| Doctors Peaceling and Bartlett keep their practice in a two story
building on Turple Street, above an immaculate courtyard lined with
tulips. It’s a picture-perfect setting worthy of their clients, who need
to keep up their perfect images, a perfect place for them to fall
perfectly apart. Young people in unique situations are their specialty,
and while one mother is won over by the word “best,” for one guardian it’s
the word “discreet.” Today, the waiting room is quiet except for the sound of turning pages as two boys wait for their appointments, one flipping through a sports magazine while the other hides his face behind a book and stares at his lap. Anonymity is such a rare commodity that they do their best to blend in, slouched and silent as not to draw the other’s attention, especially not in a place like this. Embarrassing is what it is, to be seen here where people break and cry and eventually heal. Not quite out of their awkward teenage years, this is the kind of thing they don’t want people to know. “Is that your owl?” The boy with the sports magazine waves his hand in the direction of the window. When the other boy turns to look, his dark, disheveled hair falls into his face and he brushes it away from his round, wire-rim glasses. He’s not thrilled that the other boy is speaking to him, and less thrilled to hear the word “owl,” but there she is, perched on the windowsill and blinking patiently. “No,” he replies. He knows that normal people don’t have owls following them about town. The other boy shrugs. He wears jewelry around his neck that shines like a golden snitch when he’s called back to his appointment. Well-trained eyes watch from underneath smudged glasses until the shine disappears. *** JRT. Those are the initials of the boy with the distracting jewelry. He has blonde curls--not frosty, soulless blonde, but more a golden bronze--and speaks with an American accent. He always seems to be around and it cheers the other boy, in a way, to know that someone else is so obviously disturbed. “There’s that owl again,” JRT says right after he arrives. He stops at the window and taps lightly. “The one that’s not yours.” For the first time they look at one another straight on, both bracing themselves for the inevitable, painful moment of recognition. The moment never comes, so they finally relax, and when JRT says, “Justin,” the other boy says, “Harry,” and that’s it. After all, there’s an owl at the window that oughtn’t be talked about. *** “Can I pet it?” Harry looks up from the book he wasn’t reading anyhow. “Pardon me?” “Can I pet your owl?” Justin carries himself with confidence, but his hands rub over and over his thighs. Harry knows the feeling; he wants to touch his scar, but doesn’t. “I told you; she’s not mine.” Justin’s smile is bright and sudden. “She?” Harry glowers. Must not tell lies, he reminds himself bitterly. Justin doesn’t ask again. *** When the shouting coming from behind the doctor’s door turns into shrieking, Harry gets up and walks out. “Where’re you going?” Justin asks when he catches up. They’re in the courtyard, and the foliage that had appeared so lovely from two stories up is clearly wilting in the late summer sun. “Nowhere, I guess,” Harry mumbles. “Yeah, I’m not supposed to,” Justin says halfheartedly. It’s completely obvious that he doesn’t wish to go back inside. “Why do you come here so much?” “Why do you?” There is a brief silence in which they weigh the truth and how it might be received. “Everybody wants to touch me,” Justin blurts just as the owl swoops down and onto Harry’s shoulder, which makes it easy for Harry to pretend that it’s the bird and not Justin’s confession that makes him flinch. “Me too,” he says quietly. The words themselves are so innocuous because what could be wrong with a simple touch? It’s the wanting that takes its toll. “You can pet her if you want,” Harry offers, and it’s wonderful to invite rather than fend off. The reward is Justin, so careful even in his eagerness, as he reaches out and smoothes down a dozen ruffled, snowy white feathers. |