TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) Read Online Free Page A

cough and clearing of throat, which brought an end to the squeaking plates and chomping food. Breathing deep, I looked at them both because they deserved that much, and I told them everything: the headaches, the news, the everything.
    Tears fought an intense battle behind my eyes, but I wouldn't let them through. If I let a single tear enter the conversation, I knew that would be it. More would follow, many more. I couldn't do that to my parents, but if I focussed on my mother, I wouldn't be capable of keeping them back. So I stared at my father instead. And he stared at me. Dozens of memories flocked forward of the two of us chatting about music and sport and an array of unimportant subjects. I've never seen my father cry, and thankfully I didn't then, either. But I knew he wanted to. His eyes fought the same battle as my own, but no matter how much he needed to sob and let everything spill out, the need to keep it in was of greater importance.
    The rest of the evening is hazy, but still I remember too much: questions from my father, insisting he know every single detail despite my inability to shed clear light on anything in particular; hushes of everything will be alrights, and me nodding and agreeing and allowing myself to believe it; my mother scrubbing and cleaning after dinner, me unable to look away.  
    I remember too much, but the worse is the side-by-side comparison of my mother: her smile the moment I walked through the door, compared to the red raw eyes, pale cheeks, and jolted breaths after sharing my news.  
    I'd love to say it's been easier since, that telling my parents was the hardest part. It hasn't. Lonesome moments are filled with my mother's agonising face, and those spent in groups are flooded with questions to which I have no answers.  
    The only people who know are my parents, Doc, Ethan, and Wil, but that's enough to fill my days with phone calls and texts. Ethan finds a new insight each evening, and my mum and dad insist on hearing my voice every few hours. As for Doc, well, my return visit didn't quite fill me with hope.
    "I've arranged some consultations for you over the next few weeks," he said, handing me a piece of paper with random names, addresses, and telephone numbers. "I know it requires a lot of travelling, and before you ask, yes, there are a lot of tests and questions involved. But these are some of the best specialists in the country. They won't leave a stone unturned, Dante. I promise."
    "Is any of this going to help?" I asked, doubting how one specialist would differ to another.
    "Of course. There are several options, and I want you to have everything at your disposal."
    I said nothing.
    "I know this is hard, Dante," he said, taking my arm. "But stay strong. You can do this."
    But I still missed his smile. His red and tired eyes told stories his mouth refused.  
    Staring at the cooling coffee, I pucker my lips and ease the bitter glory into my tongue. My love affair for coffee is an old one, and each year I desire a darker, richer, fuller blend. In the last few days, I've desired a coffee so bitter it'll numb my throat. "Nope, not yet," I whisper into my still steaming cup.
    "Dante, m'lad, how are you feeling, my good man? Do you have a headache or a throb or an after taste to those medicines you pile into your system—oh, you have a drink, right. Well, I'll go get one myself and be back in a jiffy," says Wil, already gone before I have chance to breathe a hello.
    I first met him at Primary School, apparently during our first day, although I can't remember that far back. What I do remember is we've always been friends, and that he's forever tested the patience of most he's come across.  
    "Day!" Mr Woodwood would say: Wil standing on a chair, or attempting a handstand, or building a tower of heavy text books. "I swear to God himself, if you weren't a child..." Our fourth grade teacher would never finish such sentences, but the same sentiment followed him throughout school, each