Diamonds, Loose: Part One
Little and often. That about explains the frequency of the stupid things I do, the ones that happen before I think it through. Thing is, though, I know this about myself, and yet I still continue to do them anyway, those things that inevitably end up here, with me sprawled under the sheets, lying where I fell. The pounding in my head throbs against the faint rushing in my ears, and when I pry my eyes open all I see is the filtered dark under the bedcovers. My mouth is dry, feels rough. Groaning lowly, I peek out from under the sheet covering my head and immediately screw my eyes shut, the early morning sunlight streaming in through the window, fucking undrawn curtains, and the throb in my head intensifies.
Mentally flipping through a calendar, I scrub a hand across my face, kneading at my closed eyes as I realise that, yes, this is a Monday morning on which I have to be at school. In less than an hour.
“Shit. Fucking fuck,” I hiss out, slightly impressed at how articulate I’m managing to be. This, I think to myself, words forming somewhere in my fuzzy brain, has got to be the hardest feat known to man. Something rumbles past outside, a truck, maybe, and it’s background noise but it feels to me like it’s shaking the house to the core. Or, no, not the house; just me. I cast my eyes over to the alarm clock sitting face-down on my bedside table, amongst tons of clutter. Fumble for it, turn it over. 7:45. After some dazed little reminder in the back of my mind informs me that homeroom starts at 8:30, I take a deep breath, summon all the strength left in me and throw back the covers, swinging my legs over the side of the bed in one movement. I’m pretty proud of myself.
The headache, though, it’s getting worse with every move I make that doesn’t point towards more sleep, and I let out another quiet groan as I meander across the room, picking my way through the usual debris: clothes, CD’s, books, tangled headphones. My phone catches my eye, poking out of the pocket of the black jeans I wore last night, and I stoop to get it, flip it open. Two new messages, both from Spencer. ross im ur bestfriend, there better be a gd reason u ignored my calls last nite or else.>:(! I roll my eyes and select the next one, sent a few minutes after. o and dnt forget about the math hw.phillips will kill u!! I make a frustrated noise and smack my hand to my forehead, instantly wincing as the ache worsens. I forgot.
Sighing, I shrug it off. I used to care about things like that a lot, but now - big deal, you know. Phillips isn’t the boss of me. Like I need surds anyway. I tap out a quick response, yea there was a good reason don’t worry spence..also phillips can smd lolol, and leave the phone on my bed. When I reach the door I stop a little, straining to hear over the white noise in my head, listening for any sound. It’s silent, they’re at work. I open it, slowly to muffle the creak because I always feel like I’m disturbing something when the house is this alone, this quiet.
I run my hand through my hair and head for the shower, down the hall. I let the pyjama pants I’m wearing drop as I walk in, turning on the water and not really caring about the temperature. The water’s not hot, but warm, and it’s good enough for me. God, anything is, I don’t even care, I just want to sleep. Hibernate. What the fuck ever. Tipping my head back, I sigh a little, content, a little of the fuzziness around the edges slipping away with the water as it runs down my body. I look down, notice a small but dark bruise on my hip and I smile crookedly, eyes falling shut as the hazy memories from the night before flood back in.
There was a gig. A really nothing band, just starting out, with shaky voices and shakier melodies and a drummer who didn’t know the meaning of rhythm. Flyers had been pinned up all around the school, on notice boards and walls, windows, tucked into the wipers on teachers’ cars in the parking lot, and people had scoffed, laughed because who would want to go to that? They’re unknown, they’re awful, they’re not worth the entrance fee. I had sat and laughed along, musing, “The world would be better if local bands actually played some decent music,” as I screwed up one of the flyers, and earned myself nods of agreement, a couple of claps on the back and a, “See? Ryan knows bullshit when he sees it, dude.”
I’d watched as the entire high school population that fit into the venue’s age limit shunned the event, discarded it as pointless, threw it in the trash. None of them were going to be there, and that was what kept the carefree smile on my face through the two weeks between when the flyers invaded and the date of the gig. None of them would be there.
I grin to myself as the soapy suds are washed away in rivulets of clear water, taking with them the incriminating sweat and smoky smell, but the memories stay dry and safe, locked away for my viewing only.
The venue was small and cramped and I battled my way to the front, pressed up against the barrier by a sea of bodies moving as one in waves and surges. The metal was hard and unrelenting, cold through the thin t-shirt I’d thrown on, but it was okay. The band; they were passable. They had a good bass player who single-handedly sent vibrations singing through my bones, through everyone’s, and the singer stripped off his shirt halfway through the set, revealing a skinny but well toned stomach, which admittedly made things more interesting.
But the thing that made it all, the thing that I’d been hoping for when I walked down the backstreets to find a seedy, rundown venue, was the kid squashed in next to me amidst the crowd, moving his hips to the beat, his whole body following. My t-shirt was clinging to me, damp, and our bare arms brushed and slid together, burning skin and body heat. Glances of searing eye contact. This was why I did it.
I pushed back a little, shuffled and squirmed until I could slot in behind him, cup his denim-clad hips beneath hot palms and mirror his sway. He had hair just on the wrong side of long and a pretty face, and he moved with me, responsive. When he dropped his head back onto my shoulder I took it as permission, always is, and rolled my hips against his ass, hard. “Name,” I said flatly, voice raised over the music.
He turned his head, lips sliding against my neck and hotly mouthed something that I thought was “Alex,” and that was good enough for me. The short version is that, after my hand slid around and down lower and his hips were rocking, I dragged him through the crowd to a lonely, dimly lit stretch of wall beside the bar. I murmured that my name was Ryan, that I didn’t care for last names, and he nodded and kissed me. “Band’s shit,” he gasped out as our hips pressed together, and I laughed an agreement into his throat. We got off. It was okay. Mediocre. Better than the band and exactly what I wanted. That’s the short version.
The long version, well. I frown as I realise I’ve been standing under the stream for far too long and hurriedly turn the knobs. Stepping out, I wrap a towel around my waist and absently scratch at patchy stubble as something else comes back to me. The long version isn’t actually that much more complicated than the short one, really, except. There was... another one, this other guy. I had the Alex kid pinned against the wall, one hand between our bodies, wrapped around both of us and moving roughly in the dark, shielded from view by my slightly hunched form, and I wrenched my lips from his, turning my head slightly off to the side only to meet a new pair of eyes.
Big, ridiculously big brown eyes; this boy with dark hair that flopped over his forehead and a shirt three sizes too big, just standing there a few feet away - not reeled in with the crowd and not really by the bar either, he was just in this little space of his own. Standing. And looking. His eyes were wide, really wide, but not like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, more like a judgement, a little condescending look that said he would never ever do such a grotesque thing as we were. But it was captivating. His eyes.
I might have gasped a little (a lot), and I might have kept the eye contact alive once I realised he wasn’t looking away - and maybe, maybe his inquisitive stare boring into me was the thing that pushed me over the edge into startling white as the band played on and on.
I shake my head at myself, tugging on my school uniform haphazardly and catching sight of myself in the mirror. The reflection provokes a surge of dislike. It’s not that I don’t like how I look all the time, per se, but it takes time that I don’t have this morning to make me look half-acceptable. I attempt to flatten down my hair. Doesn’t work. Think, okay then, and run my fingers through it, go for the tousled look, perhaps. Doesn’t work either. I quit.
My tie is wonky but I can’t be bothered to straighten it, just clump down the stairs of the empty house, keeping quiet to keep my headache at bay. It’s still hammering away, a little like the time some guys came to work on the road outside the house and they used those massive fucking pneumatic drills day in and day out for weeks and weeks, only in my brain and a hundred times worse, and I feel like I’m going to die. I didn’t even think I drank that much. Apparently I was wrong.
In the kitchen, I look over the various edible things sitting in the cupboards, in the fridge, but the sight of food at the moment makes my head spin, and in a totally not good way. Pouring a tall glass of water, I feel my mind wandering off somewhere, and I’m still feeling drowsy and fuzzy so I let it. Sometimes it goes to pretty awesome places. You never know, with these things.
I’m soon trying to reel it back in, though, bring it closer to home again, because suddenly images are flashing through my mind. Last night, the boy, not Alex, the boy: his eyes like pools and his lips half-parted like he wanted to say something but he just chose not to at that moment, the way he held himself, wanting to be so much more prominent but ultimately unsure, his face unevenly and randomly lit up from the flashing stage lights and fuck, fuck, I didn’t realise I’d noticed so much about him. By the time I pulled away from Alex, grinned at him a little lazily and echoed his, “See you around,” the kid had left. Vanished. I’ll admit I looked around for him, just a bit, but he was nowhere to be found and if I’m honest I’m not sure why I wanted to find him, so I let it be. Enjoyed the shitty music, went home fulfilled and sated and safe.
Didn’t think about him.
Until now.
It’s not attraction I’m feeling, exactly, or lust-not that he wasn’t hot, no, the kid was undeniably hot. He looked like he didn’t quite know it, but he was, in that understated, naturally attractive way. But it’s not just. It’s an interest, is what it is, a mix of irritation and intrigue and, well, lust.
Mainly the irritation thing, though. The way he just stared, like he held himself so far above everyone else, higher than us and our animalistic hormones; made me want to pick a fight. I’m not the fighting type, but there was something about him that crawled under my skin and fucking stayed. No one looks down on me like that.
“Fuck him,” I mumble, voice still cracking and rough. “Asshole.” Never even spoke to the guy, but I can tell, okay. I make myself leave, then, already late but still rushing anyway, striding to the front door because I feel like the fresh air might sweep away some of the cobwebs, the ones holding him firm and inescapable in my mind. I have to forget about him. He’s irrelevant. I don’t know why he’s made such an impression on me but fuck, he has.
The school bus is long gone by now, but it’s alright because I hate catching it anyway. Full of pretentious girls and douchebag guys. It’s not where I fit in, really. I head down my street and across the road, taking a shortcut through the park. There’s green all around me, dew still glistening in the shaded parts of the grass and sunlight spilling through gaps in the leaves. The peace and calm of it all eases the ache in my head a little, but it’s still there and it’s keeping a permanent raincloud over me. An overweight guy is waddling towards me on the weaving gravel path through the grass, walking a dog on a bright red lead. It’s a long leash, and the dog scampers ahead, bounding right up to me and grumbling a happy greeting. It pushes its head against my hand, licks it a little, and I chuckle despite the bad mood and scratch behind its ears. “Seems she’s taken a liking to you, there,” the guy says, having caught up.
I give a small smile. “I like her, too.” I love dogs. We’ve never had one, at home; my dad doesn’t like them, calls them filthy animals and won’t have them in the house. I’ve always wanted, though, and this little encounter lightens me up.
Studying his watch, the guy frowns at me and says, “How old are you, kid? Shouldn’t you be at school?” My eyes widen and I grab for his wrist, pulling his watch towards me and reading the time. 8:20. I tell him I have to go, giving the dog one last hasty stroke and almost breaking into a run, but not quite. Too much movement for my condition. I momentarily curse myself for not asking the dog’s name. We’re not really friends if there’s no first-name basis.
As it turns out, pondering the question of why the hell a hangover isn’t a legitimate absence excuse passes the time pretty well; it feels like hardly any time has gone by before I’m at the school gates. Not many people are hanging around outside, and I cross the grounds towards the doors, spotting Spencer leaning just outside them and making a beeline for him.
“Hey,” I say, quiet. He pulls me into a perfunctory hug, brief but warm and friendly and just the right amount of tight, because it’s Spencer and he knows these things. When he releases me, he lifts an eyebrow.
“Done the math?” Spencer asks. His school tie, navy-black-yellow, is ridiculously short, like every other day. He won’t be told.
"Nope.”
“Ryan,” he sighs.
“It’s fine, Spence, honest. I think I can handle Phillips,” I scoff. Mr. Phillips keeps an ant farm in his office and lives on egg and cress sandwiches, minus crusts. I really think I can handle Phillips.
Spencer’s head shakes but he holds his hands up, defeat, surrender. “If you say so, man.”
I smile through a yawn. “I do.”
“So,” he starts, looking suddenly uncomfortable. His shoes seem to be his new main interest. “Where’d you go last night?”
I shrug. Nonchalant, always keep it nonchalant. “Nowhere special.”
I expect him to groan, tell me I’m annoying and move on, but he just sighs lightly and looks me in the eye. He looks a bit hurt. “I don’t know why-- you don’t tell me things anymore. Like, you tell me things, but not things, you know?”
“Spence...” Guilt. I don’t know what I’m going to say next, though, so it’s good he interrupts.
“No, hey. It’s fine. Like, it’s okay not to tell me something, I’m not going to crucify you if you don’t want to, it’s just. Weird, is all.” I open my mouth and nothing comes out. There’s nothing to say that I could let myself say; I’m stuck. “Anyway,” he says. “Homeroom in five, come on. God, you look like shit.”
I let a smile spread as I follow him in, because it’s normal, it’s back to normal. That was close, but it’s back to normal now.
Sometimes I’m hit with how much I want to tell Spence everything, how much guilt runs cold through my veins at the fact that I hide, that I have a whole other persona to slip into that he’s completely unaware of. And it gets worse, every time he asks and I don’t tell, because it feels like he’s one step closer to finding out and that makes me want to distance myself more. I don’t like it, but it does.
It’s not Spencer’s fault I choose to do this, not his fault that in school I’m Ryan, the kid who just about fits in with the cool crowd, goes along with everything, makes occasional sarcastic remarks from the back of the classroom - and outside school I’m Ryan, a boy who likes boys. A boy who wants boys, and one that gets them. It’s not Spencer’s fault I can’t experiment inside these walls for fear of judgement, being shut out, hell, even bullied. It’s not Spencer’s fault that I hide who I think I might really be from the people that think they know me.
None of it’s his fault, but he’s still affected, and the thought hurts.
When it first came to me, I dismissed it. Thought I was weird. Because who even does that, goes to random places to get off with random people, boys? As soon as I got over the alien feeling of it, though, as soon as I tried it out a couple of times - in clubs, venues, open parties, anywhere that didn’t involve kids from school - I knew it was right for me. It’s not the answer, but it’s a big step towards it. I don’t know who I am, but it’s helping me figure it out.
Plus, it’s kind of awesome, too. No strings hook-ups behind invisible closed doors, kept shrouded in the dark - away from prying eyes. I’ve gotten used to it. This works. This is how I live my life, at least until I get out of school for good, and I couldn’t be more content. Honestly.
“Dude,” Spencer says, nudging my arm less than softly. “You’re spacing out.” I blink as I realise my mind had been drifting in the general direction of the nameless boy once more.
“Sorry.” We’re standing outside the room we both share for homeroom now, I’m not sure when we got here but Spencer’s peering at me with some kind of concern.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I reply, “why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re acting weird.”
“I-“ I begin, but I’m interrupted by the booming, cheery voice of Mr. Saunders, homeroom tutor. A constantly sunny mood seems to surround him at all times, and when he speaks he does it through a wide smile that spreads through perma-pink cheeks.
“Alright, then! Come on, come on, take a seat, haven’t got all day, have we, now-Smith, Ross, stop gossiping and get inside, please.” He herds us in to grumblings from Spence, a bright tie stating “Monday” draped over the round belly straining against the buttons of his shirt.
When we’ve taken our seats, Spencer slumps down in his chair while I lean forward and rest my head on my arms, eyes fluttering shut. I hope today’s easy; my brain can’t take much right now. Saunders takes roll, and the stuffy room swims around me as I shift in and out of concentration. “This is the most pointless thing ever,” Spencer groans in a low whisper, and I mumble a hushed agreement. Suddenly, my phone vibrates against my leg in my pocket, startling me, and I wrestle it out tiredly to read the text.
hai baby, didnt see u this morning....come find me by my lockr at break??..... luf u lots :3 kisses xxxxx
“Jac,” I whisper in answer to Spencer’s questioning glance, and he nods in a kind of bored way and fades back into not listening. I think he’s growing weary of the two of us by now, reduced to shrugs and half-assed, one-word answers when it comes up in conversation. I’ve been with Jac for, like, six months or so now. Give or take a few; she’s the one bothering to count, not me.
I quickly reply yea sure, love you too babe xxx and hit ‘send’ just as Saunders announces, “Okay, okay, we’re done here, get out of my classroom,” and the bell rings, a harsh, metallic sound slicing into my eardrums. Not even bothering to gather the energy to groan, I drag myself out of my seat and towards the door.
The next lesson is uneventful. History never interested me much, and none of the group shares the class so I spend every time-devouring period half-heartedly making notes and lounging in a chair at the back, isolated but more content than to be surrounded by idiots I don’t care about. It’s taught by a Professor White, and his manner is as dusty as the subject.
After that is Math, though, and I don’t care about the homework I haven’t done, I don’t. I keep telling myself that all the way through the jam-packed corridors, fighting against the current of kids, and I tell myself that as I reach the door of my Math class and meet up with Spence, and I tell myself that as I take my seat next to him.
I’m done with caring. If I want to fit in with the people I do, I’ve learnt, there’s no consideration when it comes to schoolwork.
Halfway through the class, a shadow that’s way too ominous for its own good falls across my open workbook, and I slowly raise my head to meet the expectant, watery-grey eyes of Mr. Phillips. “Homework, Ryan?” he asks, not unkind.
“Haven’t got it,” I mumble after swallowing, and Spencer carefully lowers his eyes to his own work.
The guy heaves a sigh, and I brace myself for the blow, the rage. Studying his face, though, he doesn’t appear to be angry; more disappointed in me, and despite everything I tell myself, I lose a little respect for me. “Where is it this time?” I shrug, and he lowers his voice, bowing his head slightly. “There’s only so many times I can let you off, Ryan.”
“I know that.”
Phillips straightens up. “Detention, tomorrow night, after school. I’ll be expecting you to attend, m’kay?”
“Oh, fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath, not loud enough, and he points a finger at me, frowns.
“Language.”
Silently, I throw all the blackest curses I’ve ever known at his back as he retreats.
* * *
You always hear her before you see her. I found that out pretty early on, but I don’t think I’m quite used to it yet. As I round the corner to one of the main hallways lined with blue lockers, Spence at my side discussing the apparent outrage of Phillips’ disciplinary methods, a high-pitched screeching tears through the air and several kids around us duck their heads, covering their ears with scrunched-up faces.
“You would pick the only girl who can pitch higher than a fucking dog-whistle,” Spencer comments in my ear. Crowds of people part jerkily, like they’re being shoved out of the way a little, and a flash of something bright and squealing is all I can register before slender arms are flung around my neck and Jac almost bowls me over, Spencer’s hand steadying between my shoulder blades the only thing keeping me from toppling to the floor. He gives me a small slap on the back once I’m balanced, and moves off somewhere else.
“Jac,” I say. “Hi.”
“Hey, you,” she returns, and before I can say any more she goes up on tiptoes and kisses me full on the mouth, lip gloss sticky and a little overpowering. Someone wolf-whistles and she laughs, pulling away and flipping her middle finger in the general direction. “I didn’t see you all weekend. I missed you.” Her smile’s coy and her long, fake eyelashes flutter.
I easily lie, “Mm, you too,” and she smiles wider, pleased.
“What were you up to?”
She doesn’t sound suspicious, not at all, she never does, actually - simply curious and interested, but my heart beats faster all the same. “Family stuff,” I say a little too quickly, a tad too rushed, and there’s the tiniest hint of a crease in her brow so I distract her with, “You look gorgeous today, babe, like always.”
She melts instantly, it’s visible, and I’m kind of proud that I’ve got so much influence, can change her and flip her moods at the drop of a hat. Twirling a long, dead straight extension around her manicured finger, one streak of pink in the mass of white-blonde, she bites her lip, obviously loving the compliment. “Aw, no,” she denies, but blushes faintly, under the inches of makeup.
A guy from my English class walks past, eyes flicking between me and Jac and he gives me a nod of approval from where she can’t see him, like yeah, Ryan, she’s hot, good job, man. Acceptance. I quirk my eyebrows at him and turn my attentions back to the girl in front of me, the one I don’t like to call “my girlfriend” in the safe confines of my own mind where all is truthful.
Because she’s not, not really. On the surface, yeah, but I don’t feel anything note-worthy for her. She’s just another piece of what makes up the person I’ve made myself, the guy who fits in.
I refuse to think I’m messing her around, though, I’m not an asshole. I buy her things, whatever the fuck she points out in a shop window I’ll pay for; I’ll save money and wrap it nicely, surprise her and watch her face light up. I’ll pose for stupid photos with her, pulling the world’s worst faces, and I’ll hold her hand when she holds mine. I’m not an asshole.
In fact, when the bell goes I hold her close all the way to our next lesson which we have together, one arm slung around her shoulders, curling in to protect from the traffic-flow of kids. She brings a hand up to tangle with mine, the one draped over her shoulder, and when I glance at her she’s smiling contentedly. I turn my eyes ahead, and keep walking.
* * *
“And then,” Jac splutters between fits of giggles, “and then, then he goes, all cocky and everything, ‘I’ll tip back on my chair if I want, Sir,’ and...” She takes a calming breath, hiccups of laughter still escaping while my face gently burns. “He fucking falls, like, right back, and lands on his skinny little ass, oh my god, you should have been there,” she finishes, still giggling.
“In my defence,” I say, trying to be heard above everyone’s laughter at the lunch table. “That bit of floor is notoriously uneven.”
“Like fuck it is,” Jac shoots back cheerfully, reaching up and tousling my hair. “My boyfriend is a colossal idiot.”
“That I’d agree with,” Pete says, grinning. “Don’t need any of your stories to realise that, Jac, just have to look at him.” I lean across the table and wordlessly flick him between the eyes.
Pete Wentz is, well. A little indescribable. He’s the closest our group of friends has to a trademark jock, but you wouldn’t think it to look at him. Religiously straightened hair falls over one of his smoky, kohl-lined eyes, and when he smiles it’s impossible not to mirror it. He’s intelligent, too, a poet and a writer, so different to the animals on the football team intent on terrorising the school yet too stupid to really succeed in much; but an aggressive streak cuts red and raw straight through him, and when he’s pissed, he can definitely act like them.
William, a tall, weirdly skinny guy, laughs and leans against Gabe. “Oh, Ryan Ross,” William sighs, “your inherent tomfoolery does make a man chuckle.”
Gabe rolls his eyes. “Stop talking like that,” he says, Spanish accent clinging to the words. It’s only subtly there, more so when he’s angry.
Smiling angelically at him, William says, “Never, fellow vagabond. Never.”
* * *
It’s a little later on in the lunch hour, and I’m wandering the near-empty halls with Spencer as opposed to venturing outside with most other people. Our shoes squeak on the lino, comfortable noise. Pete, Bill and Gabe disappeared somewhere along the way to see one teacher or another, so we’re pretty alone.
At least, that’s what we assumed, but on turning down a smaller corridor we’re met with raised voices and what sound like taunts, mocking tones radiating from a clump of students a few metres away. I exchange a look with Spencer who just shrugs, and we make our way over. There’s quite a few kids, packed tight so we can’t really see the centre of the commotion, but in between two girls’ heads I glimpse Pete’s face, anger-flushed and menacing, and something sinks inside me.
I hear him sneer, “Where did you even come from?”
A small lull, then another voice, coming from somewhere decidedly close to the ground, “Moved from a school across town.”
And then it all makes perfect sense, in a roundabout way. This school has always been like that, rejecting anything and everything that’s the slightest bit new; turning their backs on change and shutting out any late additions to the balance. New kids don’t do well here.
“You think you can just come in here and talk to me like that?” Pete again, louder.
“I didn’t even say anything...”
“Fucking did. Gabe, didn’t he.” Gabe mutters an agreement from somewhere I can’t see, and Pete says, “Yeah.”
“I didn’t start this, though, oh my god, what is wrong with you-“
“Nothing’s wrong with me, kid, it’s you that’s got the problem,” Pete snarls.
There’s a little scoffing noise, and then, “Yeah, right, because any person who responds to, ‘excuse me, do you know where the music room is,’ with, ‘why should I tell you, you little homo?’ is totally average.” Someone in the squashed ring of people asks this kid what he said back to Pete after that, and he says coolly, “I pointed out that my name is Brendon, actually, and that I’m not the one wearing makeup here.” A collective hiss runs through everyone at that, a mix of respect and outrage. Accusing one of the biggest homophobes in this dump, of... God, way to fucking go, new kid.
I hear a scuffling, he’s probably getting up from where Pete presumably knocked him down, and I decide with a huff that I’ve had enough of observing the back of peoples’ heads and push my way through. People move aside for me. When I emerge at the front, though, it’s like the world stops dead. My mouth drops open and my legs turn to jelly while disbelief runs rife within me. It can’t be, it couldn’t, that would ruin everything-but I’d know that face anywhere right now, of course I would, fuck, fuck.
It’s the kid from last night, the kid who saw me, with the eyes and the hair and, and I can’t breathe.
Him and Pete are staring each other down, eyes intensely locked, but he breaks the contact smoothly, sweeping his eyes away without blinking so that he hasn’t even lost, really, just decided that Pete’s too beneath him to carry on winning. It doesn’t make Pete any happier, his jaw clenching visibly. The guy’s eyes land on me. They narrow, and his brow furrows like he’s searching his brain for something that’s escaping him, and he’ll find it soon, just has to rummage through the right cupboard or pull out the right file. Only a matter of time. I can feel the foundations of everything I’ve built for myself shaking, cracks threatening to appear.
And there it is. The eyes widen a fraction, and he blinks. There it is, the first crack.
A spark, a flicker. Recognition.
I can’t breathe.
Shit.
My skin is hot all over as he keeps staring at me for what feels like decades but must only be a matter of a second or two, and I feel too big for the space I’m standing in, too noticeable. The corner of his mouth twitches the slightest bit, little activity on an otherwise blank face, and he turns away. The next thing I know, I’m watching the back of his spotless new blazer retreat as he leaves the crowd. Kids get out of his way, clear him a path wordlessly; no-one stands up to Pete, normally.
“Fucking faggot!” Pete shouts angrily, an outburst, and the kid - Brendon - he doesn’t look back. His shoulders are hunched just slightly, though, and the line of his back drawn tight, not enough for anyone to see unless they were studying him as hard as I am. I shake my head, dazed, and force my gaze away.
Pete’s standing next to me now, and I snap my head round to meet his eyes. They’re almost black, get so dark when he’s angry, and his mouth is still set in a scowl. “Did you hear what he said to me?” he demands.
I take a breath, lean back slightly from him. Still recovering, recuperating. “Yeah.”
“Out of order. Fucking implying-“
“To be fair,” Gabe says lazily, walking over as the crowd begins to evaporate, “you did start that. You don’t even know the guy, Pete.” I exhale hard because I’m not the one who had to say what I was already thinking.
Pete shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I can’t tell.”
“Whatever, it’s cool,” Gabe says, smirking now. “We’ll deal with him later. Right now? Vending machines. Vamonos, amigos.”
I swallow and don’t say a word.
* * *
I still can’t get over it.
He’s here, at my fucking school, and he could ruin everything I’ve worked so hard to set up by just opening that oversized mouth of his.
I trudge up to my front door, fingers shaking as I try and locate my house key on the ring and manoeuvre it to the lock. Everything’s suddenly become so much effort, so hard for me to compute because my mind, it’s somewhere else. It’s with him, wherever he is, it’s with Brendon, following him and providing me with bullshit anecdotes about what he’s doing and who he’s talked to. As soon as I get inside I find myself slamming the door shut, anger from somewhere I can’t place. It shakes the glass in the stained window of the door.
“Ryan!” An irritated yell from somewhere deeper inside. “How many times have I told you? That door’s not going to stand it much longer!” My mother appears, poking her head around the kitchen door at the end of the hallway, and her face is annoyed and stressed. The annoyance is fresh, it’s at me, but the strain in her features looks stale and old; I didn’t do that.
“Sorry,” I say, without much feeling. She huffs at me. “You okay?” I’m asking against my better judgement, usually I’d just scurry upstairs and avoid getting involved, but.
“Your dad’s coming home early,” she tells me, without answering the question but somehow answering it completely at the same time. “He’ll be here in about a half hour.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure what else to say, tentative.
She’s got her back turned to me, now: as I hover in the doorway she’s stood at the sink, her whole body tense and too still, shoulders curled in over the washing up. Then there’s a sudden crash and a tinkle as she brings her hand down abruptly where I can’t see, breaks something in the bowl. “Goddamnit,” she hisses.
I take a few more steps towards her and sweep my eyes over her hands. On seeing the long slash of red over the palm of the hand she’s holding suspended over the dishes, I grab a tea-towel from nearby, reach for her hand and carefully wrap it round. She doesn’t say a word, just watches. I don’t look up at her, but I know she is, can feel her eyes. Her hand feels frail under mine, and when I press down just enough to stop the bleeding she squeezes back.
Mom breaks the silence that’s settled like snow by muttering, “He got sent home. From work, they smelt the drink on him.”
Taking a deep, shuddery breath, I gulp down a wave of unexpected sickness and reply, “Right.”
She gives me a watery smile. “Thank you, Ryan,” she says softly, gesturing to her hand. I just nod, my head fuzzy, and head upstairs.
Once I’m there, laid down on my bed with my back to the door and my eyes to the wall, I let myself think. The lights are off and the curtains are drawn almost-shut, small chinks of light falling through, and my eyes are grateful for the rest. As soon as I shut them, a now-familiarly predictable face flits across the blackness, and I sigh. He’s in my head.
He’s a threat, of course, but at the same time he’s... intriguing, like a roaring, crackling fire that you should douse straightaway for fear of being burnt but instead you stand just for a little while longer, watching the flickering orange in the shadows and the gloom.
The usual refrain that threats need to be dealt with is chanting in my mind, but I let it carry on. Too tired to analyse this, what I’m feeling, because it’s too strange a mix of fear and exhilaration that it’s impossible to identify even if I wanted to.
I look at the time on my phone, 4:00. Hours too early to sleep, and yet when I hear the front door slam downstairs and timid reprimands quelled by crude, careless remarks, I find that letting my eyelids drop closed is a lot more appealing than staying awake.
And if the last thing I see before I drift off is Brendon’s chocolate brown eyes delving into mine, well, I’ll forget by morning, anyway.
* * *
“This has been,” Jon says, plopping himself down next to me at the lunch table, “such. An uneventful. Day.”
“Tell me about it,” Pete groans. “Boring as shit. Like, I mean, even more than usual. Makes me want to start something, just to have something to do, you know?”
“Hey,” I pipe up, turning to Jon. “Where were you yesterday, man?”
“I skipped.” Jon shrugs. He’s a year older than the rest of us, but he’s a senior too, held back last year for failing in practically every exam he took. This year, he’s pledged to do it right, to get good grades and do well; he wants to go to some fancy art college, and they would never have taken him last year. So, now, he’s going along the straight and narrow. Or, trying. Clearly, he still needs some work. “It’s no big deal, just one day, right?”
Most of us know pretty well that one day turns into a week, a month, but he’s looking for confirmation, so I casually agree, “Yeah, no big deal. Not like everyone doesn’t do it once.”
I take a bite out of my doughnut, chocolate glaze and sprinkles bursting on my tongue - “healthy school” my ass - and then there are arms snaking over my shoulders and loosely crossing around my neck from behind. They’re decorated with about ten thousand handmade bracelets, woven and beaded, and I force a grin as Jac’s voice tickles my ear. “Guess who,” she giggles.
“You’ve made it easy, no one else in this school wears that amount of crappy jewellery,” Pete points out, flashing a joking grin at her, and when I tilt my head up to look at her she’s shooting him a glare.
“Don’t ruin my game,” she scolds. “No other guy in the school wears that amount of cheap eyeliner, but you don’t see me complaining.”
He scowls at her, and I smile, amused. William sits down with a plastic tray laden with inhuman amounts of food. “Now, now, children. Play nicely,” he smirks. Then his face lights up upon catching sight of Jon among us, and he breaks into a huge grin as he says, “Jon Walker, you great oaf, I missed you terribly yesterday!”
Jon smiles, then feigns heartache, one hand placed dramatically over his chest and a sincere expression on his face. “Sorry, Bill, I didn’t consider your feelings.”
“You’re forgiven,” Bill says, “but only because you are pretty.”
Jon laughs easily, preens a little. He’s sort of a rare finding, here. Someone who’s okay with joining in on that kind of banter, but is still not called out on it, still somehow avoids the ‘gay’ jokes and the taunts.
There’s a loud scraping as Pete pushes his chair back and stands up quickly, face clouded. “Not hungry,” he announces. “I’ll catch you later,” and without another word he’s gone. No one says anything for a moment, but we’re all thinking the same.
Jac hums, thoughtful, and blows air upwards to ruffle her fringe out of place. “He does not like it when you do that.”
William rolls his eyes. “No shit,” he says.
“Then why still do it?” Her eyes are exaggerated by the makeup but still wide, she hates when Pete gets like this, gets angry. I suppose, for a girl, it’s a bit scary. For anyone, really.
Grinning wickedly, he replies, “It’s priceless.”
After a while, everyone gets up to leave, and I’m feeling happy, content, even. I’m not thinking about yesterday at all, until-“Hey, Jon, there’s a new kid, did you know?” Fucking Gabe.
“No?” Jon says, his tone of voice angling for more details.
“Pete already hates him,” I say, my voice sounding foreign, and Jac snorts out a little laugh.
“Well, of course he does,” she says. “He’s a fag, and it’s really, really obvious.”
Jon says, “Oh,” and frowns a little, but says nothing of it.
“That’s him over there!” Jac hisses, pointing not-very-discreetly down a side-corridor to our left. I crane my head in the direction with everyone else, but I can’t see him, only perhaps a glimpse of the top of his head moving through milling people, and suddenly I wish everyone would just move the fuck out of the way so I could get a good view. I stretch my neck upwards to no avail, and I’m just about to give up when-slam! And, yeah, fucking ouch.
“Jesus, Ryan,” Gabe says, concern filtering through laughter, “you okay?” I’m a little dazed, my head spinning just the slightest amount, and as I try to steady myself and concentrate on not falling over, I notice the offending open locker door swinging idly on its hinges.
“I.” I just walked into a fucking locker, what the fuck. “I’m... fine, yeah. I don’t know why that happened,” I admit, my shaky laughs blending with the stronger ones all around me. My cheeks flush pink, and Jac pats my arm, goes up on tiptoes to kiss my head. “Thanks,” I tell her quietly, and she smiles so hard it makes my chest hurt. In the bad way.
I’m pretty sure I’ve got a concussion, or, you know, a tumour or something, but we move on pretty quickly. I shake off the uncomfortable feeling that’s not only in my head but spreading all through me like an infection and radiating from where Jac clutches my hand tightly, securely, a lie.
A little lost in thought, I set my body on auto-pilot while I try to figure my own self out, because, really, I have no idea why that just happened, why I needed suddenly to see him. It doesn’t make sense, because in the space between now and when he cropped up yesterday, it’s like he’s everywhere. I can’t get rid of him. It’s only been a day but I could swear he’s stalking me. Either that, or it’s one of those creepy voodoo supernatural bond things that connect two souls for all eternity. But it’s probably the stalking thing.
In my last lesson after lunch yesterday, he came in late, apologised to the Latin teacher, Ms. Heyward, in this polite, quiet voice that seemed to both not suit him and fit him entirely. He slid into the only available seat, in front of me and one to the left, and I’d spent the whole lesson inexplicably furious at the back of his head.
This morning, as I was walking up to the gates, he was approaching from the opposite direction, watching his shined-up shoes as he walked. It had taken me all of about two seconds to recognise him in the bow of his head and the subtle wave of his mop-top hair, and I quickly crossed the road to avoid being seen by him before doubling back and making a completely new route in. By the time I actually arrived at school, the tense, tight feeling had almost dissipated.
He was there in my second lesson, volunteering a strangely perfect answer, practically textbook, while the professor beamed on and the rest of the class sniggered. I just sat there, studying my book and telling myself he wasn’t really there. He was there in the cafeteria at the very start of the lunch hour, cheeks hollowing slightly ridiculously as he sucked at a Capri Sun and I discreetly shielded myself from view. Alone. Always on his own. It strikes me, though, that he doesn’t mind it - or maybe he does but he doesn’t want it to seem that way, and either one works for me in helping to quell the small but still-alive natural instincts to offer him a seat or a smile.
Yeah, he’s everywhere.
* * *
Phillips is a bastard.
I revel in this fact as I drag my feet through quiet halls and along to his office. I almost forgot about the detention, what with my mind going haywire, but five minutes before the end of school Spence nudged me with a surprisingly pointy elbow and whispered low under the quiet scratch of pen on paper, “Don’t forget about Phillips after school, okay?” I groaned and let my head fall, bump against the table in defeat as Spencer patted my head consolingly.
So here I am. I reach his door and knock twice, soft, because maybe if he doesn’t hear I can leave and it would be slightly justified. No such luck. “Ah, Ryan,” he says, looking me up and down. “How glad I am to see you.” His tone drips sarcasm, and I don’t really appreciate it. I grunt somewhat in reply, and he steps out of the office, closing the door behind him. “Come with me, then.”
“Fine.” I follow begrudgingly, non-regulation shoes squeaking against the lino as I intentionally grind them in harder. I’m irritating myself, even, but I’m irritating him, too, so it’s okay.
He leads me to one of the Math rooms and steers me to a chair near the door, sliding three sheets of paper across the desk towards me along with a thick textbook. “You will complete exercises five through ten on page one hundred and two, got that?” he says, sternly. I nod, miserable. It’s about as much as the homework was, but, like, a million questions extra, fucking hell.
As I duck my head down and make a bedraggled start, clumsy numbers meandering across the page, he lingers. Just inside the doorway he stands, watching over me, and he’s pulling the air so tight with how he’s obviously staring at me that I raise my head, look him in the eye and say coldly, “What?”
His whole body heaves a great sigh, and he takes his glasses off his face, polishes them on his stupid knitted sweater and replaces them before speaking quietly. “Ryan, you know I don’t want to keep you in here, but I just can’t keep making allowances because of your circumstances. Do you understand?”
Something flares inside me and I find it in myself to nod. “Uh-huh.”
“I know it’s hard, with your family situation, but... We can offer you extra help, anything you need to make sure you don’t end up here-“
“You don’t know shit about my ‘family situation,’” I spit out, out of the blue, surprising myself. “God, just drop it, you don’t-“
He makes soothing gestures with his hands, palms to me, says, “Okay, okay.”
“It’s not okay, don’t even.” I sigh, pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can I just do this, and then get the fuck out of here. Please.”
He doesn’t say anything and I don’t open my eyes until the telltale click of the door, ominous and loud in the quiet, reaches my ears. As soon as his footsteps die down I slam the textbook shut and hurl it at the door, producing a satisfying bang, and the familiar anger that’s bleeding out around the edges makes it hard to see as it drops to the floor with a thud.
* * *
About an hour and a half later, and I’m finally getting out of here. I can feel a scowl permanently set in my face like stone, or like a vulgar picture etched in setting concrete on the street. I can’t help it, though, I’m wound up so, so tight. Everything’s a little too much, though I’d never admit it out loud, and trying to comprehend everything - Brendon, home, school, fucking Phillips and his fucking surds - is overwhelming, to say the least.
I let the main doors to the school swing shut behind me as I leave, not looking back.
I can’t wait for the day that I do this for the last time, the day I can get out of whatever this is that I’ve created for myself.
Scrubbing a hand across my face, I heave a small sigh and hitch the strap of my beat-up, brown satchel bag a little more comfortably across my shoulder. I look at the sky. November sun tries to warm but the cloud prevails and the grey overpowers it, helpless. As I make my way across the grounds, scuffing my shoes and kicking at tiny stones, sending them scattering away, I catch sight of a figure right up by the gates, leaning against one of the posts. Not the tallest but probably a guy, and even though I’m squinting I can’t pick out any more. After briefly considering a detour, human contact being probably the last thing on my list of things I need, I shake my head minutely at myself and carry on going with my head and eyes down.
Something makes me lift them, though, and the hand about to plug an earphone into my ear stills in mid-air, along with my feet. I’m close enough, now, only a few feet away, and of course, of fucking course it’s Brendon. Inevitability has never been a friend of mine. He’s looking at me already, too late to turn around and avoid him, and an awkward twinge sets into the sway of my own walk.
He raises an eyebrow at me. He’s shrunk in on himself in that typical new-kid fashion but still somehow looking down his nose, at me, and the last cord snaps.
Forgetting how uncomfortable it is to talk to him after he’s seen me getting off with someone, another guy no less, I stride right up to him. “Do you have something you want to say?” I demand, voice sharp. “Do you have a fucking problem with me, is that it?”
He hasn’t moved. It makes me madder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right,” I scoff, cold. “Right, that’s why you’ve been staring at me like I’m some piece of crap off the bottom of your shoe, is it?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t said a word to you,” he says, his voice steady and almost too-controlled, like he’s making an effort to keep it that way. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Ryan,” I tell him immediately. He should know that already. Regardless.
He smiles, soft and deliberately insincere. “Pleasure,” he replies in a mock-gushing tone. “I’m-“
“Brendon, yeah, I know.”
His eyebrows quirk, eyes glinting. He looks fucking evil. “Do you, now.”
Rolling my eyes, I gather a hissing intake of breath through my teeth and shove him quick and rough against the hard metal of the tall gatepost behind him, hands curled into his stupid jacket and pinning him there. He’s tense, holding his breath, maybe. But this isn’t that tight, he could get out of this any time if he wanted to. “Listen, Brendon, I just-- you know what you saw, okay, and-“
“You mean, you, stood there in the dark with another guy’s dick in your hand? Yeah, it rings a bell or two.” He’s smirking, small creases appearing around his eyes. I drive him harder into the metal and he grunts quietly in discomfort, face falling.
“Shut up,” I growl.
He wriggles, uncomfortable. “Sorry, sorry, but a gig? Just, like, out in the open, where everyone could see you. Dude, ‘s’a little cheap, is all.”
“Fuck you,” I spit, my cheeks flaring red. “I’m not cheap, shut the fuck up.”
I’ll never think that of myself.
I am not cheap.
“You brought it up, man.”
God, he’s positively infuriating. My fingers twitch, tingling to ball into fists where they’re still clenched in the fleecy soft material of his jacket, and I force my breathing to slow. He’s not even worth that. “Look,” I say, my voice relatively level. “It’s not a... A thing.”
“A thing?” he repeats, amused, incessant.
“They don’t know,” I interrupt before he can come in with any more smart-ass comments, tripping over the words a little. Inwardly, I scold myself for the words dancing on the tip of my tongue, because it’s not-I’m not that guy who makes random threats to people I don’t even know, never if it’s not absolutely necessary, but this is and I can’t help that. “If you say a word, anything at all about what you saw, Brendon, I swear to fucking Lucifer I will-“
“There’s no need,” Brendon says, “for the Satan threats.” He laughs, then, like it’s all a really big joke to him, and doesn’t he get how serious I am, how serious this is? “Believe it or not, I have better things to talk about.”
Well, good. That’s good, that’s... very good.
Fucker.
“Just remember, if you say anything,” I tell him sweetly, “I’ll make you so sorry.”
He swallows, keeping the eye contact but faltering a little when I refuse to let go of him. Nodding once, twice, slow and restrained, he says quietly, “Okay, whatever.”
“Good,” I mutter, close enough to his face to identify a light dusting of teeny freckles, speckled over the bridge of his nose and high on his cheekbones, and huh. I never noticed that before. Not that I should have done. I release him with another push that’s not so forceful, and he stumbles a little, the zipper on his open jacket hitting the metal with a tinny clang.
I step back, back away from him. Don’t want to be near him for longer than I absolutely have to, because this feels too much like uncharted territory. I feel reckless, that’s what he brings to me, and I don’t like it; the feeling of relentless desperation, of quiet despair and pleas to no one that he remembers and obeys, that he keeps his mouth under control.
My headphones are now completely tangled, of their own accord, and I nimbly unpick the knots as I turn away and towards the street, a handy distraction from his eyes and the way he’s still flat against the gates as if I’m continually holding him there. Just as I’m about to work the bud into my ear, I hear him clear his throat, say my name. I shoot a look over my shoulder, eyes narrowed, not bothering to turn myself all the way around. He presses his lips together, almost as if to try and stop himself, then says softly, simply, “I wouldn’t.”
I blink, not knowing what he means. Or, guessing, but not making sense of it. He’s probably lying, anyway. I frown at him and whip my head back around to walk away, letting the music finally fill my ears and drown out the echo of his voice.
* * *
Part Two