“It’s fine. I can pay.”
He lifts his brow. “You’re stubborn with this, aren’t you?”
“I don’t like the concept of owing anyone money.”
“It’s not owing if I’m offering. So, take the offer.”
I sit back in my seat. Twisting the lint balls on my tights, I murmur, “Thank you.”
When we reach the drive-through, it’s empty compared to last night. Conner asks what I want, and I tell him I want acoffee with three sugars. Conner frowns and ends up ordering two sausage and egg muffins.
I bite my lower lip, and my fingers tighten on the leather to hold my tongue.
I’m not used to this sort of treatment. From a young age, I’ve learned that if I wanted something, I needed to work for it. When I was old enough, I worked to earn money so I could buy food instead of eating dry cereal from the box. My mother never left the house to get groceries, and my father spent most of his paycheck on alcohol.
Conner parks in the parking lot, then hands me the muffin and hash browns. I place them on my lap and then sip the coffee with the extra sugar hit.
He leans forward and turns the dial on the air-con until it reaches level two. Cool air brushes against my face.
“Do you want to hang out with my group today?” Conner asks after finishing his muffin.
“Uh…not really.”
“At least for lunch.” He places his arm on my seat and leans towards me. “My mates and I play board games in the classroom. You don’t need to socialise. You can sit there and say nothing. They won’t care.”
“Um…”
“You can leave anytime. No lock-in contract.”
I cover my smile with my hand as I struggle not to choke on the hash brown. Then, before Conner can persist, I nod twice while turning away from him, and I overlook the empty playground as the worker cleans the tables with a paper towel and a spray bottle.
Sadness sweeps over me momentarily, and the contracting, tightening feeling in my throat becomes unbearable. I sip my coffee, hoping that the drink will force the emotions down, suppressing them further.
“Did your siblings like it when you brought drinks home for them?” I ask.
“They were asleep when I got home, and when I left this morning, they were still asleep. Mum doesn’t work today, so they didn’t go to school to spend time with her.”
“They won’t get into trouble with the school?”
“What will missing one day in primary school do to them?” Conner questions, a crooked smile on his mouth. “It’s also healthy. At least, that’s what my parents tell me. Whenever I skip school, I text them to tell them I’m on a mental health break day and there’s no fuss.”
“Wow,” is all I can say.
“You said your parents are strict, right?” he asks, and I nod stiffly. “Is that the reason you come to school every day, even when you’re sick?”
“Sorry?” My hands tighten on the foam cup, my fingernails poking little indents into it.
“At the start of the year, you wore a mask for four days in Creative Arts. I knew you were sick because you tried not to sniffle a lot, but I wanted you to grab a tissue and blow your guts out instead of trying to conceal it with little sniffles throughout the duration of art.”
“Sorry…”
“But now I know it’s because your parents are too strict to keep you home to rest, I feel a little bad for being so bothered by the sniffling.”
Sadly, he doesn’t know that it’s by doing that I’m going to school. Yes, I can “skip”, as Conner puts it. But the thought of the school calling home or Dad’s emergency number and him finding out I skipped school scares me more than throwing up in the classroom.
I’d rather be extremely ill than stay home knowing Dad can come home anything he wants.
“Here, give me your number, and I’ll give you mine,” he says as he grabs his phone.