The Eczema Unawareness Project (short story)

forty four days from release

I stand in a small, excessively air-conditioned audition room. The tiles and walls are a lifeless gray color, and to the back of the room sits the only furniture in the space: a bendable table and three folding chairs.

Folding chair 1’s inhabitant, to my far left, stares at me with one bushy brown eyebrow raised. He’s white and seems around 40 years old. He presses the butt of his pencil to his mouth and taps on the table idly with his hairy knuckled hand.

Folding chair 2’s inhabitant seems particularly young, like a little over my age. She scribbles on a piece of paper, drawing up lines and headings. Her blond hair is pulled back into a long, wavy ponytail that falls on the shoulders of her tweed jacket. From folding chair 3, a young white dude draws on a clipboard. His eyes dart back and forth between his and his colleague’s paper, and under the table, his feet are swaying inward and outward.

My guess is: experienced leader, less experienced but more talented leader, and nervous 5-day-old intern.

The audition team inspects my arm rashes and sores on my neck. I fight the urge to put my arms behind my back.

“Geovanni Clark,” pipes up the blonde girl. “17-year old high school senior. Tell us a little bit about yourself. Why do you want to be a part of The Eczema Awareness Project?”

“Okay!” I chirp. “So, I grew up in West Palm, did a lot of theatre there and stuff, but never really got a chance to do anything too serious. My top roles are the lead in a short tour of Lion King and a few commercials. I’ve also—”

“And the illness?” interrupts Folding Chair 1.

“Oh! Uh, yeah.” I bring my pitch up and act aloof. “I’ve had eczema all my life. It’s pretty severe. I’m not really sure what else to say about it.”

“Your records say here it’s the most severe case in the county, top 5 in the state,” Blondie reads from her partner’s clipboard. She is seriously pretty.

She looks at me, and the unspoken, follow-up sentence is, Well? Talk about how much it sucks! Why else are we here?!

“Yeah, it’s pretty rough,” I say.

Folding Chair 1 looks at me for a moment, and then decides to let it go.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Clark,” he invites.

I give him a thumbs up.

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR SKIN, NICK!” Blondie reads. “I love YOU!”

“Yeah?” I dramatize. “Well, prove it! Why do you buy me flannels and long sleeves? Why don’t you ever post pictures of us together?”

“Nick, it’s more complicated than this!” Blondie acts back. “You’re the one that hates taking pictures. We only have like two together!”

“That’s because our dates are just you talking about--”

“I think we’re good,” Folding Chair 1 says. “Nice work, Mr. Clark.”

“Oh! But I uh…”

He looks at me. This time, his left eyebrow joins its bushy friend at the top of his face.

“Well, we didn’t even get to the good part—” I try.

“We’ll get back to you by the end of the week,” Blondie says kindly.

The intern scribbles on his stupid little clipboard.

Folding Chair 1 smiles at me in a way that says, “this conversation is over”.

“Thank you, guys.” I say.

I walk out of the audition room, out of the building and into the contrastingly warm air of the early afternoon.

forty two days from release

I sit in my bed, eating rice cakes and apple slices. I flip through Netflix titles on my television and see if there’s anything that excites me. I can re-watch the entirety of Friends again, or I can disappoint myself with another teen drama film with more tropes than lines. I look around my room, the dim light from the TV making it look way cooler than it actually does. Movie posters line the left wall, and awards and pictures of me line the other wall.

I take out my phone and text Bobby.

ME: Am I a good actor?

BOBBY: did rosa parks stay in the seat

ME: Capitalize her name. She’s the reason my black behind can be friends with you.

BOBBY: did rOSA pARKS stay in the seat

ME: You’re insufferable.

BOBBY: big words don’t work on me

ME: What if I graduate without this role. And then never get anything after that. My parents are literally going to make me get a 9-5.

BOBBY: don’t big actors love talking about how before they landed anything they worked at a smoothie place or some crap lol we’ll be fine

ME: Very true. I can take the hardworking barista route.

BOBBY: not fair, you’re straight. the barista story’s mine

ME: Lmao

BOBBY: take it easy on yourself geo

I set my phone on charge and flop back in my bed.

I pull my shirt free and throw it across a desk chair to the left of the television. When I reach down to take off my socks, my skin tingles, and my mind is yanked backwards.

My mother pulls a silk sock from my drawer. She kneels in front of me where I sit on the edge of the bed. I reach out and she places the sock over my 8-year old hand and ties the mouth of the fabric with a shoelace. She replicates this with my other hand so that both are covered in the soft material.

“Hands under the pillow, okay?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You’re a big boy,” she comforts. “You can sleep on your own. No scratching.”

“Yes ma’am.”

My mother places a kiss on my forehead and leaves my room.

She flips the lights off, my night light casting a faint glow across the comic books covers plastered on the walls.

I slide my hands under my pillow and close my eyes, the monotony of the spinning fan on my ceiling lulling me to sleep.

The next morning when I wake up, my Spider-Man sheets are covered in red smears. The silk sock is missing from my left hand, and blood and skin are caked under my fingernails.

“MA!” I scream. Hot tears stream from my face. “Ma, come!”

“Geo!” My mother bursts into my room, and I snap back to reality.

I look down at my hands lifted before me, clean and bloodless.

My mother frowns. She’s wearing a bathrobe and a matching head wrap. The brown skin of her face is covered in green avocado mush, but I can see her distress all the way through it.

“I’m fine,” I say shakily. “I’m sorry.”

“Geo.” My mother pleads. “I’m calling Dr. Fitzgerald.”

“Mom, I—”

“Don’t say that you’re fine, don’t you tell me you’re fine, G.” My mother’s voice starts to break.

I stare at the wall, trying not to face her.

“I’m calling.” She finalizes.

forty one days from release

Bobby and I walk through the double doors of my high school. Kids swarm the halls, lugging instrument cases and canvases. Groups collects alongside the walls like algae, socializing and gossiping. A girl runs by us in tights and point shoes, no doubt late for rehearsal.

Bobby and I go to an arts school. It’s usually a good thought to reflect on, since I’m escaping the paradoxical mind-numbing boredom and panic-inducing chaos of traditional high school. Here, the jocks are losers. The teachers want to teach. “Peaked in high school” isn’t a mean comment, it’s a death sentence.

We stop at the door to my first class.

“So, she’s making you go back to the derm?” Bobby asks.

“Well, Fitzgerald is a therapist, not a dermatologist,” I explain.

“Oh, so this isn’t about your eggs?”

Bobby calls my eczema “eggs” for short. It usually lightens the conversation, but today it reminds me that even the closest people to me still can’t really capture it’s severity.

“Well, it is, but not like, directly about it.” I try. “I’ll explain later. See you in History of Jazz?”

“Might skip, actually,” he says casually. “Avoiding Cici.”

“Bro, Cici is literally right behind you,” I wince.

Bobby’s most recent friend with benefits marches up to us. Her brown hair is pulled up into a bun, and her usually radiant face is drawn tight with what can only be pissed-offness. Her tall, beefy, dancer frame is enough to intimidate me, but I stay for the drama. Also, Bobby is one of the most fit people in the entire school, like the kind of fit where you check your body fat percentage every week and eat nuts and berries for days at a time. If Cici lost it, I think Bobby could distract her long enough for me to escape before she folded him like paper.

“You’re shagging WESLEY?” she yells in a thick British accent.

“Ciciiiiiiiiiiii, you look absolutely stunning as usual,” Bobby says, flashing his signature angel white-boy smile.

Cici folds her arms across her chest. “You couldn’t tell me you liked boys?”

“Well, I didn’t think it mattered since you’re a girl—”

“Fucksake, you’re GAY, Bobby! That’s information I’d want to know!”

“He’s bi,” I pipe up.

“You two bloody shagging too?” She spits back.

“Unfortunately, no.” Bobby remarks.

“Unfortunately?” I ask.

“Don’t call me again, you little fag,” Cici screams and walks away.

“Ouch,” Bobby says.

He turns around and faces me again. People look in our direction and mutter to their friends.

“Didn’t you tell me you have a radar for when people are homophobic?” I ask him.

“Yeah, but my radar for good sex was stronger that time,” he says, walking away. “Win some, lose some. See you in Jazz!”

For the rest of the day, I numbly go through classes. I see Bobby in Jazz, then I eat lunch with him while he reads me a hateful text Cici sent to him. It’s pretty packed, but the main points are: 1) Bobby is slimy, 2) she wants to pull his stupid Italian hair from his stupid Italian head, and 3) “You probably only shagged me because I look like a bloke”.

A few hours later, my father drops me at Dr. Fitzgerald’s office. I walk through the clinic’s harsh air conditioning to the front desk and sign in. Then I wait for Dr. Fitzgerald’s assistant to come out and call me.

When I enter into his office, Fitz is fiddling with folders.

I sit in an old big red chair, facing Fitz. I clasp my hands together and kick my swinging feet.

“So, Geo, how do you feel about the school play?”

“I’m ready!” I chirp. “My mom got my costume on me today at tech rehearsal, and it didn’t even hurt. It was a little rough behind my knees, but I put cream on after we were done.”

“That’s awesome, little guy,” he says, smiling. “You ready to be in front of the crowd?”

“Well…” I hesitate, for the first time considering our school auditorium full of faces. I look down at my arms, the rashes and sores like scales.

“Geo?” Dr. Fitzgerald calls out. “Geo..”

“Geo!” Dr. Fitzgerald almost shouts. I snap out of it, shaking my head.

“Hey, Fitz.” I say. “Sorry, long day. I’m exhausted.”

I sit in the red chair. My feet reach the floor this time.

“Have you ever thought of a remodel?” I say. “This couch has gotta be older than your degree at this point.”

“Lot of wit for an exhausted person,” Fitz says.

“Was that a joke? I’m impressed.”

“Deflection? Not impressed.”

“Wow. Looks like we’re diving right in today, huh?” I surrender.

Fitz smirks at me as he wheels from behind his desk and into the clearing of his large office, so that we’re face to face.

“Seriously, Geo, what’s going on? Another breakout?” he asks.

“It’s not much of a breakout,” I say. “I mean, I’m not at my best, but I’m not sure it’s really the problem.”

“What do you think is the problem?”

I scratch at a scab on one of my fingers, then curse myself.

“I’m flashing back again.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know, skin stuff.” I say, getting frustrated with myself. “A few mornings ago I woke up and my entire lower body was burning, like that time I poured all my treatment into a tub because I thought it would speed up the healing. I ripped the covers off, and I was totally dry, and then I was fine again. But for the time, my heart was beating so fast, and it was getting harder to breathe. I felt like I was literally being chased by a memory.”

“Yeah. It sounds like you could be back to being interrupted and distressed by your skin?”

“Fitz, I’m always interrupted and distressed by my skin. I just--” I don’t finish the sentence.

“Today, Bobby got cornered by another girl he’s screwing.” I rant. “And you know how this is. I’m not jealous of him, but like, he’s running out of space for all the ass on his plate, and--”

“Sexual partners in his life?” Fitz corrects.

“Sure,” I roll my eyes. “Just, some attention from at least one girl would be nice.”

“And you think your illness could be standing in the way of that?” Fitz asks carefully.

“Hell yeah, it is. I’m a catch. I know I am. But I’m running out of long sleeves to wear on dates.”

“Okay, check this out: you should try to clean up again. No long sleeves. You know how to deal with your skin. Eat better, maybe sleep more and swap those sheets out.”

“Yeah, I got it.” I agree. “Clean up season.”

“Also, I wouldn’t congratulate your friend’s lifestyle too much. You may need to give him my number eventually.”

“Nah. You make enough money already.”

“You kidding me?” Fitz scoffs playfully. “You haven’t been in that seat in months. I’m struggling to keep the lights on.”

“Well I’ve been busy onto better things,” I boast. “Auditioned for a big short film.

“Really?”

And for the rest of the session, things seem to go well. It’s smooth sailing. When my Dad picks me up from Dr. Fitz’ office late into the evening, I swing my body into the passenger seat.

He sees that I’m in a good mood, and smiles at me.

“Momma told you already, didn’t she?” he asks.

“Told me what?”

“Agency called the house. Was a little weird, because they have your email and cell number. It’s 2019. Also, who calls so late--”

“Dad!”

“You got the part.” He laughs.

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”

“Yup, for that short film about eczema.”

I rest my head back against the seat.

“Clean up season,” I smile.

nineteen days from release

I have a system. If you have eczema, you need a system. You have to document triggers. Allergens trigger, stressors trigger, dust and mites trigger, some animals can, extreme temperature can.

A week after my appointment, my arms were near-smooth. The rashes retreated to the creases of my body: opposite my elbows, behind my knees, between my toes and fingers.

At around three weeks after the appointment, Bobby and I are watching movie reviews on YouTube in my room. It smells like Bobby’s cologne and the half eaten Pizza Hut on the floor, which are both pleasant smells individually, but not so much together.

“Wanna hit the gym?” Bobby asks.

“Is that the fast food guilt talking?” I return.

“It’s the boredom talking,” he complains. “Man, we’ve been watching this guy’s videos for hours. It’s all super negative.”

“I much prefer the sharpest criticism of a single intelligent man to the-”

“Thoughtless approval of the masses, Johannes Kepler.” Bobby finishes. “We’re in the same Enlightenment Art class, bro, you just think I don’t pay attention.”

“Kepler was from the Scientific Revolution,” I retort. “Which we took last semester. I know you don’t pay attention.”

“Okay, whatever, man, can we just go get some reps in?” he begs.

I’ve missed the gym. Also, if Bobby gets too bored, he starts sexting strangers.

“One hour,” I cave. “If you keep at it like a maniac, I’m ubering home.”

“Sick as frick!” He beams. “Borrowing some shorts.”

Bobby makes his way to my dresser, and I pull out of my clothes. When he turns around, his jaw drops.

“Geo, holy crap,” he says. “Your skin!”

I stand in front of Bobby in my shorts and look down at my body, most of my rashes absent and my sores fading to scars. Bobby comes over squeezes my shoulders.

“You are smooth as a pearl, my man,” he gawks. “I know this is messed up, but why do I all of a sudden see you in an H&M window?”

I flip his hands off my shoulders. “Cut it out, bro,” I say. Don’t cut it out, I think.

“Seriously!” he insists. “You got that even, syrup-brown complexion, low cut curly hair, solid build, I mean, not as solid as mine, you’ve gotta work on those skinny lats.”

“You’re one of the most vain people I know,” I inform.

“Screw the gym,” he says. “You wanna put that god-bod into action tonight?”

“What?”

“Hit the shower,” he orders, then shows me an address on his phone. “House party at Evelynn’s.”

“Man, I don’t know--”

“Geo,” he reassures. “I’m a man of many titles, but my strongest is World’s Best Wingman. You trust me?”

“A little bit, I think.”

“Then hit the damn shower.”

An hour later, we’re getting into Bobby’s silver Prius and pulling out of my driveway. I tug on the rolled ends of my short-sleeve t-shirt, something I seldom wear in public, and run my hands down each other, taking in the smoothness.

“Man, I can feel your anxiety from here,” Bobby says.

“What anxiety?” I evade.

For the rest of the ride, Bobby trains me in his system of gestures, sayings, and actions that gaurantee him sex. He calls this the CDMM, which stands for “Chick and Dick Magnet Mode”.

As we’re pulling up to Evelynn’s house, my heart rate picks up a bit. We park in the grass and walk up the driveway. Instead of freaking out, I breathe it in. Short sleeves. Smooth skin. Bobby Price by my side. I can do this. The door swings open before we even get close enough to knock.

In the doorway stands a 5 foot tall brunette, her shoulder length hair tips newly dyed ice blue. Her chin, septum, and both her eyebrows are riddled with piercings, and black eyeliner accents her deep brown eyes. She’s wearing a black band tee tucked into also black denim and spike-studded combat boots.

“Finally!” Evelynn yells out at us. “Y’all are starting to take “fashionably late” WAY too seriously.”

Evelynn’s house is a huge, two-story almost-mansion. Her dad manages a touring band and is never around, and her mom died when she was a kid, so Evelynn has a lot of money and a lot of friends. Overcompensation is key.

The entrance opens into a huge living room decorated with her abstract art. Glowing cylinders as tall as me cast red light at different corners of the living room, but it’s hard to make out much else because of how crowded the space is. Most of the faces look like people from school. Everyone’s already dancing, or talking, or making out.

I mingle for a while, then find the drink cooler and see that something blood-red has been poured into bottles with the labels ripped off.

“Homemade punch is in the bottles,” a voice pipes up over the music. “Ev has a thing for local vendors. It’s non alcoholic.”

“WESLEY?” Bobby shouts.

“In the flesh,” the boy smiles.

Wesley’s a short, Afro-latino singer and playwright from our school. And Bobby is obsessed with him.

“Girls are thinking about doing 7 Minutes upstairs.” Wesley looks at us. “Y’all in?”

“Did Rosa Parks stay in--”

“Oh my God,” I save us from Bobby’s tired comedy. “We’re in.”

We sit in a circle of Evelynn, Bobby, Wesley, myself, six dancers, and two choir girls upstairs in Evelynn’s second floor living room. The carpet feels like a bed. I run my hands through my coarse curls, trying to look sexy while Bobby explains the rules of 7 Minutes in Heaven.

“Bella!” Evelynn yells over the railing into the downstairs party. “You coming or not?”

“Who’s Bella?” I ask Bobby.

“Friend of a friend,” he whispers. “Actually, we might want to get to know her. Heard she’s working on some pretty big projects this year and needs actors.”

When Bella clears the stairs and joins the circle, my jaw drops. I squeeze Bobby’s hand like I’m giving birth. It’s Blondie, Folding Chair 2’s inhabitant.

“That girl was in my audition that girl was in my audition that girl was in my audition,” I panic. Bobby laughs and tells me to act natural.

Evelynn spins first and disappears into her bathroom with a buzzcutted hip hop dancer a year below us.

I try not to stare as Bella socializes with the people around her. Her smile lights up the circle. Today, her hair falls free over a pink tube top. Her eyeshadow is rainbow colored, and her eyes are sparkling, and I can hear her voice from here, and well, you get the point.

“You memorizing every strand of that Goldilocks-esque hair?” Bobby jokes.

I snap out of it. “Is it that obvious?”

“Worse,” he says.

Evelynn and her partner bursts free from the bathroom. Evelynn’s black lipstick is intact, which makes me curious about what happened in there. Then I remember that the first day I met Ev, she showed me her paintings of dead arctic animals to convince me to care about the dying planet, so I settle on not asking.

It’s Bobby’s turn to spin, and it slows down and comes to a smooth stop. On Bella.

She looks in our direction and gets a little red. Bobby turns his head nervously to me.

“I won’t do anything,” he says. “I got you.”

I silently thank him with a sigh of relief.

They escape to the bathroom together while the circle cheers. A few awkward minutes pass before Wesley pipes up. “Geo, right?”

I give him a sweaty handshake. “Yeah. Saw the play you directed last year. Loved it.”

“His underground shows are even better,” Evelynn pipes up. “You know, it was my lifelong dream to spearhead the abolishment of the institution of stripping. Then I saw Wesley do it.”

Wesley shoves her playfully. “Jesus, Ev. How is that keeping it low key?”

Just then, the door swings open, before the 7 minutes is even up. Unlike the first round, hair and clothes are a mess. Bobby’s lips are smeared pink.

“We’re gonna go,” Bobby says. Bella is panting.

“Are you kidding me?” I call out.

He rushes up to me and squeezes my shoulder while the circle totally loses it. One of the girls screams, “Get it how you get it, Bella!”

“I know I said I wouldn’t,” he says.

“Man, are you serious?” I say.

“Just-” he looks around the circle. “Can you get another ride home?”

My head swims with anger.

“I’ll ask Ev or something.” A lump forms in my throat.

“Geo, you are the absolute best.” he scrambles off the floor. “I’ll see you later.”

Him and Bella head out of the living room. I try really hard not to make this about myself, but I’m already swallowed by my thoughts before they even get down the stairs.

I ransack my Dad’s closet for a tie. My mother walks into the room and asks me what I’m doing.

“I thought you didn’t like dances,” she says. “You get sweaty, and start itching, G.”

“I know, mom!” I tie a black and orange tie around my 14 year old neck. “But Annie doesn’t have a date, and she was so upset about it. I’m gonna surprise her!”

“By taking her to the dance?” My mom pesters. “It starts in 10 minutes.”

“Mom!” I spin around at her. “Why are you trying to stop me?”

She purses her lips together.

“You don’t think she’ll go with me?” I demand.

“What? No!” She holds my shoulders with her firm hands. “Of course she’ll go with you. This is just a little last minute. You’re a catch, you know that right?”

I look away from her.

“I’ll drop you, big boy.” She offers. “Come on.”

A smile breaks on my face and I take my phone out to call Annie.

“Hello?” There’s noise in the background.

“Hey, Annie.” I look at my mother, confused. “Wh- Where are you?”

“I’m at the dance!” She giggles. “Bobby Price took me! The really hot guy from Screen Actors club!”

My mother’s eyes close in disappointment.

“Oh! Oh okay.” I feign happiness. “I hope you have fun.”

“Thanks Geo! We—“

I hang up the phone.

“Geo, I’m sorry.” My mother said.

I ripped the tie from my neck and bit down on my cracked lips to the point of pain.

eighteen days from release

“Another audition?” my father asks as he drives me to the theatre.

“Screening and cold read for the eczema part,”

“Why couldn’t Bobby carry you?”

“I don’t need Bobby to give me rides everywhere all the damn time.”

“Geo, language.” My dad’s voice turns firm.

“I’m sorry.” I mumble.

My father tells me he’s concerned about why I don’t seem happy, even though I’m getting better. I think about telling him that not everything is about my skin, but I remember that it kind of is.

When I walk into the back room, there are 4 other actors, Folding Chair 1’s inhabitant (who sits at a seat that reads Scott) and the intern, who’s name is Bryce. Bella is nowhere to be seen. I try to contain my anger when I imagine where she could be.

Scott squints at me a little bit once I walk in. Bryce scans me up and down, then whispers to Scott.

“Am I late?” I look at my watch.

“No, it’s just.” Scott points around at my body, seeming to struggle with his words. “You uh, your skin.”

I look at my hands and legs. A scary thought starts to form at the back of my head, but I dismiss it. There’s no way.

“Bryce, can I have the room?” Scott says.

The intern gets up and rushes the actors out of the room, staring apologetically at me.

“So, Geo.” Scott says. “We have a problem.”

I think about taking a seat, but at this point I’m not sure if I’m welcomed.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You look really different.”

“I cleaned up.”

“Do you see how that might be a problem?”

“Excuse me?”

“Son—“

“I’m not your son.”

Scott raises his bushy eyebrows. Then he raises his hands in surrender.

“Don’t get hostile. Please,” he begs.

For the first time, I wonder whether the lack of eczema is actually the only problem that Scott has with my skin.

“I still have eczema, sir.” I plead. “How does this affect my performance?”

Scott sighs. “We casted someone that was a severe clinical case. Now you just look like someone with bad skin.”

“Fine,” I bite my lip. “You gonna get someone else in here to play your sick main character now?”

“Didn’t say that. There are other options,” Scott says. “Makeup. Prosthetics.”

“Prosthetics? How bad do you want me to look like? I’m already a reptile!” I yell.

“Mr. Clarke, if you keep yelling, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave my theatre.”

“Not sick enough for you?” I start unbuckling my pants.

Scott picks up his phone and asks Siri to call Security.

“Ever hear the new expression, smooth as a baby’s bottom?” I threaten. “Well, some babies have eczema.”

I grab onto the waistband of my pants, but before I can yank them down, a security guard bear hugs me from behind and lifts me out of the room.

I call an Uber. I cry all the way to my house. For a lot of reasons, but mostly because no one is here to see me cry. It’s like a frustrated cry, when you’re not only sure about your loss but sure it’s your fault.

Once the Uber driver pulls up to my house, my evening gets, remarkably, even worse. There’s a silver Prius parked in the driveway.

I walk into my house and make a beeline for my room. I don’t want to explain to my parents that I’ve burned the biggest bridge ever to getting casted in this town again.

I step into my room, and Bobby is sat on my bed.

“Hey, man,” he says.

“Hey.”

“It’s kinda early,” he wonders. “Did the read get cut short?”

“Not gonna be in that film anymore,” I face my dresser and kick my shoes off. “Got myself fired.”

“What the hell?”

“Yeah.” I say nonchalantly. “All in a day’s work.”

“What happened?”

I cock my head around at him. “Where was Bella today? She wasn’t at the read.”

Bobby frowns. “That’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“She’s in your house?” I ask. “Wearing your flannel? How was last night?”

“Yo, I’m sorry. Okay?”

“Like hell you are, Bobby.”

“Bro, I’m trying—“

“No.” I snap. “You’re not.”

“Why are you so angry right now?” Bobby demands. “What the hell happened at your read?”

“YOU DID!” I yell at him. “How long was it supposed to last? How thin do you think you can wear my patience down before it breaks, man?”

Bobby genuinely seems confused, because I’ve never, not once, challenged him to think about his actions before.

“Are you upset about what happened after Evelynn’s?” Bobby asks. “I’m trying to apologize here, but to be fair, you weren’t even gonna do anything with her. Like what did I really stand in the way of?”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “Get the hell out of my house.”

“Dude, seriously. Breathe.”

“World’s Best Wingman? You’re a leech. A parasite. I carry your unmotivated ass through school and defend you to all of the State when they find out you screwed someone seconds after you did them. You never use your damn head for anything ever, and you don’t need to, because you look like a model, and every room you walk into uses only that one fact to judge your character. Except this one. So get out.”

“You are genuinely so bitter and angry, bro.” Bobby mutters.

“I said get the fuck out!”

Bobby gets up from the bed and heads for the door.

“What is all that hollering about?” My mom calls from the other room.

I slam my door shut behind Bobby and collapse into bed.

I run back toward my house after I get in a fight with one of the kids from my corner. I got pushed into the muck, and my skin was itching really badly. Crying, I rush into my bed. My mother came up with escape routes for whenever something was irritating my skin: wash it or squash it: either go in the shower/apply cream, or just ignore the feeling, pretend like it’s not there. Both of these are so that I avoid scratching.

But I climb into bed and scratch. I scratch and scratch and scratch until I start bleeding. Relief floods through my body, but then the pain registers. My skin burns and aches, and I start crying, gritting my teeth so that I won’t be heard. I do not want to be helped, and I’m not even sure I want the pain to stop.

In real time, I begin to scratch. It’s a rewarding feeling, like an addict who’s back on the crack. My skin opens under my nails, flakes of it falling onto my silk sheets. I pull out of my clothes so that I can get all the areas easily. I dig my fingers into the creases. Behind my knees until I pass the first layer of skin. I move to my shoulders, scratching at my back blindly, feeling for the hardening scab of healing skin.

My fingers come back rose-tinted. I claw at my body, reaching every single area with sores. The itching heightens, my body responding to my fingers. The burning begins, but I’m not done. There are more areas of my body that itch now, the sensory overload robotizing me. I’m on autopilot, and my fingers are cherry-red.

At some point, I am exhausted. Out of touch with myself, I fall into bed crying. The next few moments are hard to process. During the night, my mother comes into my room, and is horrified at the blood everywhere. I get shuffled into her car, but go back to scratching. Areas of my body have tried desperately to heal up, swelling and foaming, but I scratch them too. It hurts like hell, so I spend the car ride scratching around the area. My mother looks back at me and screams at me, begging me to stop. We check into the hospital. I get admitted, changed into non-cotton clothes, and start crying again. The doctors catch me scratching at my fingers, so they inject me with something. I start to feel droopy, and that is the last thing I remember.

seventeen days from release

The first morning I woke up in the hospital, it felt like around 60% of my body were wrapped in bandages. I ran my fingers along the cloth under the robe I was wearing. I notice that my nails have but cut and filed down, and on a table next to me is a meal and a tall glass of something.

I sigh and try to get out of bed, but when I move my legs, they itch and burn.

“Whoa, partner,” my Dad says. “You gotta stay still right about now.”

I didn’t even notice he was sitting at the foot of my bed.

“Drink that,” he points to the glass. “Supposed to help your iron supply. And promote healing.”

I take the cup. It tastes like whatever medicine is masked by a lemonade-like flavor. I drain the glass, but neglect the food. No appetite. After a few minutes, I nod back to sleep.

seventeen days from release

I awake to the sound of people chattering. I lift my hands to my face and rub gunk out of my eyes. There are no windows I can see, but a clock on the wall says it’s 10am. The next day. Whatever they put in that lemonade took me right out.

“Out comes the sun,” a familiar voice says.

Around my bed is Evelynn, staring at me with a bored look on her face. Wesley is texting on his phone beside her, and right next to him is Bobby.

He tosses a piece of paper into my lap. I struggle my way to a sitting position, and hold the paper up. At first I’m confused, then I just get sad. It’s a script.

“I got kicked from The Eczema Awareness Project, man.”

“Read it again, bro.” Bobby commands.

I read the paper over, and realize it reads, “The Eczema Unawareness Project”.

“Wh-what is this?” I look around at my friends.

“Rough draft of a script for our first indie film together.”

“What?”

“Of course, the name is tentative,” he explains. “But I’m calling it that for now because there’s a character in there with eczema, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not even mentioned. It’s not activism. At least, not in the loud way. He just has eczema, moving through life. He’s a normal dude, with normal dude problems.”

“That’s… absurd.” I mumble.

“Wait till you hear about the bisexual man who works at a church and no one cares that he’s bi,” Evelynn throws in. “And the goth that no one is afraid or awkward around.”

“Bobby, what did you do?” I start laughing.

“Man, we can make this film,” he encourages. “To hell with movies and shows about suffering. If we can have black TV where the characters aren’t slaves anymore, then the rest of the media about minorities and the disadvantaged need to catch up.”

“What has gotten into you?” I giggle uncontrollably now. I can’t believe how happy this project makes me. “Bobby Price suddenly cares about the disadvantaged? I get hospitalized, and you are a totally changed man,” I say to Bobby.

“Or, I was always this man,” he looks at me accusingly, and my smile fades.

“Bro, I was such a dick to you.” I apologize. “Like, a big, hairy one. I’m so sorry.”

“I wasn’t the best either,” he says. “Words were exchanged. But we’re friends. So screw that stuff.”

I dap him up, and a heavy feeling lifts from my chest.

“By the way,” Bobby says. “I’m sure you’re decently hairy, but definitely not huge--”

“I literally knew this was coming,” Evelynn rolls her eyes.

My friends talk with each other and I fall back into bed.

sixteen days from release

My friends and I sit at a Starbucks table, working on a schedule we feel good about. After we’ve made a few calls and drawn up Excel documents, we feel good about a timeline: just over two weeks.

In sixteen days, we’ll release our first film.