Next memory.

Iro was officially home-schooled after that. I was left alone at school for a while. Then they pounced.

The scary thing was they were nice to me. The girls who had spat at Iro smiled at me in the corridors. The guys who had teased her nodded to me. The girls who had sneered at her clothes choices offered me their snacks.

Did they know what it was like to loose their best friend?

I couldn't tell.

All I knew was that Year nine sucked. Simply because Iro wasn't in every class with me. The only person I did hang around with was the tie dealer - his name was Dave.

People were claiming to be so many different sexualities in year nine. No-one asked me. But I heard them talking. Being quiet meant they just... Forgot about me.

"I'm pretty sure she's, like, bisexual or lesbian."

"Why do you think that?"

"Well in the biology lesson, she kept asking about it. I think she likes Iro."

"Oh, I can see that."

It was scary that they could guess so close to the truth.

For the summer, Iro came to mine every day. She had gotten over the hair, but she still carried a haunted look in her eye. There would be a time, every now and then, when I would crack a joke, or bring back a memory from long ago, and she would laugh, and the light would return to her eyes. Then she would remember whatever had happened, and it would fade.

I wanted to ask what had happened, but I didn't want to make her fell awkward. So I tried not to bring it up. Instead we worked on the book.

"You know." She said at one point, while I was writing and she was drawing. "You're probably my only friend."

I smiled at her, wanting to tell her that she meant the world to me - but my voice had always been to quiet. I knew she knew. So I didn't say it.

If only I'd said it.

When Year nine did eventually reach the new year, I kept my head down and got on with the work. Stayed in the library to do  homework so I could spend as much time as possible after school just working with Iro. But people got more and more friendly with me - some sitting with me in the library, talking to me in lessons, and walking with me to  lessons. I felt meant to ignore them.

But when I went back home and talked to Iro about it, she would frown a little. "Don't trust them, Hairo. They want to turn you against me." Her eyes looked haunted every time she said it. I promised not to.

But I went behind her.

As much as I loved her - she wasn't everywhere. And as much as the thought of her kept me occupied, I liked real company too. So when people talked to me, I spoke back, and joked around with them. Iro wasn't there. Iro wouldn't know.

Iro would not ever know.

Every time they invited me anywhere, I would turn them down. "You're my school friends." I would tell them. "But I need to keep my home friend company too."

"You're still hanging out with Iro?" They would ask, jeering. "But why? She's such a weirdo! You have us now!"

And I would smile thinly, not letting them know what I was thinking. And I would go home and work with Iro. She would ask me about my day, listening to every detail I gave away, frown when I told her about the people. "Don't trust them."

"Of course not."

I didn't see it as possessive. Or maybe I did. But I understood - she had trusted people, and they had backstabbed them. She was caring for me by telling me not to trust them.

Piece by piece, the book came together, like a patchwork blanket being made. Her drawings would match the story I conjured up. She would listen to me explain the plot point, nodding, eyes fixed on my face. Then she would put music on and bend over a piece of paper, drawing. The notebook from the festival so long ago would lay open in front of her. She would look at the drawings, matching them up.

Her hair grew. It reached the table when she bent over. On that day, she cried with happiness. It made me happy that she was happy. Sometimes, she would hum or even sing along to the songs we put on, tapping a foot or whistling. Her pencil made a scratching noise as she drew.

Although she looked better with long hair, she looked pretty regardless. So when she put her pencil down and looked me in the eye, asking;

"Do you think I should cut my hair?"

I replied with "Do what you want, you'll look pretty either way."

Then I blushed. I said pretty. Not nice. Not great. Pretty.

She paused, processing. Then she smiled. "I'm glad you think so." And return to sketching.

If she didn't know before, she had to know now. I knew she did. But I didn't say anything else, instead continued forming letters and words.

Finally, one night right at the end of Year Nine, she held up the notebook. The pages stuck out at different lengths. The cover was scratched, leather bound and dusty. But it was a work of beauty.

We looked through it together, sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows to celebrate. Her inked drawings and my writing suited each other perfectly. She nodded, smiling.

"We did it." She said.

"Is that it?" I asked. She shook her head.

"We'll have to continue it. We can story board for it for a month or so, then come back and start a new book." She replied.

I nodded. Another book. We would have three, she told me. One for me, one for her and one to share. The first one was the sharing one.

"Great." I replied, smiling. "I'll start planning straight away. Can we work in your room this time?"

"No!... Um, no. Yours is much nicer." She said, eyes flicking to the left.

"Okay..." I said carefully. "Come over tomorrow at eleven, okay?" She nodded, and left.

Why didn't she want me in her room? I shrugged, pulled a blank piece of paper out and started to plan the next book.

Hurray.

They finished the book!

I may write up and/or draw what I imagine their book would be, for those of you who are curious. It'll take a while, but maybe I will.

So... Question for today. What was your year nine like? That's grade eight - thirteen to fourteen. Was it crazy? Weird? I have a friend who described all our years - well, four of them - of high school. 'Year seven, everyone was making friends. Year eight, everyone was sad. Year nine, everyone was coming out. Year ten, everyone was stressed.'

Then she told me I was the acceptation. I came out in year eight. More fun facts for you.

Until next time,

~Glitch