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I shake my head. Of course I haven’t forgotten. How could I? I think about it all the time. The day I got the heart-shaped talisman was one of the most important days of my life. It’s the day I met my best friend.
I watch the new kid drum with his fingers on the tabletop. He has his eyes closed, thumping out a hypnotizing rhythm. He’s been here three days and I haven’t heard him say a single word. All he ever does is pound his heart out on any surface he can find.
He’s interesting looking. Shorter than my six feet by several inches, he has wild, nearly black hair and the most unique eyes I’ve ever seen. His right eye is shockingly blue, like the color of the ocean, but his left eye is a bright golden-brown.
Gathering up what little courage I have, I wander over and take the seat across from him. Harold, his name is Harold.
“Hi. I’m Gavin.”
Harold’s fingers freeze and his eyes pop open in surprise. It takes about a half a second for his expression to shutter up tight.
“Sorry. I was enjoying your drumming.” I shrug. “I’m a musician too. Guitar. You’re lucky. These assholes won’t let me have my guitar in here. You can drum anywhere.”
Harold’s mouth twitches in amusement so I continue.
“I like to play my guitar on the beach. That’s my favorite place in the world. I surf a lot too. I can do tricks and everything. People always tell me I look like a surfer.”
His eyes flick to my butch haircut and his mouth quirks up again.
I laugh, rubbing the velvety fuzz on my head. “Yeah, I know. My dad shaved off all of my hair. I used to look like a real surfer. Blonde and tan and all that.”
Harold’s eyebrows pull down over those unusual eyes. “Why did he do that?”
Shocked to hear him speak, my own eyes probably bulge in their sockets. “Uhhh,” I fidget nervously. Do I tell him? I’m not ashamed of being gay, but unfortunately, I’ve found that not everyone is accepting.
I decide I don’t care what this kid thinks. He’s in a mental hospital just like me. Who is he to judge?
“My dad said I looked like a girl. I’ve never told him, but somehow he knows. I’m gay.”
I stare at Harold’s face, waiting for the inevitable disgust that is sure to follow. Incredibly, he smiles.
“Are you less gay now that your hair is short?”
I laugh. “No.”
“Guess your dad is stupid then.” He extends a hand across the table. “I’m Hawke.”
I shake the offered hand. “Hawke?”
He pulls his hand back and begins drumming again, a complex, hypnotizing rhythm. “I don’t go by Harold. That’s my…that was my dad’s name.”
“Oh.” I fidget with my hands again, desperately needing something to keep them occupied. Normally, I would be strumming on my guitar. They don’t let kids in mental institutions have instruments with wire strings on them, for obvious reasons.
Hawke shrugs. His eyes focus in on my fingers. Embarrassed, I press my palms down on the table.
“You miss your guitar,” he guesses correctly.
This guy is really observant. And smart. “Yeah.”
“Here.” Hawke leans to one side and digs in his pocket. Pulling something out, he holds his closed fist over the table.
I open my hand palm up. Hawke drops a small, grey, heart-shaped stone into it.
“What’s this for?”
“You’re a lot like me. I can tell. I always need to be doing something with my hands or I think too much. Like you said, I can drum anywhere. Now you have that.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, wondering why someone would be so nice.
