stunt_muppet

“Ray?” Mom poked her head into the boys’ bedroom. Her youngest son was still in bed even at this hour, the covers pulled up to his nose. “Ray, honey, get up. You’re going to be late for school.”

 

“I’m not going today,” he said, his voice weak and miserable from under his blanket. “I feel really sick.”

 

Horatio, who was packing his backpack in the corner, rolled his eyes. Mom didn’t see him; she was too busy making her way to Ray’s bedside.

 

“Really?” She said, putting a hand to his forehead. “What hurts?”

 

“My head,” he replied. “And I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

 

“Hmm. Yeah, feels like you’ve got a temperature…”

 

Ray coughed harshly, just for good measure.

 

“Maybe you should get some rest today. I’ll go get the thermometer and see if you’ve got a fever, okay?”

 

“’Kay.”

 

Mom nodded, pulled the bedcovers up to Ray’s chin, and walked out of the room. Horatio shot his brother a look. “Nice one, Ray.”

 

“Nice one what?”

 

“You’re not sick. You were holding a hot water bottle to your forehead before she came in.”

 

“Shhh!” Ray sat up. “Look, I really, really can’t go to school today, all right? We were supposed to be making a diorama for Reading class and I didn’t finish mine. I need another weekend to do it.”

 

Horatio shook his head and stood up, backpack on his shoulders. “You already had two weeks.”

 

“I know I already had two weeks,” Ray slumped back into his bed, sulking. “You’re not gonna tell Mom, are you?”

 

“Not this time,” his brother smiled. “But she’s going to catch on eventually. This is what, the fourth time you’ve stayed home sick?”

 

“I was sick that first time, Horatio,” Ray protested. “I had chicken pox, remember? You can’t fake chicken pox.”

 

“I’ll bet you could if you wanted to.” He said as he walked out the door.

 

----

 

The sidewalks of New York City spilled over with humanity at every hour of every day; actually getting anywhere took determination, strong shoulders, and an eye for tiny breaks in the crowd. Horatio had five years of practice weaving back and forth through the gaps between human beings with his brother in tow, so making the journey from his apartment to his school on his own seemed easy by comparison.

 

Someone’s arm smacked him in the face as he neared the first crosswalk, and again he longed for the day when he would be taller than somebody besides Ray. It would be nice to see the traffic light change before he flung himself into the intersection, at least.

 

He had to admit, he might have tried to call in sick today himself, if he’d thought for an instant that his mother would buy it. School had become dull and featureless these past few weeks; winter break was approaching, attention spans were shortening, and the teachers had more or less given up on doing any instruction. And, because they had to use their class time somehow, they would break out the educational videos from the dawn of time, and anyone who wasn’t playing poker in the back of the room or loudly discussing their social life (read: him) got to stare vacantly at a flickering black-and-white image of the periodic table or some such thing while an extremely old man’s voice droned just out of earshot.

 

But he wouldn’t have gotten away with it even if he’d tried. Ray was by far the better liar of the two of them. Always had been.

 

The school building was only a block and a half away by now; he recognized the distance even if he couldn’t see it. Last chance to keep on walking, he thought as he approached. It’s not like they’ll notice you’re gone.

 

He knew he wouldn’t really keep walking, no matter how much he wanted to or how many good reasons he gave himself for doing so. He wasn’t even seriously thinking about it. Not going to school today was a possibility in the same way that biking down the interstate was a possibility. Sure, you could do it. But would you?

 

He walked into the building and headed for his locker.