Diamonds, Loose: Part Two
A couple of days pass uneventfully, turn into a couple of weeks. Grey skies all slowly blend into one, and I know this is the part of the year where I constantly lose track of the time. I also know it’s a Sunday, though, and my plan-free day is being kept all to myself.
I take my time dragging myself out of bed and showering, throwing on some skinny jeans and a yellow v-neck, with a thick black hoodie to keep warm. The central heating in the house has gone, too many unpaid bills and money frittered away on alcohol, and draughts keep creeping in through the cracks and whistling in between the windowpanes. I’m up kind of early and for once I feel good about it.
School’s been tiring me out so much it’s unreal lately, something that I have a sneaking suspicion may be down to the threat that is Brendon, and I’m so thankful for the weekends.
I’m pouring inordinate amounts of milk onto my Cheerio’s, sloshing it into the bowl dangerously, when my phone begins to ring and buzz loudly against the countertop, vibrating in a tiny circle as I curse and spill the milk all over the floor. I ignore it - no use crying over spilt milk, or whatever - and pick up the phone. Incoming call: Jac.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” comes the small reply from the other end. She sounds like she’s pouting.
“What’s up, babe?” I ask, silently cringing at the pet name that spills out every time.
“Nothing, I just...” Jac sighs, static-crackle. “Can we do something today? It’s, like, totally crazy-stressful over here, my folks are freaking out because we’re having people stay and there’s not enough room but they can’t say no and Mom has to cook for all of them and they’re taking it all out on me and it sucks and I know they don’t mean to but it’s hard right now and I just need a hug-“
Her voice is getting higher and quicker with every word, so I hastily step in with, “Hey, it’s cool, relax. We’ll go to the movies, right? There’s that one you said you wanted to see last week.”
I can hear her smile down the phone. “Ry, you said it looked shitty.”
“I did?” I did.
“And that you’d never see that in a million years.”
“Uh-huh, but it’s for you, right? So we’ll go,” I say, like it’s obvious, and she giggles delightedly. Determination drives me not to think about how it’s not her laughs that make me happy, anymore, it’s the fact that a laugh means belief, means I haven’t fucked it up. A laugh, that means I still have this girlfriend thing down.
We arrange a time and a place, and I spend some time fixing my hair the way she likes. It’s not etched into me to try and please her, but when she’s happy it makes everything a whole lot easier. A tiny bit of mousse and a tufty, slightly spiked hairstyle later and I’m out the door, ready to meet her.
She’s wearing a skirt cut right up to her thighs, barely covering much at all, and I notice it with a faint indifference, the same as I notice the leaves crunching beneath my feet and the cars rushing by. Part of the backdrop, unchanging. She’s always the same, and sometimes it leaves a dry taste in my mouth. “Aw, look, the Ryhawk has returned,” she cackles, gleeful, and I smile at her, a hint of an eye-roll apparent.
“How many times, Jac?”
“I know, I know, that’s a stupid name,” she says, deepening her voice and doing air quotes, “but it suits, and you know it.”
I murmur a wistful agreement and she turns, stops us in our tracks and kisses me, full-on and sudden while her fingers weave through my hair, most likely messing up the style she favours so much but I’m sure neither of us care a lot. By the time she lets me go, her cheeks are vaguely pink and she’s caught her lip between her teeth. She grabs my hand and pulls me along in the direction of the mall, which harbours the cinema right at the centre of it, and I let myself be led because that’s what I do best.
We’ve reached one of the churches that dwell in the town, now, and Jac walks by with more interest in her polka-dotted nails than the scenery, but I take it in like I always do; it’s an impressive building, this one, quaint but somehow imposing, just the right amount for what it stands for. Jac starts to chatter on about a fresh subject and it’s then that I see something that shouldn’t really surprise me at all, now, given my track record, but it still sets me on edge. Brendon is walking with his head lowered, seemingly trapped between a Mom and a Dad, all in Sunday best. His face is unreadable, especially from this distance, but it’s okay because I don’t particularly care what he’s feeling anyway.
It is curious, though. I mean, this is a Mormon church, the one we’re walking past now, and our school - the one Brendon just started at - is pretty heavily Catholic. Not that there’s any problem, I suppose, but it’s just out of the ordinary, a lot like the rest of him. He’s certainly interesting, I’ll give him that, interesting to the right sort of people.
He looks up and in our general direction so I quickly turn my head back to Jac, diving back into the conversation and hoping she didn’t realise I left. I laugh, “Seriously, they said that?” and nod my head at appropriate times while the door of the church a few metres behind us closes with a resounding thud.
The movie’s mediocre, and so am I. Jac laughs a lot, and I take the cues and laugh with her, going through the motions. The antagonist gets the girl - of course he does, they always do, don’t they - and Jac strokes her fingertips lightly over the palm of my hand where it’s sitting on the dark armrest, absent. When the obligatory, played-out declaration-of-love scene cuts into view, she leans towards me more, angling for a kiss, a touch, anything, and I give her what she wants; press my lips to hers and watch steadily as her eyes close. She tastes like sugared popcorn, and somehow it’s wrong.
Afterwards, she’s full of thanks for coming with her, seeing it when I wouldn’t have wanted to myself. Because, clearly, I’m the perfect fucking gentleman. “You didn’t have to, Ry, but you did,” she says, slipping her arm around my waist and leaning her blonde head against my shoulder.
“It’s my job, right?” I reply, and she chuckles.
“Mhm, that’s exactly what it is. So, was it as terrible as you thought?”
“Yes,” I answer, completely straight-faced, and she takes on an offended expression, pushing at me half-heartedly and protesting. “No, come on, it was so predictable! Girl has crisis, girl will never love again, girl meets cute guy who can help her out of said crisis, girl loses her relationship issues and falls hopelessly in love and guy gets lucky. Haven’t heard that one before.”
She laughs suddenly, high-pitched and wild and head-turning, and winds her arm through mine with a content smile and not a care in the world. “Sometimes predictability is good,” she says, the sentence probably coming out more profound than she meant, and I can’t help but silently agree.
* * *
The next day, I’m a little late for school again and I’ve decided that I might as well be later by sharing a smoke with Pete outside the grounds. We’re tucked away in a narrow alley down the street, between a hipster music store and a sagging shop stuffed with old, musty books. Pete leans in towards me, his back turned against the entrance to the alley and shoulders hunched against the early morning, and raises his bright green, cheap-buy lighter to the cigarette between my lips. His is already lit, burning orange at the tip where it’s sticking out from his mouth, and as soon as mine’s the same way he steps back and inhales properly, two fingers coming up to draw it back out.
I give a little grunt of thanks and take a grateful drag, sweet inhale, been too long. God, this makes Monday mornings easier. The smoke puffs into my mouth and I can feel it swirling in my lungs, curling into spirals and wisps, and I imagine that if I could see it, it would look quite spectacular. I smile a little, blowing a quick stream of smoke out when Pete gives me a questioning frown.
I haven’t always smoked. I used to be one of the kids who quietly thought it was a dumb thing to do, to coat your insides with black, block up your lungs until they give up and you die and no one can say it wasn’t your fault. It was stupid to me, that’s all it was. But now, it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. Maybe I’m forcing that ideal onto myself, on some level, but it’s true either way. A quick smoke here, a light there, a cigarette passed deftly from one hand to another, like a way of life. I wouldn’t say I’m addicted, more so that I’m addicted to what it does for me.
Pete’s hands are shoved deep inside his pockets, and he leans back, then, nonchalant as ever when he exhales a perfect ring of smoke from o-shaped lips. It’s wobbly and delicate yet still impressive, and it floats up and up, dissipating as it gets higher; I watch it until I can’t anymore. “Teach me how,” I say, my voice sounding rough and rusty to my own ears. I haven’t spoken yet today, nicotine smoke and tarry breaths taking the place of words on my tongue.
“I’ve tried before,” he replies flatly, flicking ash onto the ground, “you’re hopeless.”
“Try again?” I ask hopefully. He rolls his eyes and grins a bit, scuffs his toes as he comes a bit closer. I take another long drag, hollowing out my cheeks and basking in the rebellion of it all.
He eyes me and the thin, slowly shrinking stick perched between two of my fingers. “Okay, just. Take a drag, a long one.” I almost make a snarky comment because I know that part, but I bite it back and do it anyway, and he goes on, “You gotta, like, inhale it a little but not all the way. Keep it in your throat.”
I follow his instruction to the letter but do it too quickly and too eagerly, and all too soon my eyes are watering noticeably and I duck my head to cough into my fist, my shoulders shaking as my breath catches. “Jesus.”
Pete smirks. “Hopeless,” he murmurs, just loud enough to hear, and I shove him lightly. “Try again.” This time I manage to get to the same point without choking to death, and he smiles, genuine this time. “Yeah, okay, so now it’s kinda the hard part, uh. Bring your tongue back - close your mouth properly, you douche - right back towards your throat, so you move it all away from your lips, right?”
I nod, concentrating and trying to process it all. I’ve got this far before and failed, and it’s more than a little frustrating.
Beady eyes watch me, and Pete directs, “Okay, so now you just make an ‘o’ with your mouth, but you have to purse your lips, too.”
I try and make the face he’s painting in my mind, puckering up my lips as much as I can until I meet Pete’s eyes all of a sudden, look over his face and he’s trying so hard not to burst out laughing. It flashes through my mind how I must look at this moment, and I splutter out a laugh at the same time as Pete, grey smoke escaping, stretching up uselessly towards the sky in boring old curls. Well, fuck.
More laughs escape as soon as I realise Pete’s not done chuckling at me, and he leans heavily on my shoulder as they gradually subside. “God, you can make the fucking weirdest faces, dude,” he says.
“You told me to!”
“Not like that, oh my god-“
“Wentz, you are just jealous.”
“The fuck, of what?” he scoffs.
“Of my talent!” I insist. “You could tell I was about to produce the most awesome smoke ring in the history of awesome things, so then, bam. Sabotage.”
This starts him off again, a stream of laughter encasing an, “Okay, sure, that’s what it was,” and ending with a sigh as he quickly checks his eyeliner is still intact by using the screen of his phone. He checks the time afterwards, and breathes out, “Shit.” He stubs the little of his cigarette that’s left out on the red brick wall.
“We late?”
“We were already late,” he points out, and I shrug. Cocking his head at me, he laughs yet again, a happy, clear sound in the dark of the alley that cuts through the grey and the heady smell of the smoke.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, flattening his hair over his forehead with one hand. “Ryan Ross, you’re my favourite weirdo.” I snort out an answering laugh and a content feeling surprises me by setting in as we exit the alley with badly-hidden shifty eyes and amble up the road to the school, mental excuses lined up at the ready - content because I like this Pete, I really do. The one that doesn’t have to prove anything, really; that only allows a certain amount of smugness or ego to engulf him because he doesn’t need any extra, alone and outside of school walls. It’s the person he becomes, the angry, defensive asshole who falls back on violence every time, that forces the fake smile and clenched jaw onto my face.
I steal a look at him walking beside me, out of the corner of my eye and between the lashes. Sometimes I think that if the circumstances were different, we could be real friends, the kind that don’t hide things.
Then I remember how he is and I dutifully check the locks on the heavy, steel doors in my mind, re-bolt them extra tight. It’s best for everyone that way.
When we get to school and are making our way through the network of halls, Pete sniffs a little, hands in his pockets, and says, “So, you know that Brendon kid.”
I freeze. “What about him?”
Shrugging, he replies, “I dunno, you just. You seem really... off around him.”
“I do?”
“Uh-huh. D’you not like him either? ‘Cause I gotta be honest, that kid gets on my nerves. I’m not even sure why.”
I’m sure I could think of a few reasons, but I just feign indifference. “Yeah, no, same. He’s just weird,” I agree. “He’s Mormon, did you know?”
Pete’s eyebrows fly up his face, his expression blank for a few seconds before he breaks into a muffled chuckle. “Dude, seriously, I thought he couldn’t get any weirder, are you for real?”
“Totally,” I say, and he laughs more at the confirmation. I resist the urge to shift uncomfortably, shuffle my feet, because it is uncomfortable listening to him blatantly belittle someone like that, even someone I hate as much as Brendon.
“It so would take someone like him to come to a Catholic school as a Mormon,” he comments, shaking his head a bit. I fake a laugh. ‘Someone like him,’ - Pete doesn’t even know him. Not that I do any better, but then I don’t pretend to. One thing I do know, however, is to stay on the good, happy side of Pete Wentz, so I don’t say any of that.
“Right?” I laugh, catching the eye of a clock face high on the wall. “Dude, we really need to go, I’ll catch you later.”
“Cool, man,” he says, holding his fist out to bump. I humour him, inwardly thinking that’s possibly the lamest form of hello or goodbye, and walk to my next lesson, slow to clear my head.
* * *
This has never really happened before. We’re all a little stumped, to be honest, and I’m probably the most, but here it is. Brendon’s the talk of the whole school. It’s not like he’s popular - leaning a lot more towards the contrary, actually, judging by the way he’s always walking alone, eating alone - but he’s a popular topic for easy mouths and wagging tongues. Everyone’s watching him, it seems, waiting for the next thing he does to further tangle up the messy web that makes up Brendon Urie, the next thing that confirms how different he is.
It’s unusual. Most of the time, a new kid comes in, trembling and unsure, and they’re shunned, obviously. But more than that, they’re ignored; Brendon seems to have everyone involuntarily wrapped around his little finger after one week, and the best part is they don’t even know he’s done it. I’m not certain that he knows he’s done it. He acts like he’s invisible, but he’s anything but.
“Hey, did you hear what that Mormon kid said to Ashlee yesterday?”
“Oh my god, you will not believe where I saw Brendon...”
“Dude, that kid’s fucking strange, what’s his deal?”
“The guy’s name’s Brendon, right, he’s a junior, and...”
Everywhere I go. It’s like people don’t want me to get him out of my head.
Since I spoke to him about keeping his damn mouth shut, he’s been avoiding me. Subtle differences; he’s still somehow everywhere I look, yeah, but he used to be unfazed by it, indifferent, and now he notices me and tries his hardest to get out of my sight, hurrying, scurrying. A gratified wave flows over me every time I see his eyes widen and his little change of direction. I’m okay with being avoided, that suits me perfectly.
Brendon’s doing his utmost to remove himself from my schema, but if only everyone else would kindly do the same thing.
“Dude,” Jon says, attracting my attention. We’re lounging around in the back of the Creative Writing class, boredom clear and thick in the air as some ancient supply teacher drones on about similes, like we’re retarded or something. My cheek is resting heavily on my hand, propped up on the desk, and I tilt it to look at him. “About that junior, Brendon,” he says, and I groan, not thinking.
“Why is everyone talking about him all of a sudden? I don’t fucking get it,” I interrupt, indignant. It maybe comes out slightly louder than I intended.
“Woah,” Jon says, staring at me. “Okay. Um.”
“I just-don’t you think it’s weird? He should be, like, under the radar. He shouldn’t even be anywhere near the radar, I don’t understand it. That’s all.”
Jon shrugs sceptically but muses, “There’s just something about him, I think. I don’t know. Kids just need something to talk about. It’ll probably die down soon.”
I hum restlessly, sensing the conversation turning dangerous somewhere up ahead, so I clear my throat and ask, “What were you going to say, anyway? About him.”
“Oh, right. Well, I don’t know if this constitutes as the mindless gossip that’s on your nerves,” he grins playfully, “but I thought you should know.”
I feel cold suddenly, and dart my eyes up to the front of the class, to the teacher, all around us - just to make sure. It’s something I should know, not them. “Shoot.”
“He told these girls he, like, knows you. Uh, I can’t remember properly, but he said something like you go way back, and he knows you better than a lot of people. Or something like that. And, well, you know, I called bullshit ‘cause you obviously hate his guts, and you don’t even talk, so... Yeah.”
A lump forms in my throat and I gulp it down, with a lot of effort. Why is he-Why would he say that? I mean, no, okay, I know why, as in what would make him think that way in that little fucked-up head of his, but the question of why he’s getting so carried away with his words after I’ve already spoken to him is a different one entirely. “Oh, I.” My voice is weak. I force it to be stronger. “Man, he’s talking shit. I’ve never said a word to him, what the fuck.”
Unintentionally, I raise my voice on the last sentence, and the teacher spins around from writing on the board and barks, “If you can’t stop talking, boys, I will see you in your lunch hour, and you can have a little chat with me.”
Jon rolls his eyes and I copy him, both of us sporadically flipping her off at the same time as soon as she turns back. After stifling a laugh, Jon gives me one of his patented lazy grins, the ones that make his eyes scrunch up and sparkle casually and show just the right amount of teeth, and whispers, “Thought you might say that. There’s no way you’d socialise with someone like him.”
He says it matter-of-factly, like it’s common knowledge that’s obvious to everyone within a hundred-mile radius, and the blunt correctness of the statement hits me hard and low in my gut, because, yeah, that’s true.
For a couple of days, it’s the same. And it’s boring as hell to endure. It’s times like these that I’m actually a little thankful to have Jac as a distraction. “Hey, you,” she calls out to me as I walk past without noticing her, and she grabs at my hand, pulls me back.
“Hi, babe, sorry, didn’t see you down there,” I tease, going up on tip-toes for a second to demonstrate the height difference, and she pouts.
“Shut up,” Jac complains, smiling. One of her friends walks up, all dyed extensions and too much foundation, and coos at us, calls us sweet. Jac simpers and plants a soft kiss on my cheek, declaring, “We’re the power couple of the school.”
I make a, “Pshh,” sound, and they all tell me not to deny it, so I don’t. She squeezes my hand extra hard and presses extra close, I’ve noticed, when people are looking, when they’re paying attention to her and to us, and I wonder for the very first time if we’re not actually that different.
What Jon said in Creative Writing the other day has been playing on my mind. I might be overthinking it - hell, Jon might not even be telling the truth. But then, he’s probably the least likely person I know to lie, and he only ever does it when he needs to. This would just be idle, unnecessary. Not like Jon at all. No, he’s telling the truth, which means Brendon was talking about me, saying he knew me, what the fuck. He doesn’t, not in the slightest. God, you wouldn’t think his ego was that big just to look at him. Well, surprise, surprise.
I try to shake it off as I take a detour down one of the lesser-used hallways, lino dusty but still squeaking under my feet, going to meet Pete, Gabe and William. We all have a scheduled Chemistry lesson starting right about now, and we’re bunking in favour of smoking up behind the wall of the school car park. I shouldn’t be thinking about stupid fucking liars, losers, when I could be getting on with my own life.
Once I get there, Pete greets me with an enthusiastic slap on the back and offers up his packet of cigarettes. I take one, someone lights it for me. Gabe has his school tie knotted around and over his forehead, hanging down at the side of his face, and no one bothers to ask why. The smell of smoke soon wafts all around as we lean against the back of the wall, William mainly leaning on my shoulder with a content smile on his face and his eyes half-open, unconcerned, and I don’t shove him off because he’s warm and it’s cold.
We laugh, we talk, we smoke, and it’s simple. This, this is my favourite. The ease of it all. It would be perfect, I think dimly, senses and thoughts numbed down and sleepy-relaxed by the nicotine and the release, if we could stay like this forever. No school, no family, no assignments, no jumped-up Mormons who think they know it all. Except, wait. I’m not thinking about any Mormons.
After a full hour of it we reluctantly drag ourselves back into the building, ducking through a back entrance to avoid suspicious glances and questioning staff, and I return to the busy rush of school. I hate this place. The rest of the day floats by unseen, and before I know it I’m back at home. I know as soon as I close the door - softly, this time, barely any noise - that something’s up. Something’s always fucking up.
“Mom?” I call out. She doesn’t reply, so I head upstairs, taking the steps two at a time for reasons I can’t even begin to try and find. “Mom,” I call again, and I hear some faint noise coming from her bedroom. Hesitating for a second, I linger on the landing. It’s too late to leave, pretend everything’s fine, because she’s heard me, but. Oh, Christ, fuck it. I step forward, a floorboard creaking beneath my feet and the thin carpet, and push open the door.
She’s perched on the edge of her bed, their bed, and her face is hidden by two cradling hands. Her hair falls down either side of her bent head, and she’s crying. All the blood drains out of my face because no matter what, that has to be one of the most chilling sights. Your mom crying. I’m not old enough, yet, for that not to affect me. I wonder if anyone ever is. I cross the room, feeling awkward, and cough quietly.
“What’s going on?” I ask, and it comes out as a whisper.
She doesn’t take her hands away so her reply is muffled, indistinct. “Nothing.”
“Mom...”
Wiping at her face, she looks up at me through wet lashes and shining eyes. She looks so tired, ragged. “It’s nothing, it’s just. Your father.”
“Well, obviously,” I spit out bitterly, and her eyes narrow uselessly.
“Don’t take that tone of voice about him,” she says. I roll my eyes; she still defends him. Instead of saying anything else, though, I just wait for her to continue. She sighs. “He never came home last night. This is meant to be his, his day off work, but he’s not here because he never came home.”
“Have you been on your own all day?” I ask. She nods. Good, I think. She doesn’t agree, but she’s better for it. She doesn’t see that.
“I’m worried, Ryan.”
“Don’t.” I sit myself down next to her, and she takes my hand, not applying any pressure or anything but just holding, like she’s rooting herself. I speak into the quiet, wanting to calm her, stop the tears spurting out that she doesn’t even seem to be aware of anymore. “Don’t, he’ll be okay. It’ll be fine. It’s happened before.”
“I know that,” she snaps, tugging her hand from mine and storming out of the room in what feels like all in one movement. I sit there, stunned. Well, okay then.
Later, I change into the pyjama pants I sleep in and curl up on top of the covers. I can’t sleep. He’s still not home; my mom went to bed without a word, teary and fragile. I can’t sleep. My eyes feel hot, and I wrinkle my nose up in confusion at the sensation for just a second before I realise what it is. I scrub at my closed lids furiously, cheeks burning, but it doesn’t stop and one or two tears make tracks down my face. I sniff, something dark and unwanted curling within me, and I feel around for my phone. As I’m typing out a faltering text to Jac, I unexpectedly find myself wishing I had someone to talk to about these things that I actually care about, rather than trying to find a helping hand through the mesh of fakery I’ve constructed around myself.
We text long into the night, her offering consoling words and lines of ‘x’s and me searching for some kind of let up, and somewhere in the small hours the conversation ends with her asking if I’m feeling any better. I tap out yea you always help hun, sry for keepin u up.i feel muchbetter :) xx
I don’t.
* * *
Sometimes, as people, especially people in a high school, you hear things just out of the blue, things you didn’t even know you were listening for but clearly you were, and it takes you by surprise. It doesn’t happen often, to me, because usually I shut most of the background noise out, but just now. Just now, it did. And there’s no prize for guessing who it was.
I was battling through the crowds, shoving smaller kids out of the way to try and get to my locker, when I passed a small, compact group of people, talking quietly. On glancing over to them, I registered Brendon Urie’s face and immediately looked away, determined to ignore. But I wasn’t fast enough, already unknowingly eavesdropping, and he was talking in a hushed voice, I could only make out random words here and there but- yeah, there. “Yeah, no, I... you know the... Ryan Ross...” My name, he said my name. He’s fucking talking about me.
Bastard.
I take a moment to feel mildly betrayed while my head spins nauseously at what this might mean, and then carry on without a second glance. I can’t cause a scene, because for all I know he’s said nothing incriminating, and the last thing I want to do is incriminate myself. I’m not stupid.
Later, though. I’ll be at the bottom of this.
* * *
Later comes sooner than expected, and really, it couldn’t be more flawlessly planned for something that wasn’t planned at all. I’d gotten a laminated pass to leave one of my lessons, a counselling session for my ‘troubles at home’ that I didn’t intend to go to, and I was meandering down random corridors, conjuring up different options on what to do in the forty minutes I had for myself. And who should I see but Brendon, all on his own, leaning against his locker with his phone in his hand.
Before I can stop myself, I say loudly, “Shouldn’t you be in a lesson?”
To my satisfaction he jerks, momentarily frightened, and as he pockets his phone he pushes himself away from the locker, stands up straight, and looks at me. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I wouldn’t answer you.”
“Good, ‘cause I’m not answering to you either.”
I’m walking towards him, normal toe-scuffing steps, and in a blink I change it to something more menacing. He notices, shifts his weight uncomfortably. “You’re real full of it, Brendon, for someone who’s mocked at every corner they turn.”
Flushing, he swallows and replies, “Do you want anything, or...?”
“Yeah, actually.” I’ve reached him now, and he looks down to see our toes inches away from each other, flicks his eyes back up. A question. “I want to know what the fuck you’ve been telling people about me.”
He scoffs, a sound so clearly faked, and says, “You’re not important enough for me to be gossiping about you. Please.”
A noise akin to a growl escapes me and without thinking I’ve slammed him against his locker, the resounding metallic boom bouncing down the hall. “Fuck you, I’ve got fucking reliable sources and I heard you anyway, okay. So tell me.”
He’s quiet for a minute and I pull him forward, my hands on his shoulders, only to push again and jolt his whole body. He’s breathing hard, still pink in the face, and he still manages a condescending look. “This feels a little de ja vu, Ryan.”
“I could do worse if you’d like,” I hiss, digging my nails in, through his shirt, into the skin, and he squirms.
“All I said, was,” he begins, not looking me in the eyes, “that I know you better than most people.”
“You don’t know me at all, what the hell, man-“
“What, are you gonna deny I know more than any of the people in this place?” he demands, voice raised.
“I.” I stop, searching for an out. “Yeah, I am. What you saw, that’s not who I am. Not really. This is.”
“Even you don’t believe that,” he says, fucking assumes, softly, softly. It sounds like pity to me. My hands clench in his shirt, yeah, de ja vu, and my eyes fall shut as I keep him pinned there. He’s gone lax beneath me, apparently willing just to be held there until I’m finished with whatever this is, and he’s all easy contours and skin under fabric. It feels nice, suddenly, having someone like this, controlled, and he’s looking into my eyes now as if he’s challenging me to say what I’m thinking. If I could let myself, and if I could pretend he was someone else, I could maybe stay in this moment for longer, stretch it out unimaginably, just for the feel of another body so close, pressed beneath mine, and-woah.
Okay.
I need to get laid.
“Why do you feel the need,” I grit out, “to talk about me anyway?”
He shrugs, with difficulty under the vice-like grip. “Dunno. Thought it might be worth it to see your reaction.”
“You haven’t seen half of it,” I tell him, low and threatening, and I see him gulp and try to hide it.
“Whatever,” he says. I shove him, anger pulsing behind my eyes, punctuating every heartbeat with red and black. “Jesus,” he chokes out at the force of it.
“Don’t blaspheme, Mormon boy.” It kind of slips out before I register how much stupid was packed into those four words, and he frowns at me.
For a moment, Brendon looks like he wants to say something, to reprimand or to correct me, but then he just shrinks a little, deflates. “Look, okay, I’ll stop. I’ll stop, happy?”
I let out a breath, see it move one or two strands of his hair and realise I’m too close to him. I lean back a little. “Not another word about me?”
“Sure,” he says, a smug smile appearing, like he doesn’t really care but just wanted a reaction. If so, he got what he wanted, and that pains me but ultimately it doesn’t matter, so long as this stops. All I want is to be dissociated with him, distanced, safe. The warm feeling starts to seep back, brought on by the closeness of a someone, and I shake it off again because no, that’s not what should be going on here. Not with him, obviously, but definitely not with any guy within these walls. That’s not how it works, it’s a separate thing.
I release him and he sags slightly against the lockers, avoiding my eyes. There’s still something about him that I haven’t got figured out yet, and I’m not sure I even want to.
After sliding out from between me and the wall of lockers, he takes a few steps backwards, still looking at me, and then says, “You know, it’s not going to be me or anyone else who outs you. Sooner or later, it’s gonna be you.”
“What the fuck is that meant to mean?” I challenge him, but he doesn’t reply, just slowly forms a grin, crooked on one side, and awkwardly turns on his heel, saunters away.
What the fuck was that meant to mean?
I’d never out myself. The guy’s fucking stupid. That’s all there is to it, I think to myself as I linger by his locker, zoning out and staring at his chunky combination lock. That’s all there is.
* * *
“Have you done all your homework?” my mother asks sharply, walking into my room that night without asking. She does it a lot when she’s angry or when she’s fretting about something. She doesn’t look too furious with me, so I figure it’s safe territory.
“Um, no,” I answer. “Just a Biology report to do, though. Uh, why?"
“Do it quickly, for Christ’s sake, Ryan,” she says, exasperatedly hurrying over and fussing over me, flailing her arms out and shifting the textbooks and workbooks and loose sheets of paper that surround both me and my laptop on my bed somewhat pointlessly, like nudging things towards me is going to make me work faster or something.
“What, why? I only just got in, like, an hour ago, God.”
“Your father is coming home. So I think you should get it done, please. Now.” She says it as if she’s spelling it out to me, like I’m stupid.
Unthinking, I scoff at her, mumble, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll get to it.”
“Ryan,” she presses, agitated with a creased forehead and pleading eyes. “You know how he gets.”
I exhale a shuddery breath, the room feeling abruptly too small, walls too closed in. “I’ll do it now,” I tell her, my voice sounding a little croaky. She nods, big, wide eyes studying me for a few seconds before she turns around and swiftly leaves the room, closing my door behind her. I blink; she never does.
Groaning a little to myself out of sheer boredom and general despair at schoolwork, I thumb through the pages spread around me until I find the notes for the report, then load up a Word document and start typing. It’s complete bullshit, but it’s something, and if Dad checks it’s not like he’d know if it made sense or not. After almost two pages have been filled (with the help of a slightly bigger font size and double spacing, whatever), I get distracted and type out a text to Spencer. hey man whats up:)
nm, sistrs r being annoyin as fuck bt what else is new?? u??
I smile at the phone, fond of the familiarity, and I’m about to reply something along the lines of suggesting he should come over to escape the madness, but I stop, backspace what I’ve already typed. That’s probably not the best idea right now, I muse silently, eyes automatically darting towards my bedroom door as my ears strain for nothing. I settle on yea well lol they’re teenage grils what do you expect.im just trying the biol report..stuck tho :/ fucking osmosis and he replies immediately with i’v done it i can call and help????
Before I can reply, the phone starts ringing, buzzing around in my hand, and I jump slightly before shaking my head at the words Incoming call: Spence and answering it.
“You didn’t even wait for me to say yes,” I comment.
“I didn’t have to,” he says, and I can practically see the smug, all-knowing expression. “I know you.”
“I know your mom,” I grumble uselessly, and Spencer brushes it off and launches straight into Biology mode.
We talk for a while, I always lose track when it’s Spencer, but enough to gain another two pages that are admittedly mostly more Spencer’s words than my own. He talks, I listen, I try to make a point or a suggestion and he laughs at me and explains in great detail why I’m wrong, and it’s balanced, settled. Like the happy medium in everything.
It all shatters in a flash, though, and I almost drop the phone as the door downstairs slams, shaking the house from the very foundations. I swallow and suddenly Spencer’s tinny voice in my ear seems too loud, too noticeable, and I wish he’d be quiet but I don’t want him to hang up and leave me.
Mentally telling myself to pull it together, I shakily continue the conversation, trying to steer my mind and my senses away from the shouts downstairs, the angry tones. He sounds rough, he’s been drinking. He’s pissed at something but God knows what, I doubt if even he knows. He’ll take anything for an excuse, when it’s like this.
“George, honey, maybe you should lie down or-“
“I don’t need to fucking lie down,” I hear him growl, and I shiver, hate running ice-cold through me. My mom says something, a soothing voice, and there’s some sort of bang - his fist thumping on a surface, maybe - and she quietens down until I can’t hear her anymore. “You can’t tell me how to live,” he shouts at her.
Spencer’s asking me something, sounds a little concerned but I’m not concentrated on him, only on the way she’s saying things that I can’t hear and it sounds as if she’s crying, weakly. Then there’s a series of creaks, he’s hauling himself up the stairs one by one, each step a stomp that echoes in my ears, and I pray to something I don’t believe in that he’ll just pass by. I can’t deal with that right now.
But clearly, I’m not that lucky. At the same time as Spencer asks, “Ryan, are you okay, what’s the background noise--?” The door bursts open and he lumbers in, red-eyed and red-faced. Red, red, always red.
“I have to go,” I rush out quickly and snap the phone shut, otherwise immobile where I’m lying on my stomach on the bed. After flicking my eyes towards him once, I have to force them to stay. I don’t say anything to him: I never have anything to say, so I don’t, just stare and try and keep any kind of insolent cloud from appearing on my face.
A horrible moment stretches and clings, in which he stares and I stare and no one moves a muscle, the only sound his heavy, off-pace breathing and my heart beating in my ears.
“George,” he says. Hoarse, gravelly.
“My name is Ryan,” I state quietly, keeping my voice even. For a while now, I’ve been going by my middle name instead, too proud and too human to want a namesake such as this. I don’t care for the association, but he doesn’t get that. I wonder why.
“You ashamed to share my name or something?” he fumes, his eyes sparking dangerously, and he takes a few more steps into my room. He leaves the door open behind him and that loosens the worried knot in my chest a bit, with the light spilling in and the possibility of an escape. I sit up straight on the bed, swinging my legs over the edge; not going to stand up, but this is less vulnerable in my mind.
I think Yes, I am, and say, “No,” shaking my head.
“Liar,” he spits, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I blink at him, wetting my lips a little nervously. “The fuck d’you think you’re doing, huh?”
“Uh, schoolwork?” I answer, tilted up a fraction at the end, like a question, and I should have known better than to do that, really.
“You were on the phone,” he points out, menacing. “Obviously weren’t fucking doing it properly.”
I frown, irritated. “Dad, I was-“
“You’ll never be anything!” he explodes, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the words, words he’s said before but not for a while, words I’d maybe been thinking had stopped. “You can’t do anything, you’re a failure,” he goes on, disgust-riddled and sneering at me, all my few ounces of bravado evaporated with the heat of the fury. He’s gotten closer now, bent down so he can look at me face-to-face, his dirty hair in need of cutting and wild around his face, eyes bleary and unfocused and his cheeks are a ruddy hue. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, and it’s not the sweet smell of house parties and gigs, no, it’s stale and evil and rotten, it clings to his being, his soul.
“Dad,” I whisper, a warning, a plea, I don’t know but I sound broken even to my own ears. Fuck.
His upper lip curls, sinister, and as he raises a hand I feel myself flinch. Holding myself still, I watch as he points a finger at me, jabs me right in the chest, hard. “You’ll never achieve anything. You’re a disappointment. You’ve been that way since you were born, fuck’s sake, and you’re sure as hell not doing anything to fix it now, are you?” The last is more than a yell, but I can’t find words to describe it. If it could be called a roar, then he is surely the most cowardly lion to ever set foot on this planet. “Are you?”
Gulp. Breathe. “No, sir.” Just agree.
“Fucking worthless,” he mutters, pushing his face close to mine, and every instinct is telling me to move back but I won’t let myself listen, I stay defiantly stock still so his nose isn’t an eyelash’s length away from mine. “You’ve got no hope.”
“Please, just.” My voice is dry, cracking, and I hang my head at last, breaking the eye contact. Letting him win. “Just get out, leave me alone, please.”
He laughs harshly in my face, then spits on the floor by my feet. I wrinkle my nose. “Was going anyway. ‘S’not my business t’be spendin’ time with the likes of you.”
With that he straightens up, wobbling a little, unsteady on his feet, and makes his way to the door. He stops just as he’s over the threshold, warns, “You show your face downstairs, I’ll make you sorry you did.” Then he’s gone, slamming the door hard enough to make a couple of books fall off the shelf across the room.
My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking, I can’t seem to stop, and I curse low under my breath at the fact that I’m still affected. I want to be tough, be hardened to it, but I can’t even manage to show that on the outside, let alone within. Fuck, my breath is coming in little stuttered gasps that I can’t control, and I’m not sure how much time passes where I’m sitting immobile, chained down to the bed. Alone. Without registering, my fingers find my phone and I clutch it with both hands, lighting up the screen and the One new message: Spence. I open it. do u want 2 stay here 2nite.mom says its ok ?
Spence always knows. If I could smile right now, I would, and I text back a quick yes thxman with still-trembling fingers and pack a bag with the usual overnight things. It takes all of about two minutes, but afterwards I stand there in the middle of the room, listening to muffled silence downstairs.
Biting my lip absent-mindedly, I go over to the big window, the one that looks over the back of my house, slide it open and slither out onto the ledge with practiced ease, because from there you can clamber across and climb down the tall, thick tree in the back yard. Once my feet hit the ground I pause, though, let the cool breeze blow through my hair, and I breathe.
* * *
“Dude, dude.” Spencer wrestles the huge bowl of popcorn almost fully out of my grip, ignoring my protests. “Seriously. This is the best part, but only if you give me my fucking popcorn.”
I grumble something unintelligible and give up, letting go abruptly so that he falls backwards, following the motion to stop them from spilling all over him, and the tip in his balance topples him right off the edge of the couch. He lands on the floor, with a bump and a bemused expression, like he’s not sure what just happened. I let out a lame little giggle that sounds suspiciously like one of Spencer’s sisters, but it’s Spencer, so it doesn’t matter.
“Did you just push me off the couch?” he asks, genuinely bewildered.
“Um, no,” I answer truthfully. “I just gave you the popcorn.” A laugh slips out, and I cut it short by pressing my lips together.
He frowns, then shoots me an evil, dagger-eyed look and scrambles back up, glancing at me warily before settling in again. “I’m watching you,” he says. I reply by throwing the single old, woolly blanket over him, and he curls in next to me underneath it, warm and secure with only our heads and arms on top of it.
The TV screen sends flickers of blue and white light cascading around the walls, infiltrating the otherwise dark of Spencer’s living room. It’s the original version of the film Psycho, and some unlucky woman’s about to get stabbed in the shower.
To tell the truth, we haven’t been paying much attention to the plotline. We never do. Spencer’s been offering a faltering in-and-out running commentary of the events onscreen, but mainly snipes like, “God, that guy looks like a douche, I hope he dies soon,” and “Maintaining no nudity even during and after getting violently stabbed in the shower. Rock on, sixties movies.” Hardly the most in-depth analysis ever heard, but his comments make me snort with laughter, not caring about the way I look or sound or act because we’ve been friends for too long for it to possibly fall apart now. He’s been a constant for almost as long as I can remember, a single point of consistency in an ever-changing world. 0000. There when I need him to be, backing off when I need anything but. And, of course, provider of such hilarity as this to distract from worse situations.
Evenings and nights spent like this remind me of the simpler times, and the simplicity that the current times could become if I let them; and once in a while, with Spencer, with a best friend, I do.
Spencer sighs lightly and leans his head on my shoulder, shifting closer for warmth and further supporting my never-ending argument that although we’re the same age, the two months I have on him definitely show through. I let my head drop onto his for a second before pulling it upright again.
“Dude,” Spencer mumbles, glancing at my head, “you need to get a haircut.”
I take on an offended expression and shove him with the aim of pushing him off, but he’s got an unfair weight and strength advantage, so it doesn’t do much. “My hair is awesome, fuck you. My hair is always awesome.”
He snorts through his nose. “Yeah, okay.”
“It is! Name me one time when it has failed to be awesome.”
“Uh, okay,” Spencer says, grinning widely. “That time a couple of years back, when you let it grow ridiculously long, and-“
“Hey,” I interrupt, holding a finger up. “That was cool back then.”
“Ryan, man, I’m sorry, but your head looked like one big greasy square.”
My mouth drops open and he laughs as I flick his forehead, twist his ear a little in punishment until he makes a slightly pained noise and I stop. I search for a comeback, but settle on, “Shut up.” He laughs quietly, under his breath, and doesn’t say anything else for a while. He leans fully on me again, once the danger is passed, and the silence is comfortable. My eyes keep straying from the screen, to nowhere in particular. He notices.
“You even watching this?” he asks.
I shrug, earning a displeased grunt when I dislodge him a bit. “A little. Distracted, you know.”
“Well, you’re here to get un-distracted. I can literally hear you thinking and it’s really not healthy, so stop that and watch the goddamn movie.” His voice is kind, thinly veiled with the typical bitchiness that I see through easily.
I’m quiet for a second, waiting as my attention thankfully crawls back to the black-and-white drama on the screen, and then I mumble, “Thanks.” It’s barely legible as words, but he understands it.
“Any time,” he says, just as quiet. “You know you’re, like, my brother, or something like that. Seriously, Ry, any time.”
I nod, and relax.
* * *
Part Three