25. Aeron
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
AERON
Mom is doing something in her office, so I’m trying to grab food from the kitchen and disappear before she returns.
There are mini cupcakes with orange and purple frosting all over the counter (they look pretty good).
She must’ve made them for trick-or-treaters.
I know homemade treats aren’t something you can do nowadays, but since our community is all faculty housing, neighbors trust each other.
The kids that live here love Mom’s baked goods. She is a great baker.
I turn the corner toward the living room and almost collide into Mom.
She’s standing in front of a small mirror adjusting a bonnet.
She’s wearing a long green dress with a lace collar, her curly hair pinned to her head.
She’s holding a small leather-bound book as a prop.
I don’t know who she’s supposed to be, but she looks straight out of that stupid show she and June watch. Bridge Town? Bright… no, Bridgerton.
“Oh, honey!” She turns from the mirror to give me a wide grin. “What do you think?” She does a little spin. The dress swishes against the hardwood.
“Looks good,” I say, already angling past her toward the stairs.
“Wait, wait.” She touches my arm to stop me. “I set up chairs on the porch for us. It’d be fun to hand out cupcakes together. The Ortiz kids always come by. Last year they were so cute dressed as the Avengers and—”
I don’t catch the rest because I’m already fleeing down the hallway. “I’m good. Thanks.”
“Aeron. Wait.” Her voice is firm, so I stop and turn around.
Her eyes widen a little, like she didn’t expect me to actually wait, and she looks like she doesn’t know what to say.
Her eyes dart around my face. She clears her throat.
“Okay, well.” She adjusts the bonnet again.
“How about a scary movie? I found that old one you liked when you were little, the one with the—”
“No thanks.” The irritation climbs my throat, tightening the words on the way out. Sure, on the surface it seems nice that she wants to hang out with me, but she only does this when June is away.
When June is around, the two of them fill every room with conversation and inside jokes I’ve never been inside of.
I become background furniture. But as soon as the favorite daughter leaves town for one weekend, Mom is suddenly asking me to watch movies and spend time together, like she just remembered she has a second kid.
“Why didn’t you go with everyone to the cabin this weekend?” she asks.
I grip my bowl tighter, the ceramic burning my fingers. “Didn’t feel like it.”
The hallway light catches her eyes and for half a second she looks sad. Then counselor mode kicks in and she smooths over any worry with a small smile. “If you change your mind about the movie, come find me.”
I hurry up the stairs.
Inside my room I set the bowl on my desk. I was hungry for pasta, but my appetite left the second Mom reminded me that I only exist in this house when June vacates it. She never makes this effort when I’m not the only option.
I lock the door.
The baggies are in the bottom drawer of my dresser, tucked inside a rolled-up pair of socks.
I bought more this time because my body is starting to adjust to it.
This is my routine most nights: tap a line onto the desk, roll a scrap of sketchbook paper into a tight tube, inhale.
I love the chemical drip that slides down the back of my throat because happiness soon follows.
After three minutes, my face goes numb, then the numbness spreads down through my neck and into my arms. The hollow feeling in my gut fills with heat. My thoughts, which were sluggish and dark ten seconds ago, snap into focus.
I feel capable and present.
(I feel like I matter.)
The euphoria isn’t what it was that first night. Tonight is a copy of a copy, but it’s still better than my baseline, which feels like sitting in a dark room observing the rest of the world through a tiny window.
Instead of working in my room tonight, I go up to June’s attic studio.
Since she’s at the cabin, I carried my sculpture home from the university on Thursday.
The piece has been living in the Advanced Sculpting studio, but I couldn’t leave it there over the weekend.
Not when I have this kind of focus and June’s studio is available.
The attic smells like turpentine, June’s signature scent. I click on the desk lamp clamped to her worktable and aim the cone of light at my piece.
The torso stands twenty inches tall now.
The clay exterior is deliberately fractured, split open along the left side to expose the welded metal armature beneath.
I ran the welds myself after Dorien taught me.
They’re rough and uneven, but honest in a way that polished joints wouldn’t be.
The jute fibers I threaded through the fractures have taken on a life of their own, pulling the two halves toward each other without fully closing the gap.
And the LED I embedded in the metal framework a few weeks ago casts a faint glow outward through the cracks when I switch it on.
Light, coming from inside. Leaking out through the broken places. The sculpture never receives light, only gives, gives, gives.
I get to work and my hands move with confidence.
I smooth the clay around a new fracture line, building it out more so it looks organic, like the torso cracked under its own tension rather than being split by force.
The jute in one section has frayed from handling, so I re-thread it with a tighter weave, pulling the fibers through the gap with a needle I bent from wire.
This is the best work I’ve produced all semester. I can feel it in my hands and forearms, the way the material responds, the way each decision leads cleanly to the next without hesitation or doubt.
My high fades after forty minutes, and my focus scatters. My hands slow down and the confidence drains. The torso in front of me stops looking like a breakthrough and starts looking like a pile of broken clay held together by string.
I hate the crash and just want to live in the high forever. Nothing bothers me when I’m in the high—not being an unwanted child, or getting controlled by my sister, or the woman I love discarding me after using me for a night of fun.
I tap another line onto June’s worktable. The second hit brings me back to my happy place.
I know how this ends; I’m not stupid. Every time I do this, the effects shorten and the crash cuts deeper, and I need more to reach the same place. I know I’m getting addicted, or I already am.
But I really don’t give a shit.
I need this. I need the version of myself that can make beautiful things and feel alive while doing it. The sober version of me just sketches the same tired faces until 3 a.m. and then lies in bed wondering if anyone would notice if he disappeared.
I lean back over the torso and keep working. Outside, kids are ringing the doorbell downstairs and I can hear their muffled voices through the floor. Mom’s laugh carries up faintly.
Yeah, she wouldn’t notice if I was gone.