HIDING - every scar has a story

3. Supposed to be happy.

{Jon}

Both Jon's sisters were in the van when his mom arrived to pick him up from school. His mom had thrown a sweater over her pyjama shirt and track pants, and her hair was held back from her face in an elastic band. She spared Jon a smile as he got in.

"Hi Jonee!" His littlest sister Bea called from her car seat in the back.

Jon turned and found a smile for her. "Hi Honey Bee. How was your day at preschool?"

"Good." She held out a piece of construction paper, showering the seat back in front of her with glitter. "Look what I made!"

Her older sister, Tabitha, shoved her hand away. "Get that outta my face, Bea." She flicked her long pigtails, as if they might have gotten glittered too. "What is that even supposed to be?"

Bea took the paper back, looking at it with her lower lip sticking out. "It's a rainbow zebra."

"Oh." Tabitha sounded pacified. "It's nice then."

Bea's smile returned. "Thank you."

Jon turned back, slumping tiredly in his seat. "How was your day, mom?" he asked without looking at her.

She gave him a distracted smile. "Oh you know, the usual. What about you? Did you make any friends at school today?"

Like he was six years old and could just make friends in a day. He tried to make his face keep smiling. "Yeah, kind of. I got a partner for that drafting project I was worried about. Ciaran—um, Cary."

"That's nice."

He turned his face to the window hoping she wouldn't ask anything more about that. He'd prayed every day for a friend at school—for anyone to notice him for a reason other than his size, or his clothes, or whatever it was made him a loser to the guys on the football team. Cary was hardly the answer to that prayer.

When they pulled into the driveway, Tabitha reached back and unbuckled her sister from her seat and they jumped out of the van one after the other, chattering about their plans. Jon watched them run into the house together with an ache like a fist in his side. It was still hard not to think about a time when he had been as small as Bea and had a brother to do everything with. For all his sister's petty disagreements, their best friend had made the move with them.

Jon took his soccer ball to the backyard. He dribbled and practiced his footwork, then slammed the ball into the house as hard as he could, over and over. He was supposed to be happy, he knew that. He was supposed to be happy his dad was doing God's work and helping people in a new church. He was supposed to be happy even if he didn't have friends or a brother because he had God.

The ball smacked against the wall and shot back at him, making his hands sting when he caught it. He rubbed his palms over the familiar black and white shapes on its skin, then threw it in the grass again. He could hide from his parents, but he couldn't hide his thoughts from God. He imagined Him on his throne up there, rolling his eyes at yet another teenage temper tantrum from the faithless Jon White.

His next kick made the basement window rattle, and he let the ball roll into the grass, running to check the window frame. Nothing broken. He straightened with a sigh of relief.

His dad was stepping off the back deck, coming toward him, the sun picking glints of red out of his brown hair. Jon stayed where he was, biting his lip. Hopefully Pete hadn't seen that stupid move.

Pete tapped the soccer ball back to Jon. He was still wearing his dress shirt and slacks from the church office. "Saw you out here giving the goalie a beating," he said, with a smile in his beard. "Mind if I play in?"

Jon stopped the ball with his feet, then passed it back. His dad made the ball dance between his feet, and they were playing the old game of 'keep-away.' Jon was grateful not to have to talk or do anything except push his feet deep in the grass to out-run his dad.

Finally Pete threw himself onto the steps of the deck, laughing. "Okay, I'm beat."

Jon stopped the ball under his foot, watching his dad sideways. His anger felt smaller, with the smell of grass and the sound of his dad's laugh in the air.

"Ready to head in and wash up?"

Jon nodded, tossing the ball against the house one more time to let it lie where it fell. His dad ruffled up his hair, and Jon pulled his head away, smiling in spite of himself. "Don't— I'm all sweaty."

"Good day, son?" Pete asked, his shoulder bumping against Jon's.

Jon shrugged. It was easier to lie now that the school day wasn't so fresh in his mind. "Yeah, really good."

In the clamour of the girls getting into their chairs and his mother bringing the steaming casserole out of the oven, Jon's quiet went unnoticed. He cut Bea's food down to size and poured Tabitha's milk, since a full gallon jug was still too heavy for her to handle. He held Bea's hand on one side and Pete's on the other when they bowed their heads for prayer.

He'd decided a long time ago that his parents were never going to know how much the hole still hurt him. Judah had left him this job, to be the oldest and the only son and Jon worked hard to fill it. His parents talked and laughed like a normal mom and dad again and he figured that made it worth the effort to be as good as two sons would be.

*What do you think of the vibe between Jon and his dad, compared to Cary and his father?*

997 words.