seed today.
“Any clue which one is our Lukas?” I say as I drown my porridge in milk. No sugar. Dad has us both on a strict GI diet, which sucks sometimes, but I fully agree it makes a difference to my moods. Less swings when my sugar levels crash. I don’t miss all the crap we used to eat, because Dad shops carefully and stocks up on low GI crisps and clever snacks that might taste like cardboard, but you kind of get used to them. And I am kind of a fruit-bat anyway. I am quite happy to just sit and work myself through the bags of fruit on the counter if I’m hungry.
“I have Google Mapped all of them and removed everyone living in houses. I don’t think Lukas lives in a house on a teacher’s wage. There is one in a retirement complex. Which leaves seven.”
“Stalker,” I grit out through a mouthful of porridge.
“I have promised him not to send anything else to school. He’s in trouble with someone called Anita.”
Dad isn’t even looking up from the laptop, just inhaling his coffee like drugs. It’s decaf. We’ve cut down on the caffeine as well.
“Anita is scary. If you step over the invisible line behind her desk and the office, you get a warning. If you do it twice, you get a sit-down chat about boundaries. I’ve had one. Couldn’t help myself. “
Dad just chuckles. Doesn’t even look up when I steal his coffee cup. Well tough, there are no clean cups in the cupboard, and neither of us do the washing up. The cleaning team who come on a Friday afternoon does it all, and then, we just work our way through them until we run out. Pathetic. I know.
“Lukas always comes in with coffee from Espresso House. I don’t know which branch he gets it from, but it might help to narrow it down. There is an Espresso House en route from where he lives to school.”
“Ahh…” Dad’s forehead is a mess of concentration. Sticking his tongue out like he is a five-year-old.
“Or you could just ask him where he lives.”
“He won’t tell me. He can read me like a book. If I ask, he will just lie to me. Tell me he lives somewhere he doesn’t.” I leave him to it. But I do refill his cup and clumsily pat him on the head before I leave.
“Love you!” he shouts after me.
“Okay, Dad!” I shout back as I close the door.
I don’t see Matteo all day. Again. Which is good in a way. But also bad, because now the anxiety is building in my head. If I run into him now, I will probably freeze with fear and run the other way. Because that is how I function. When all I really want is to run up and just casually hug him. Say hi. Behave like a normal human being.
Instead, I hide in the Maths classroom and write out my thing for the Queer Student group. It’s easy. I have been in group therapy for years. I have done so many icebreaker games and get-to-know-you things and let-your-feelings-out workshops that I could probably run one in my sleep.
I’ll just run with the basics. Get a feel of how these kids think. It scares the shit out of me just imagining that they will all laugh at me, but Lukas will be running it. He will have my back. And then, I will never have to turn up again. It’s just a few sentences I need to squeeze out of my mouth and then, I’m hopefully back in Simon's good books.
I email my draft to Simon. Neatly typed out in an email signed and dated like a grown-up. Hopefully buying me extra goodwill in case it all goes to shit. I can’t force anyone to participate. I can’t make anyone do anything.
I have a stomach-ache as I step into the classroom where the Queer Student group meets. A normal classroom where Lukas is busy moving all the desks out of the way and putting chairs in a circle. Standard stuff. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I just stand there. Slightly paralysed. Because now that I’m here, I can’t run.
Because, of course, there is this boy who has just thrown himself around me. Hugging the shit out of me and talking nonstop, saying words that I can’t quite take in, apart from that every second word is…
Pumpkin.
“What are you doing here?” I pant out. Because hello. It’s not like I’m smooth.
“It’s the Queer Student group? Of course, I’m here! I’m like the only Queer at school, Pumpkin. Apart from you. The rest of the people who come here are great, though. It’s a laugh. You’ll see. O-M-G, I can’t believe you came. You have just made my day. Seriously.”
I think Matteo needs to breathe. I think I need a Valium. Lukas just laughs over by the chairs in the corner.
“You’re the Queer?” I need to get my mouth a filter. I need to engage my brain. I need not have a panic attack.
Matteo just looks at me like I have two heads.
“I choose not to label myself. I don’t care, Pumpkin. I am what I am.”
“I assume you two know each other then?” Lukas says as he passes by and a group of girls enter, all chatting excitedly, then holding his arms up in defeat. “Kornelia, we are NOT watching YouTube clips today.”
“Lukas, you are no fun. There is this new Philkas video, all Philkas kisses in under two minutes. It’s seriously cute. You must watch it. “
“Philkas?” Lukas says and the girl who is apparently Kornelia rolls her eyes.
“I think we need to watch thirty greatest Larry proofs again. I still don’t buy it,” another girl says and throws herself on a chair. Then, bounces up and stares at me. “You’re here!”
“Yeah?” I say back. Trying to sound cocky, when in reality I am probably just as cocky as a bumble bee.
“Hands off him, Hedda, he’s mine,” Matteo says, and swats his hand at her as she grabs the sleeve of my jacket and my chest heaves. Please don’t touch me.
“You are like the coolest of the cool. Are you really gay? Such a waste.” She looks seriously disappointed and the nerves in my stomach settle a little.
Matteo’s arms are around my waist. And this Hedda is now shouting at someone called Ida who is trying to argue about some story she has read online that apparently has the hottest rimming scene.
“Is it always this crazy?” I whisper to Matteo, who is kind of plastered to my back. His arms are still around me.
“Oh, you haven’t seen crazy yet, Pumpkin. Shyla hasn’t arrived. Her and Reim are like the tag team of Gay-shipping. They could convince you Donald Trump and Barrack Obama are having a passionate affair by just making you watch carefully doctored YouTube clips for an hour. Trust me, you would totally buy it.”