Bobby snuggled down into the cleft of the other boy’s arm, his head on Jaye’s shoulder.
“But listen, Bobby, you have to listen,” Jaye said, his voice growing serious, “There’s been trouble with Ryan since that, too. He’s been bothering Angel and me and hanging around the drama building.”
The room seemed colder. Bobby reached for the comforter, pulling it up over their legs. He tried not to listen but Jaye’s voice kept talking at him.
“Trey said he’s gotten calls from Ryan’s father’s office, asking about those charges. I don’t know what’s gonna happen so you have to be careful at school. Okay?
“Ryan’s crazy. So stay with me, okay? Or Angel. Or Gene Kuo, I guess. Or John, if he’s around. I just don’t want you by yourself at school, okay? Bobby?”
Bobby had grown silent, inscribing circles on Jaye’s belly with his finger and he didn’t answer. Jaye shook him.
“Bobby!” he hissed, trying to keep quiet, “I’m serious! You have to stay away from Ryan, stick with me and Angel tomorrow, okay? Bobby…”
Bobby’s tongue felt dry and he swallowed hard. He had to have the light on. But it was so far away from him; he could never reach it. His limbs felt heavy, leaden.
“Bobby, please, please answer me!” Jaye was begging. Or was it Trey? He heard Trey’s voice as if it were on the tech mic system, fuzzy and indistinct. What was he saying? Bobby turned onto his side and pulled the covers over his body, that small effort costing all his energy. He wished Trey would turn on the lamp so he could sleep. He was very tired.
The voice again, much too loud now. “Bobby!”
Noises in the hallway.
Mother’s coming. Mother will turn on the light; she knows I can’t sleep without the light because I told her so.
Bobby closed his eyes. He heard rustling sounds and that voice again. Jaye? Trey?
“Bobby, I gotta go, I gotta leave but…are you okay, Bobby? Are you alright?”
Steps in the hall. A light. Yellow brightness sliding in under the door and through the jamb.
“Dammit! Bobby! I know you hear me! Answer me!” The voice was frantic, flat noise on the air.
Window sash opening. More sounds. The door opened, slight sound of hinge and wood. Bobby opened his eyes and sat up in bed slowly, as if moving through water, hugging the comforter to his naked body.
Hello Mother.
“In their entwined sleep, they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage
In the morning they wore each other’s face.”
Lovesong (Ted Hughes)
Matty stood at Gene’s front door, pulling the keys from his pocket, and then stopped cold as the door magically opened inward. His jaw actually dropped, just like in the movies.
Un-be-fucking-lievable.
“Hi, Matty.”
Michael Morrison still had one hand on the doorknob, keys in the other, his shirt untucked and unbuttoned, his brown hair matted down, dark with sweat. He let go of the door and combed his hair back from his face with his hand, the very picture of nonchalance.
“What the fucking hell are you doing here?” Matty snarled.
Michael flushed, his hand tightening on his keys. He frowned.
“None of your business.” Michael said in a low voice.
Matty looked slowly up and down the football player. Michael’s fly was unzipped.
Without thinking, Matty punched Michael in the stomach as hard as he could. The athlete doubled over with a groan, clutching at his belly as the air gusted out of his lungs, and then staggered backwards. Matty watched him for a second, then stepped around him, pushed open the front door and went in, closed it behind him and locked both deadbolts. He flicked off the outside light switch and waited, straining to hear sounds from the other side of the door. Nothing.
He went to Gene’s doorway and stood watching his partner sleep, listening to his even, regular breathing. Gene was naked on top of the bedspread; curled on his side, Flash a dark pool against the back of his knees. Gene’s skin shone bright against the blue in the dim light from the monitor, and Matty spent some time studying the details of that slender body before stepping into the room. He paused inside the door, thinking about what he’d just done to Michael. He hoped the asshole wouldn’t tell Gene.
And he wished he’d taken Michael’s goddam key while he had the chance.
“I’d not be just a nothin’
My head all fulla stuffin’
My heart all fulla pain…
If I only had a brain.”
The Wizard of Oz (Warner Bros., 1939)
Michael crept through the house, hoping to get to his room without disturbing his dad, but Quirksy’s tags kept jingling as he pranced at his master’s side. Michael shushed him and slipped off his shoes, holding them in his hand as he reached for his bedroom door. His stomach ached, his head swam and he was more confused than a virgin in a brothel, one of his dad’s favorite sayings. He truly hoped that tomorrow wouldn’t be half as crazy as today was; he didn’t think that he could take it. He drew a deep breath and pushed his bedroom door carefully open, mindful of noise despite the happy dog at his feet.
Michael would be glad to see his heated waterbed; he was exhausted. The door swung open to his bedroom but Michael just stood there, poised like a Greek statue, staring at his bed.
Ryan Sellers sat on the side of Michael’s bed with an ashtray on his knees, smoking a Camel cigarette. He exhaled, wreathing the air above his head with smoke.
“Hello, Mike.”
“We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw.”
The Hollow Men (T. S. Eliot, 1925)
[End of Part 19]
”While lovers laugh and music plays
I stumble by and I hide my pain
The lights are lit, the moon is gone
I think I've crossed the Rubicon…” Streets of Love (Rolling
Stones, 2006)
Michael stood at the kitchen counter building the ham sandwiches, Quirksy watching intently from the floor beside him, shiny black eyes locked to the food. Ryan leaned against the counter, a can of coke in his hand, watching them both. The clock on the wall ticked in the quiet room, the house dark and silent in the night. The boys were gently lit by the small light over the sink; across the room, the dark wood of the cleared off tabletop reflected the warm light. The room was pretty, safe.
“You sure I can’t do something?” Ryan asked, again.
Michael made a negative sound in his throat and picked up the mayonnaise jar. He twisted the lid but it was a new jar and the top was on tight. Michael didn’t look at Ryan. He got a better grip on the glass jar and tensed, twisting hard. Damn.
Ryan set down his coke and reached for the jar in Michael’s hands. Michael didn’t look as Ryan opened it easily, set it down and picked up the table knife. Michael leaned down to scratch Quirksy’s ears as Ryan applied the thick white knife-full to the bread and finished the sandwiches. Ryan watched as Michael picked up a bit of cheese from the plate and handed it wordlessly to the dog, who inhaled it soundlessly.
“That your dog or your dad’s?” Ryan asked, his face expressionless.
“Mine, sort of.” Michael hesitated, then continued, his voice low and tired. “I was five when Dad found him by the side of the road and brought him home. He was a mess, I couldn’t believe a dog could get that dirty: leaves and bugs tangled in his fur. We didn’t even know he was this color; we thought he was a brown dog.” Michael smiled. “He cleaned up pretty cute, though…and Dad said he could sleep in my room.” Michael’s face was far away dreamy.
Ryan handed him one of the sandwiches. Pathetic mutt stories didn’t interest him. “Wanna eat back in your room?”
“Yeah.” Michael agreed. They gathered up bags of chips, extra cans of coke and the plate of sandwiches and walked quietly though the house to Michael’s room, Quirksy dancing alert attendance.
Joe Morrison looked up as the three of them passed the open door of his study, and then turned back to his computer screen. When was the last time Mike had a friend over? He heard Michael’s bedroom door close at the end of the hallway and smiled to himself.
A teenage boy needs his friends.
"What is that noise?"
The wind under the door.
"What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"
Nothing, again nothing.
A Game of Chess, from The Wasteland (T.S. Eliot)
Bobby sat in his bed, rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped around his knees. He was waiting for the sun to rise so he could get up and dressed. Hours ago, he’d crept into his father’s study to stare into the glass cases, guns glinting in the moonlight. So tempting, so easy. Bad thoughts. Bad boy. He’d been awake for hours, waiting out the dreams and shadows, waiting on the new day. Ignoring the red feelings, those bad things inside. Today had to be good. Today would be good. He would make today good.
Today, Bobby was going back to Northside. Today, he would start making things right.
“Now I'm down in a slump and I'm eating alone
I rueing the day with some friends on the phone
I never go out, I'm becoming a grouch
I just watch the TV and I drink on the couch”
Biggest Mistake (Rolling Stones, 2006)
Michael and Ryan lay across the king size waterbed, bags of chips and two unopened beer cans between them. Quirksy, sated on the delectable bits of cheese and mayonnaise-laced ham that had escaped the humans, was now curled up asleep at the foot of the bed. The television had the boys’ attention, Suicide Kings on the DVD player. ‘I ast you, who’s blood is dat?’
The group of friends didn’t answer…but he saw.
Christopher Walken stared at the sight of his own severed finger, in a dish of glittering ice.
Michael shivered. His grandmother used to say, ‘Someone’s walking across your grave’. He couldn’t think clearly but he had a bad feeling somewhere in the back of his mind, something about tomorrow…
Ryan reached for the beers, snapping back the tabs with practiced ease, and handed one to Michael, his eyes on the TV screen. The finger in the dish wore a green-gemmed ring, bright blood leaking into the melting ice.
Ryan smiled.
“Sweet is the swamp with its secrets,
Until we meet a snake…’
(Emily Dickinson, 1891)
Angel lay on the pillow, dreaming of a forest green, hazy with sunlight. He walked naked on the springy leaves and moss: looking, looking. He saw tiny eyes peering at him from under bushes; squirrels scolded him from treetops. A pair of rabbits darted out from beneath the brush to cross his path. Sun filtered down through the leafy canopy and dappled Angel’s dark body with patches of gold. Birds sang in the treetops and then flew away in a flutter of colorful feathers.
Ahead, a rustling. The foliage parted to admit first a slow walking white stallion and then its rider, sheathed in steely armor, faceplate shut, a lance strapped to his side. The horse picked its way among the stones, hooves moving delicately for all its great size. The coat of the horse gleamed bright in the patchwork sunshine. Angel stopped, waiting.
The knight drew close and reined in his mount, scant feet from Angel. Angel watched him; his breath caught in his throat. The knight looked down at Angel, one hand on his saddle horn, the other he raised in a graceful salute. Angel felt weak; he knelt down in the grass at the horse’s feet. This all was so familiar, like a dream of a dream.
Another rider appeared to Angel’s left on a dark horse with red demon eyes. The man wore shadows; his body was wreathed in nothing, in smoke and in darkness. He called out to the knight but Angel couldn’t understand his words. The knight turned his horse to the newcomer and reached for his lance, lifting it up and hefting it against his gloved palm. The dark man laughed and raised up a long cold rifle to his shoulder.
Angel gasped.
“No!” Angel tried to say, but the word came out as silence.
The white stallion reared up at the black horse, pawing at the air. The dark man looked through his sights and took aim. The knight held still, the lance gripped tight in his hand. Angel held his breath.
Above them, a bluebird watched. It cocked its dainty head to one side and then opened it’s mouth to sing, dropping what it held. The red flower fell slowly, wafting down in the winds, multiplying as it fell until dozens and then hundreds and then thousands of rich red blossoms filled the air around the shadow warrior, falling, covering him in scarlet petals, showering him in an eruption of blood red blooms that finally obliterated the dark man.
And he was gone. The red heaps of flowers sank into the forest floor with a gentle sound of sighing.
Angel released the breath that he’d been holding.
The man on the white horse looked at the place where the other one had been, then turned back, twitching the reins of his horse until he was once more standing over Angel. He looked down, his eyes glinting as he lifted the visor. Angel watched, entranced. This was so familiar; he was so familiar. Angel looked down at his nakedness but was not ashamed.
The knight swung down from the saddle, his metal boots landing deep, crushing blades of grass beneath him. Angel looked up again. The knight raised his hand to his helmet and slowly lifted it off, leaning forward to shake out his dark hair. He straightened and, looking down, pierced Angel’s eyes with starlight. Points of sunlight moved in his hair, points of starlight swam in his eyes. And Angel could not look away. He knew this man.
Angel held up his arms in entreaty to the knight, and the man knelt down to the ground before Angel, his armor melted away…
“Angel!”
…at the touch of Angel’s hands; they came together, bare flesh against flesh, hot to the touch and smooth like satin. Angel closed his eyes and…
“Angel!”
…felt the man’s arms around him and his weight pressed him backwards gently into the grass, his body atop Angel’s, heavy and hard with desire. He reached down between them and grasped Angel, and Angel moaned and arched up into that hot hand and…
“Angel!”
…thrust into it and then pulled the man down against him, feeling his hot flesh and hard muscle pressing him into the grass. The man trailed kisses like melting snowflakes along Angel’s neck and chest and belly and downward, cooling where Angel was hot but almost burning as he…
“Angel!”
…took Angel into the furnace of his mouth, ravenous, demanding, insatiable. Angel writhed beneath him, making sounds that were no sound, saying names that were no name. He pulled the man up and wrapped his legs around him, urging him onward, inward, upward to the white hot center that was Angel himself and the man pushed Angel’s knees back and pierced him with his lance, deep and to the heart. Angel cried aloud for joy and the man shed starlight from his hair into Angel’s eyes as he thrust again and again, hot and hard and thrusting into…
“Angelito! I said wake up!”
…and Angel woke up, opening his eyes to rub sleep from them. Mary sighed and set down the glass of water she’d been holding as a last resort. She really hadn’t wanted to dump it onto her son, but sometimes he just wouldn’t wake up.
“I just can’t understand why you sleep so hard, papito,” Mary said in exasperation, “You’re going to be late for school.”
“This place is empty, so empty, so empty without you…”
So Empty (Rolling Stones, 2006)
Michael lifted up his head, groggily, when the sunshine hit his face. There were crumbs on the sheets grating against his bare skin; the comforter was pulled up without the sheet. Michael hated that. He felt sweaty; he wanted a hot shower. He could hear a distant radio in the house, which meant his father was shaving. He sat up carefully so as not to rock the waterbed, rubbing at his eyes, the covers falling back from his body.
There was a sound of protest from the pile next to him. What the fuck?
Last night came back to Michael slowly as he watched Quirksy lift up on his front legs and stretch. Watching movies with Ryan, getting high, drinking beer, eating sandwiches and potato chips. Which would explain the crumbs. Michael had no memory of asking Ryan to stay, no memory of falling asleep, in fact. Damn. He really didn’t much want Ryan Sellers in his bed. Michael lifted up the sheet and then wished he hadn’t. He was naked under the covers. Just how damn high had he gotten last night and where the fuck were his shorts? Last night seemed more than a little vague.
Michael got up with a sigh. Time to shave and shower. He picked up his cell phone and took it with him into the bathroom. The pile under the covers didn’t move.
While the water heated, filling the bathroom with steam, Michael punched in Gene’s number and then hesitated. He looked at himself in the mirror, at his own deep green eyes disappearing in the fog. He thought of Matty on Gene’s doorstep with the devil in his eyes and that sucker punch to the gut. And he could still hear the sound of the deadbolt clicking shut against him.
Michael flipped the phone closed, tossed it down onto the fluffy bathmat and stepped into the shower.
‘You’ve used up all your coupons and all you’ve got left is… me.’
Underneath It All (No Doubt, 2004)
Gene woke in the morning with no memory of dreams. Matty sprawled alongside him in the bed, snoring. They were both on top of the bedspread but with a blanket thrown across them, covering them from the waist down. Did my mother come in last night and cover us?
Gene blushed at the thought; he was naked.
The elaborate raised and rough design on the bedspread had imprinted itself into Gene’s flesh from him staying so long in one position. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to will himself more fully awake. Some luck.
Morning sunlight invaded the room through the slats of the blinds, throwing striped yellow patterns across the floor, wall, and foot of the bed. Flash Cat slept on Gene’s other side, snoring somewhat more quietly than Matty, all four legs moving jerkily in his sleep. Gene smiled ruefully, wishing he could rest as easily as the cat did and have fabulous dreams of splendor in the grass.
He saw his cell phone on the floor. Time to check messages and get ready for school. He could hear Barbara in the kitchen making breakfast after her night shift. A sudden clear memory of cornflakes with Michael made Gene smile and he wondered if Michael was awake yet. Last night with Michael was burned into his brain, the image of Michael standing at his door in the dark, his face open and vulnerable with need and pain. He wondered when Michael had left…and why. Was it too early to call?
When Gene pushed back the blanket and rose from the bed, quietly so as not to disturb Matty, a bright green leaf fell unnoticed to the floor.
“Love set you going like a fat gold watch”
Morning Song (Sylvia Plath, 1961)
Bobby sat at the breakfast table, mechanically lifting the grapefruit sections into his mouth, swallowing without chewing. His father was barricaded behind the morning paper; his mother was at the stovetop. The scent of frying bacon filled the room. Sunlight fell through the window, as bright as the orange juice in the little glasses at each place setting. His father’s carefully sectioned grapefruit lay untouched, heaped with sugar, a sliced maraschino cherry in the center. Bobby chewed his last grapefruit section and swallowed, the tang of the fruit stinging the inside his mouth. He was so very tired.
“Bobby?” Jeannie said without turning from the frying pan, “I’d like you to wear that new sweater I bought you. Why don’t you go change after breakfast?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And don’t take too long in there, I don’t want you to be late today.”
“Yes, Mother.”
The newspaper dipped down in his father’s right hand. Bobby’s father stared coldly at his son without expression for several seconds, then flicked his paper back up. Bobby knew what he was thinking. Those boys at school; Bobby at school with those queer boys. He hadn’t wanted Bobby to leave Exodus.
Bobby thought of all Jaye had told him last night, of Trey coming home and Ryan lurking around the drama building. He felt the angry redness inside uncoil and stretch, waking with the new day. He looked at his father’s hands, steady on the newspaper like some ancient soldier’s hands on his shield.
Don’t worry, Daddy; I’m going to fix everything.
“Somebody is shooting at something in our town—
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street…
Who are they shooting at?”
The Swarm (Sylvia Plath, 1962)
Ryan woke up slowly to the sound of a computer printer firing up, then spitting into its tray. He sat up, pushing the covers from his overheated body. He couldn’t see or hear Michael. Empty chip bags and coke cans surrounded the waterbed; he stood, nude, scratching and stretching in the sunshine. A small metal tray sat on the bedside table; seeds and stems clear evidence of the night before. Ryan frowned and looked toward Michael’s door, open to the hallway. Damn.
He slid open the top bedside table drawer to put the tray away and paused, staring into the dark inside of the drawer. He looked back at the door, hesitating, and then walked over to close it quietly. He went back to the table and lifted out the fat paper rectangle. It was folded several times in the time-honored tradition of all important notes from friends…and lovers. The decorations on the outside left no doubt as to which this was. Little red sparkle hearts dribbled out of the folded corner as Ryan held the note.
There was a name drawn in glitter blue curlicues on the outside and right beside Michael’s name, a large pink marker heart encircling them both. Angel de la Torres.
Ryan smiled. He wasn’t worried about Angel. After last night with Michael, Ryan just knew that it wasn’t too late…It wasn’t too late for any of the things that had gone so horribly wrong. He had the feeling that he could fix everything.
He opened the note and began to read. Jesus Christ. Sex and love stuff from that little drama fag, hearts in the margins. It was enough to make anyone sick. Then his gaze stopped halfway down, at a name that triggered a memory. Angel in his face, defiant, so angry over that goddam friend of his in the hospital, that other faggot. First name and last name: oh, this was too perfect. And Scott could get the rest, address and all, from his mom in the office at school. Oh, yeah, Ryan was going to fix a lot of things today.
Thanks, Angel baby, thought Ryan sarcastically, for giving me that 18-karat name.
Ryan looked down at the note.
Hearts everywhere and the ace staring him right in the face: Trey Hart.
‘I find myself choking on all my contradictions.’
Bathwater (No Doubt, 2005)
Trey stood in the hospital room’s small shower, his hands against the tile, warm water coursing over his body and down the drain. The nurse stood outside the thin curtain, brawny arms folded across his chest, there by hospital regulation and not adding anything to Trey’s enjoyment of the long-awaited shower. Clean, finally and completely clean. And he was going home today; he kept telling himself, home, home, home and back to school.
But what he kept thinking about wasn’t his home; it was the Northside stage…and Jaye Patterson.
Trey was going home in two hours and Jaye had promised to come pick him up at lunchtime, to take him over to the drama building. He felt excited but wasn’t sure which reason was paramount, seeing his stage and checking up on the techies or…seeing Jaye. He closed his eyes against the light and water, running his fingers along his hardening cock. He was pretty sure it wasn’t his drama club duties that were making that happen. He smiled secretly to himself. Jaye Patterson…
He heard his cell phone ringing from the bedside and hurried to finish his shower.
‘I still love to wash in your old bathwater-‘
You make me feel like I couldn’t love another…’
Bathwater (No Doubt)
The bell rang and Angel pretended not to notice that Michael Morrison wasn’t in the room.
Trig was never Angel’s favorite class but this Tuesday was especially awful. Michael was supposed to be in class and Angel couldn’t decide if he was ready to see his so-called boyfriend again, not after yesterday’s performance in the parking lot. He flushed, remembering his dramatic exit and Michael calling after him. What a scene and, damn, he was glad Jaye was always ready to help out, rescue him from stupid situations. That’s what friends are for I guess.
Still, he knew he’d have to face Michael today, maybe talk to him…that is, if Michael showed up and if Michael would talk to him when he saw what Angel was wearing today. He’d taken nearly an hour just to dress, changing his outfit six times, and been especially careful with his makeup. His mom had just shaken her head when he’d come in to breakfast, not saying anything but, then, she didn’t have to.
He knew he’d overdone it a bit, but fuck if he’d let anyone tell him how to dress after all this time. If Michael didn’t like how he looked, he could fucking just leave him the hell alone today. No one was putting a gun to Michael’s head; he could act how he wanted. And if he wants to act like a homophobic dumbass jock, that’s his choice.
Angel sighed. The only problem was, he didn’t want to fight with Michael. Despite what they say, though, it only takes one to make a mess of things. He wasn’t planning on arguing, if Michael would talk to him, dressed as he was, as himself, then maybe…
Well, then, maybe things between them weren’t ruined after all.
‘Somewhere deep inside, you must know I miss you…’
Winner Takes It All (Abba, 1976)
In the drama room, kids sprawled around the room, doing homework or reading through scripts and scores for the upcoming musical, Camelot. Ms. Robi was at her desk, talking in gentle undertones with Lisa and Lori who wore matching worried expressions on their identical faces. Tryouts still made them nervous, and they were new enough to drama not to know that nervousness was normal. ‘Use the butterflies’, Ms. Robi had told decades of drama kids, ‘take all that energy and focus it outward.’ Doug sat in a chair near her desk wearing a black fedora and trench coat (today he was The Shadow), Camille’s slight body on his lap. Both of them studied the script in Camille’s hands, Doug resting his chin on her shoulder as they read through, occasionally pausing to exchange whispers.
Near the hallway door, Jaye was hopping from one foot to the other and slowly driving Jenny crazy. She was stomach down on the carpeted floor, books open in front of her and only half done with her overdue English assignment. She tried to keep her eyes, and mind, on her work but between the gleam and glitter of the silver sequins on Jaye’s tight, sleeveless shirt and his frenzied wriggling, it wasn’t easy. Finally, she threw down her pen and glared up at him, her green eyes bright as a tiger’s.
“Just what the fuck is your problem, Jaye?” Lisa looked up at Jenny’s harsh tone, then back to Ms. Robi, who hadn’t stopped talking to her and her twin.
Jaye flushed and sank, suddenly, to the floor beside her, muttering under his breath. The silvered shirt, closely spangled with sequins, clung to his toned upper body, matching the single, tiny diamond ear stud and the glitter across his eyelids. His sun-streaked blond hair was artfully yet carelessly moussed, then tucked behind his left ear, showing off the diamond stud. His blue eyes were heavily lined with a deep violet that made them seem more vivid, more intense, and the clear gloss on his lips only made his pout more attractive. He seemed a trim, tightly muscled, gorgeous beach boy gone Emo Goth, maybe a bit retro-Glam, but very definitely gone Drama. Jaye was cute as hell, Jenny thought, despite her annoyance.
“What?” Jenny asked, still irritated but relieved that he’d at least stopped moving.
“Sorry! Sorry, I said, sorry.” Jaye repeated softly.
“Hmmph,” she said, her gaze not leaving his face. A long moment passed.
Jaye carefully examined his short, glossy, black-polished fingernails.
“Well?” Jenny asked, but more quietly.
“Well, what?” He picked at a loose cuticle on his left thumb, not meeting her eyes.
“Well,” she said with exaggerated patience, rolling her eyes, “just what the fuck is your problem today?”
“Nothing, I don’t have a problem.” Jaye, still not looking up, bit at the offending cuticle and shivered at the sharp, small pain it brought.
Jenny sighed. “Jaye, you’ve been dancing around like a crazed crackhead for the last forty-five minutes. I don’t know about you but I’ve got work to do; I’m not only behind in three subjects, I have to work on my song for tryouts.” Jenny paused, studying Jaye’s averted face and trying not to smile, “Hence my question, dumbass.”
Jaye looked up, his left thumb still between his glossed lips. At his chagrined expression, Jenny did smile, and then shook her head.
“So, what’s got you this nervous?”
Jaye’s cheeks reddened. “I’m not nervous.” Jenny, suddenly flashing back to the cast party couch, grinned. She pushed herself up from the floor, sat and crossed her legs Indian style in her worn blue jeans, homework momentarily abandoned. She wore a slightly faded, black Broadway t-shirt from Wicked, no makeup and had pulled her long red hair into a loose ponytail that fell down her back. Her excess of freckles stood out in the fluorescent lighting, multiple layers of pigment beneath her near translucent skin.
Jaye swallowed hard, then met her stare. “I’m, well, I’m kinda…waiting for a call.” He tapped at the back pocket of his tight black jeans in unconscious emphasis.
She was smiling now, a wicked gleam in her green eyes. “Let me guess,” she offered, arching one eyebrow.
Jaye blushed, looked away, then back.
“Trey?” she asked, smug.
“Um…yeah,” he admitted, the blush traveling down his neck. “He’s, ah, he’s supposed to be home and I’m…” Jaye blinked, swallowed, and then managed a faint grin. “I’m going over to pick him up at lunch; well, before Major Studies. He wants to, um…he’s gonna check out the backstage and stuff.”
“I bet that’s not all he’s gonna check out.” Jenny said, deadpan.
Jaye’s blush deepened. “Jenny, he just got out of the hospital!”
Jenny laughed. “Like that’ll stop either of you. Unless he’s wrapped up like a mummy, you’ll be all over the poor guy.”
Jaye grinned again, weakly, then his eyes filled with tears. Surprised, Jenny grabbed his hand and held it. “Hey…hey, now,” she said gently, “he’s okay, Jaye, he’s home, right? So he’s okay.”
Jaye nodded, blinking back the tears. “Yeah, I know. It’s just…” he faltered, took a deep breath. “I was just worried, is all.”
“We all were, hon,” Jenny told him, her expression serious. She squeezed his hand. “We all were…but he’s okay.”
“Yeah,” Jaye admitted, “I know.” He sniffled loudly.
“Hey, don’t get all upset, hon,” Jenny said with a wink, “you’ll smear that purple mascara.” At his indignant look, she laughed, releasing his hand.
Jaye grinned, showing faint dimples, and stood, looking down at her pale, freckled face with its elegant bones. He started to go, then turned back.
“It’s not purple,” he told her, with mock hauteur, “it’s violet.”
Jenny snickered and bent back down to her English paper. “If you say so,” she told him, picking up her pen.
Jaye sniffed and walked over to the mirrored counters, near Carston and Joey, both busy with Camelot scores open in front of them. Jaye sat down, and then self-consciously checked his reflection. Nope, no smudges. He saw Jenny watching him in the mirror and stuck out his tongue at her. She laughed, loud.
Joey looked up from his pages, startled, staring around him. “What, what?”
“Nothing,” Jaye muttered, his blush beginning to fade.
Joey nodded, distracted. He shifted the pages in his hand. “Check me?” he asked.
Jaye nodded, taking the score from the other boy’s hands. “Sure.”
‘I have so much forgetting to do
Before I try to gaze again at
you.’
Before I Gaze At You
Again (from Camelot)
At the sight of Angel, head bent over his own paper, Michael’s jaw dropped. Jesus Christ!
Angel de la Torres was wearing a skin-tight, see-through, sleeveless top of some beaded, crimson gauzy material, through which his dark nipples were clearly visible. His tiny golden crucifix dangled above the low neckline that stretched tight across his chest. His pants were black vinyl and appeared to be molded to his slender body; his boots were his favorites: low-topped, Cuban-heeled, black leather.
He wore shiny black polish on his fingernails and more makeup than Michael ever remembered seeing on him. His eyes were deeply kohled and mascara-laden, his mouth cherry-red and his black hair had streaks throughout in a deep red that matched his shirt. His mother’s bracelet glittered in the overhead lighting, bright against the dark, bare skin of his arm. Angel still hadn’t looked up, didn’t appear to notice Michael’s stunned inspection as he worked his math problems.
Michael coughed, and cleared his throat. With perfect teenage sangfroid, Angel continued working his math problems; his silken, red and black hair falling across his cheek as he leaned over the paper. Michael coughed again, louder. Angel ignored him…from three feet away. Michael’s mouth twitched. Angel brushed his hair behind his left ear without looking up, a graceful gesture that made Michael’s breath catch in his throat. He bit his upper lip, never taking his eyes from the boy next to him. The boy who smelled like flowers, even from three feet away.
A boy who seemed to regard Michael as completely invisible.
Michael’s mouth twitched again. He snorted, lips pressed together, watching Angel work. He had a vividly clear memory of himself, yesterday, telling this fantastic specimen to ‘tone it down’ at school. And Angel’s indignant face as he stalked off, away from his…his idiot of a boyfriend. Michael snickered; then put his hand to his mouth. God, I can’t believe he’s come to school like this but he sure as hell has made his point crystal clear.
Michael laughed aloud, startling Angel, who finally looked up, warily, from his math work. Their eyes met, Angel’s guarded but Michael’s green eyes twinkling in amusement.
Angel frowned, then raised one eyebrow.
“What,” Angel demanded in a low whisper, “is your problem?”
Michael grinned and leaned close, just as the bell rang. The other students began shuffling away papers and picking up backpacks, but Michael grabbed Angel’s hand before he could pull away. Angel stared at him.
“What?”
“Wanna skip school with me at lunchtime, baby?” Michael whispered into Angel’s soft hair. Angel looked up at him, startled, his lined and kohled eyes wide.
“What?” Angel asked again, but more gently, less certainly. He stared into Michael’s deep green eyes, trying to work out what was happening. Michael laughed softly.
“I wanna skip school, take you home at lunchtime, that’s what. Dad’s at work and…” Michael hesitated, then dug into his jacket pocket to pull out the package of Hershey kisses. He set them carefully in front of Angel, a sweet offering, then leaned in close to Angel’s ear.
“And…I’m an idiot and I love you, that’s what. Meet me in the parking lot at 11:30?”
“Um…Michael?”
Michael kissed Angel on the lips, stood, hefted his backpack and took a step toward the door. He stopped and turned back, a smile on his lips.
“Angel, baby?”
“What?” Angel’s voice shook a little, despite himself.
“Just how the hell can you walk, let alone sit, in pants that tight?”
Angel blushed.
“See you at 11:30, at the Lotus?” Michael asked.
Angel gulped and nodded, still blushing furiously. He was thinking the pants problem was suddenly compounded. He giggled and clapped his hand over his mouth. He just couldn’t believe Michael’s reaction. He laid his hand gently on the package of delicious kisses, thinking of lunchtime and how hungry he suddenly felt. But not for food, not exactly.
He smiled at Michael, through a glitter of tears that had somehow, just now, appeared in his eyes.
Michael left the room, laughing, lighter by about a thousand pounds.
‘C'est moi! C'est moi, I'm forced to
admit.
'Tis I, I humbly reply.
That mortal who
These marvels can do,
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I.
I've never lost
In battle or game;
I'm simply the best by far.
When swords are crossed
'Tis always the same:
One blow and au revoir!’
C’est Moi
(from Camelot)
The usual contained chaos ruled in the spartan debate room, with Dr. Friedman at its center, holding court in his office with the door open. A few others, orators and interpers mostly, ranged around the bright-lit room, with Gene Kuo alone at the far table, a spread of neatly tabbed folders in front of him.
Marina sat on the office desk beside Friedman, her long elegant legs draped across the nearer wheel of his chair and her eyes on the folder open in her dark hands. Seven other debaters crowded the tiny room, listening intently as their coach gave an animated diatribe on the affirmative mistakes from a semi-final round from last weekend; all of them looking at their own flow sheet. Everyone who didn’t make semis had to sit in and flow anyway; it was one of the ways you learned.
The panel of semis judges’ decision had been easy; the affirmative team had dropped the ball early on and shouldn’t have. You didn’t make it to semis at a tourney like that by making stupid mistakes. The real trick was to figure out how they could have saved the round, if, if, if. In debate, you really did learn from the screwups of others, so long as you had the patience to do it. And so they all listened to Friedman’s sharp-tongued analysis, marking their flowsheets as he dissected the miserable 2AF of Northside’s best sophomore cross-x team.
Bob, the only member of the offending team present, was fire-engine red in the face and biting his lip to keep lame excuses from spilling forth. He was first affirmative and resented like hell that his partner had somehow managed to be absent for this torture. They’d counted on qualifying last weekend and had really been pissed to go down in semis after all their prep. Not that the prep showed, according to Friedman.
God, the man was merciless, thought Bob. He wondered again what kind of debater their coach had made in his day, and if he’d ever made mistakes. He sighed. Probably not. He was worse than Gene Kuo; a cool façade and a brilliant mind, sharper than steel. Kuo had never screwed up in semis, Bob thought bitterly. Hell, Kuo’d probably never made a single goddam mistake in his entire life. Mr. Perfect; Gene the Machine.
Gene sat at the far debate table, pen in hand, staring down at, but not seeing, the new kritik folders in front of him. Matty was late, as usual, which was probably a good thing. Gene was listing his recent mistakes in his head, point by point, viciously raking over them like a finals judge from hell. Last night with Mike, for instance, ranked supremely high in idiocy. He couldn’t think why he’d let it happen, except that Mike had caught him off guard, sneaking into his room like that, like he’d done so many times before. But last night was different; last night, Mike wasn’t his boyfriend any more. Mike belonged to Ange,l and Gene was really coming to appreciate, as well as like, the flamboyant drama student.
And he’d fucked Angel’s boyfriend without a second thought. What was worse, Mike had been gone when Gene woke. He didn’t know whom he was more disgusted with, himself or Michael Morrison. Definitely a toss-up. Waking up this morning nude, alongside a sleeping Matty, hadn’t done his self-esteem any favors, either.
Christ, what if Mike had still been there when Matty got back? Maybe Michael leaving was a good thing, and for a lot of reasons. One being that Gene didn’t have a clue what he’d have said to Michael if they’d woken up together. What the hell do you say, naked together in the morning sun, to the only guy who ever broke your heart? Offering Froot Loops and coffee just didn’t seem the thing. Michael wasn’t his anymore; he needed to get that through to his head…and his heart. Or maybe it was his dick that was confused, he thought wryly. It sure hadn’t considered anyone else’s property rights last night.
He flushed, thinking of Angel’s soft kiss as they’d gone over the GSA materials together, of Angel’s gentle fingers sliding Gene’s St. Michael medallion out from under his shirt. Mike was Angel’s, dammit. He felt like a shit. He had to stop screwing things up; he had to stop making so many mistakes.
Maybe Matty was right; maybe Gene really did need to get his shit together. And fast.
‘A cloud full of rain shouldn't hang in the sky
Ice shouldn't burn or a bumblebee fly
If you feel so happy, then why do you cry?’
Nothin’ About Love Makes Sense (Lee Ann Rimes)
John Ironwood walked briskly down the hallway between the drama room and his office, eyes forward and shoulders erect. His posture was unconsciously perfect, his steps just fast enough to deter interruptions. He didn’t need any drama club theatrics this morning; he had a thousand things to do before tryouts tomorrow and, as always, never quite enough time. The crowd of kids earlier had given way to the stray drama or debate student, trailing in late or off running errands…legitimate or otherwise.
John never checked for hall passes, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. He didn’t like being caught up in explanations, in personal problems and excuses, in anything that brought him too close to the performing-arts kids that filled his world.
He stumbled over Bobby Boyd’s long legs, stretched out beside the office door, and righted himself with an annoyed snort. He was fairly sure that Bobby had been there for some time, hunched up beside his backpack and staring at the wall. John briefly considered speaking to him; he knew Bobby had been gone from school, and he’d heard rumors, but rejected the idea. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t want to be drawn in to any drama-club offstage theatrics.
He reached down and grabbed the top handle of Bobby’s leather backpack, planning to move it further from the door. Teenagers were so inconsiderate. Bobby’s expression didn’t alter; he didn’t look up at John. With an exasperated sigh, John moved the backpack three feet to the left and out of the entrance to the office.
Just inside the office door, John paused. The backpack had seemed awfully heavy for just books.
He hesitated, and then shook his head. None of his business, really. He sat down at his desk and reached for the computer mouse, clicking into his tech checklist. He was damn glad Trey Hart would be back soon, that was one drama kid who knew what was important. No crushes or crazy teen distractions for Trey, he was the solid lynchpin that held the other techies together.
No, he wouldn’t want to stage Camelot without Trey back at Northside. Trey kept the drama kids from getting too close to John, kept the worst of the crap under control and didn’t let their personal problems slow down his or John’s work. Their problems were their own; John had no interest in teenage demands and details. Especially in this building. Too many of these kids seemed to lead complicated lives, too many of them seemed a little sexually precocious to him, a little wild. And far too many of them were openly gay for his comfort.
Not just drama kids either; he’d been stunned when he’d seen Gene Kuo’s name on the GSA meeting notice, then realized with relief that, of course, Gene Kuo would be one of the ‘S’s in ‘Gay Straight Alliance’. Or so he’d assumed. Margaret had set him straight on that score, looking at him over the tops of her wire-rimmed glasses, her face expressionless. No, she’d told him, Gene was homosexual, definitely homosexual. Though few knew, he and one of the football players had been a serious item all last year. No, she hadn’t needed Friedman to tell her that; she had eyes.
She had watched John’s stunned reaction to the information with curiosity and some measure of concern. If John had eyes, he didn’t seem to want to use them…at least, not for anything outside of class and productions. He worried her. He was tremendously talented and dedicated, despite his youth, but seemed so…hard, yet so vulnerable. As if, each day, he donned armor riddled with holes and rode off to battle anyhow, unaware of how unprotected he was, how open to attack. Of what, or whom, she wondered, was John Ironwood so afraid?
Ms. Robi had had the distressing feeling that he saw his only enemy each morning, in the mirror.
‘You’ve used up all your coupons and all you’ve got left is… me.’
Underneath It All (No Doubt)
Ryan waited alongside the athletics building for Scott Prior, chain smoking impatiently and watching the stupid ducks prance around on the shore of the pond. They knew if they waited long enough, and acted cute enough, some idiot kid would throw them something to eat and talk to them, touch them. Morons. Feeding the fat ducks, like it mattered. Ducks were for dinner, not for petting. Christ, I’m surrounded by nothing but morons.
As if on cue, Scott ran up, out of breath and clutching a piece of paper in his hand.
“Got it,” he gasped, sucking loudly at air. Ryan was unmoved by his distress; it was his own fucking fault if he was out of shape. A football player oughta know better.
“Gimme.”
Scott handed over the paper, crumpled and slightly damp from his sweaty palm. Ryan took it with distaste, spreading out the corners so he could read clearly. As he did, his heart began to speed up, and a smile slowly appeared on his pursed lips. Perfect. Completely fucking perfect.
In his hands, trembling with excitement, he held that faggot Trey Hart’s Northside High School class schedule, including room and building numbers, courtesy of Scott’s mom in the main office. Or, anyhow, courtesy of her computer access codes and predilection for long coffee breaks. Across the top was Trey’s complete residential address, indicating that he lived within the district, and all of the Harts’ contact emails and numbers. Ryan’s smile turned feral, causing Scott to shiver and then swallow hard. Ryan’s eyes gleamed, like a fox that’s caught the scent of rabbit.
Scott had a feeling he knew just what was on the day’s agenda.
‘Step into the street by sundown,
Step into your last goodbye
You're a target just by living,
Twenty dollars will make you die…
My shots are clean and my shots are
final
My shots are deadly and when it's done-
You're as stiff as my smoking barrel
You're as dead as a desert night.’
Desperado (Alice Cooper)
Jeannie Boyd stood uncomfortably in the study of Army Lt. Colonel Boyd, retired, her legally wedded spouse, and wished she were anywhere else on the planet. His eyes bored into hers, his face immobile in what she thought of as his military mask. She hated it; she hated these questions, and she hated feeling as if she had to defend her own son.
“Dear, I’m sure you’re mistaken,” she repeated, patiently. He snorted, always an ugly sound to her way of thinking. She brushed back at her coiffed hair, automatically checking for stray tendrils.
“I’m sure you just misplaced it,” she insisted, “Maybe when you were cleaning it last?”
“Misplaced it?” he repeated harshly, incredulous. “Misplaced it? The day I misplace a firearm will be a cold day in Hell, madam, you may quite be sure of that.”
“But no one comes in here but you, dear, I just don’t see how--”
“Well, I see how. I see my son is a thief on top of being a queer, and he’s stolen a valuable piece of property.”
“Oh, no, dear, I’m sure you’re--”
“Fuck if I’m ‘mistaken’, woman, he has stolen an expensive firearm from the cabinet,” her husband barked, “He knows damn well where I keep the keys, even if he is a pussy around weapons.”
“No, dear, he wouldn’t…” Jeannie began, then her voice trailed away as her husband began to mutter.
“Goddam fucking faggot probably needs money for drugs.”
She flinched at his language and shook her head, repeatedly. Just what it was that she was saying no to, though, even she wasn’t quite sure.
‘Bite my bullet
Push and pull it…
I'm your gun…
Squeeze it tighter
Aim and fire…’
I’m Your Gun
(Alice Cooper)
Behind Building D, Jaye stood smoking silently alongside Gene Kuo, ignored but impervious, wrapped up in his own anticipation. Camille had ordered him out to calm down via nicotine; either that or she’d happily kick the shit out of him. His choice, she’d said, her tiny frame vibrating with menace as Doug looked on, bemused. It wasn’t as if anyone thought Camille’s threat an idle one, either; her small size belied her considerable combat abilities. They’d put up with Jaye’s antsy jittering as long as humanly possible; they all had work to do, and Jaye was obviously of no use to anyone today. He just couldn’t stop thinking about Trey, couldn’t stop checking his watch for the time. Noon, he was picking Trey up at noon. Noon, noon, soon, noon…
Thus far, the nicotine wasn’t helping much.
Gene lit a third Marlboro without looking, gazing off into the distance, across the pond to where some jock stood in front of the athletics building. Probably skipping class and probably doing so with his coach’s permission, thought Gene wryly. Debaters weren’t the only ones with privileges.
The only difference was, to Gene’s way of thinking, debaters worked hard enough to earn theirs. Jocks, well…most jocks were just dumb jocks. Michael had been an exception in more than one way. Sure, some of that stuff was hard work, albeit not of the intellectual variety, but most of them were slackers, so far as he could tell. Skating through high school on some useless ability with a leather ball. It wasn’t as if many, or maybe any, of them would get college scholarships from playing on Northside teams. Whereas Gene wasn’t the only NHS debater courted by colleges, though he was the only one who’d been scouted while still a freshman.
He’d hold out for Harvard, most likely, but hadn’t made a definite decision. Friedman, naturally, wanted him at Harvard, wanted him there badly. They were pretty sure Harvard would make him an offer this spring semester, if not sooner, though you could never really tell with those old schools. Of course, a lot depended on his win/loss this tournament year, which was the main reason he was out here, depressed and wreathed in smoke this Tuesday morning.
Matty’s attitude wasn’t the only problem with their debating; Gene knew, especially after last weekend, that he was definitely off his game. God knows what Saturday had done to his circuit rep, and you had to be careful with that. Top league cross-x debaters were like sharks; they could scent blood from a mile away. Losing in finals instead of qualifying was bad enough, but doing it while going maverick was truly and publicly embarrassing.
When you’re flying solo, you have no one to blame but yourself when you crash.
‘My hands have not touched pleasure since your
hands, --
No, -- nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell',
And with the day, distance again expands
Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell.’
Exile (Hart Crane)
Anthony tapped his headset, trying to clear the signal. He looked up from the stage into the lighting booth, eyes automatically seeking Trey before realizing, again, that their head tech wasn’t at school. He squinted, trying to see who was in the booth instead.
Two figures sat at the board; the one wearing a fedora had to be Doug, Anthony thought with a smile. The other, he wasn’t sure. Was it Jaye? He tapped at his headset again, gesturing for whoever was in the booth that his reception wasn’t clear. The hatless techie waved to show he understood and held up a hand, four fingers splayed. Give them four minutes. Anthony sighed and sat down on the edge of the stage to wait.
When he looked up again, he saw a third figure in the booth, someone large towering over the smaller, seated drama kids. Anthony blinked.
It sure looked like that football shithead, Ryan Sellers. But what would he be doing up in the drama lighting booth? Anthony tapped uselessly at his headset, frowning, his eyes on the well-lit booth, so clearly visible high in the back of the darkened theatre house.
It was Ryan.
What the hell was Ryan Sellers doing in the performing-arts building? They were all supposed to keep an eye out for Ryan and his jock posse, Angel had said, but Anthony had thought it was sort of a joke. It didn’t seem so funny any more. Ryan didn’t belong in their theatre. Shucking off the useless headset, Anthony leapt down from the stage and headed up the side aisle. He was moving fast, toward the matte black door that opened on the steep, winding staircase up to the booth.
He had an uneasy, anxious, feeling; he could feel a sharp headache starting right behind his eyes.
‘I stay as loaded
as this gun
Pull my trigger, I get bigger
Then I'm lots of fun…’
I’m Your Gun (Alice Cooper)
Jaye Patterson came in from the smoking area behind the drama building, popping a breath mint into his mouth as the glass doors swung shut behind him. Jenny, seated just inside the main drama-room door, rolled her eyes at him and made shooing motions with her hands. Go, go. He laughed, shaking his head, but kept on walking down the hallway.
He paused outside the debate room, captured by Marina’s silvery laughter coming from a knot of debaters, but could make no sense of the conversation. Debate-speak sounded like a foreign language to Jaye, one filled with nearly recognizable words that somehow meant something else entirely to the cognoscenti. Too weird, too arcane for a mere drama kid, he told himself with a grin. He felt like whistling, like dancing in the rain. He winked at Marina as her eyes passed over him standing in the doorway, saw her smile, and then moved on, hands in his pockets.
Bobby sat outside the drama office, rummaging through his leather backpack without expression. Jaye frowned, slowed and then knelt beside his friend. Bobby didn’t look up, didn’t react to Jaye’s presence. What the hell? Bobby had been out here earlier, Jaye was almost positive, even before the first bell. He leaned in and kissed Bobby very, very gently on the lips. No reaction. Bobby’s hands were deep in his backpack; his eyes were empty mirrors.
“Hey, Bobby, what’re you doing out here all alone?” Jaye asked, whispering softly into the curls at Bobby’s ear. He stroked his hand through those curls, trying to turn Bobby’s head his direction without success. It was if Jaye wasn’t there at all. Or maybe as if Bobby himself wasn’t fully…there. Jaye shivered.
“Bobby?” Jaye asked again, his voice beginning to tremble. This was too weird, too much like last night. Where was Angel? Why was Bobby out here by himself? Jaye swallowed hard and looked up and down the hall, seeing no one. He shook Bobby lightly, hands on his shoulders.
“Bobby? I know you can hear me, Bobby, would you talk to me, please?”
“Bobby?”
Jaye felt tears filling his eyes; maybe it was his fault, maybe he was supposed to be watching Bobby right now. God, he was so selfish- never thinking of other people. He felt ashamed, worried. He wrapped his right arm around Bobby’s shoulders and cuddled up closer.
“Bobby? Hey, Bobby? Say something, please!” he whispered urgently, “Bobby, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Bobby said flatly, removing his hands and buckling the flap down on his backpack. Relief at hearing Bobby’s voice made Jaye sag against his friend in relief. Thank God. He hugged Bobby close, laying his head on Bobby’s shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Jaye asked, his voice soft. There was a long pause.
“Sure.” Bobby said, finally. Jaye closed his eyes in thanks, and they sat there together for many minutes without speaking. The murmur of the debaters’ esoteric discussion filtered out to the hallway. Finally, Jaye kissed Bobby on the cheek, rose, and then hesitated.
“Um, Bobby? I’m gonna go find Angel, okay? You stay here. Right here. I’ll be back, okay? Bobby?”
“Sure.” Bobby said, his voice a monotone, his eyes on the far wall.
Jaye nodded and started off down the hall. He knew Angel’s class schedule by heart. As he reached the front doors to Building D, the first lunch bell rang. 11 o’clock. Damn, he’d have to leave soon if he was going to get Trey back to campus by noon. Well, he’d find Angel by then, or someone else if he had to. The last thing Bobby needed was to be alone today at Northside. For one thing, Jaye didn’t like the way Bobby was behaving. He wondered if Mrs. Boyd still had him on those pills from Exodus; he wondered if Bobby had gotten any sleep last night, at all.
And, well, God only knows where Ryan Sellers was right now. Better find someone to stay with Bobby while he drove over to Trey’s house. Jaye walked purposefully from performing arts towards the main academic building. Angel should be just now getting out of English class. Bobby would be fine for a few minutes; he was in the drama building, after all. How safe could you get?
Still, something was bothering him and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He began to walk faster, as students streamed out of the building ahead, going to lunch or their next class, depending on their schedules. Something odd about Bobby today. Sure, him not talking was one thing, but it was something else, too, something weird. Something about him with both hands deep in that backpack, busy with...
He could almost swear he saw something long and metallic in Bobby’s hands. Like one of the big, heavy tech flashlights Trey and John favored. And that weird click just before Bobby removed his hands and buckled the backpack.
Why would Bobby need to use a flashlight in his backpack? Was he scared of shadows even in there?
If he couldn’t find Angel fast, he’d start looking for Gene, Jaye decided. Gene was the only other one who seemed to understand just how dangerous Ryan Sellers could be…and just how fragile Bobby was right now. Jaye relaxed a little, slowing down his pace. Gene or Angel would definitely know what to do with Bobby.
He wished he had Gene’s schedule memorized, too; he didn’t want to be late picking up Trey. The three of hearts is definitely my lucky card, Jaye thought to himself with a smile.
I can hardly wait for high noon.
‘I'm as hard as they come
I'm a hit and run
I'm a pistol packin'boy
Better walk real slow
I'm on the edge, y'know
And I'm easily annoyed.’
I’m Your Gun (Alice Cooper)
Ryan stood in the smoking area behind Building D and ground his cigarette into the dirt. He heard the first lunch bell but he’d be damned if he was gonna go eat lunch right now. He knew Trey was in the building somewhere, even if he wasn’t out in the damn theatre. Or maybe he was backstage?
The image of his father’s face, expression cold, forbidding, suddenly loomed large in his mind, and Ryan shuddered. He’d fix everything; he’d fix it all, just as soon as he could get his hands on that goddamn little Hart fag. He’d search the whole fucking building if he had to, he’d either find the little shit or one of his faggot drama friends. Those felony charges were as good as dropped, he told himself. As good as fucking dropped. He’d find the fucker; have a showdown at high noon, if that’s what it takes. He laughed to himself. High noon, yeah. Perfect.
He flung open the glass doors and, eyes flashing furiously, started down the hallway in search of his prey. Ryan Sellers bared his teeth to the world, sending stray freshman drama students scattering, and growled low in his throat.
All the better to eat you with, my dear.
‘I’m a picture of ugly stories, I’m a killer and I’m a clown…’
Desperado (Alice Cooper)
Anthony, reaching the booth staircase door, heard the noises just as his hand touched the doorknob. A shrill sound, cut abruptly off and then a thud that rattled the iron, spiral stair frame. Those were followed by curses in a deep voice and the door slamming open hard into Anthony’s face.
The body that shoved past him seemed enormous, tall and heavy, but even in the dim light and from the back, Anthony could recognize the shape of NHS quarterback Ryan Sellers making an end run for the back-doors of the theatre. Anthony tasted copper and put his hand to his mouth, then, far more gently, to his nose. Goddammit! That jock motherfucker broke his nose! Jesus!
He brought his hand away, feeling hot blood on his skin. Shit, it hurt. He felt gingerly at the bridge of his nose and winced. He’d momentarily forgotten why he’d been hurrying, but then moved into the doorway to climb up to the booth. There had to be a reason Ryan was running instead of walking. He took a step toward the stairwell, and then stopped in shock.
At the bottom of the spiral staircase to the booth, her trim, jean-clad legs high up on the steps and her pretty face on the floor, lay ballerina Camille Johnson. At that point, Anthony really began to panic. He knelt at her side and tried to wrap his arms around her, lift her from the floor. She groaned and opened her eyes, making him drop her in surprise.
“Camille?”
“Christ,” swore the petite dancer, her voice loud in the stairwell. From above, footsteps pattered and Doug’s face showed pale above them.
“Camille? You…okay?” Anthony repeated.
“Christ, Tony, help me to the bathroom.”
Slight as she was, it took them both to get her there, Doug’s face a mottled pattern of fear and fury that it had never before worn. They took her to the boys’ bathroom without thinking; Anthony blushed when he realized what they’d done. Doug didn’t appear to notice…or care where they were. His eyes were on the locked stall where Camille had taken herself.
“Baby?” he called, his voice hoarse and rough.
“Doug, tell Anthony to go get Ms. Robi, okay?” Camille’s voice sounded so calm, so normal, that Anthony relaxed and moved to obey. When he was gone, Doug tapped on the stall door.
“Baby? Let me in?”
Her muttered, “Nope,” was his only answer.
There was silence, and then she spoke again from behind the door, her voice barely audible.
“Um, Doug, I’m bleeding.”
Doug frowned. “You’re having your period?”
Her low chuckle was strained. “Doug, you been hanging around too many gay boys. Girls don’t get their period when they’re…when they’re…” her voice trailed off, and Doug’s heart started to hammer against his ribcage. His hands on the door were shaking, hard.
“When they’re…pregnant, you mean, baby?” he asked in a whisper. She didn’t answer for a long moment.
“Doug, maybe you better call 911.” Camille said quietly, unlocking the stall door. He saw her wan face, the bruise forming on her cheek and her beloved eyes filling with tears. She drew him into the stall, into her arms, and held him close against her heart.
As he struggled to pull out his cell phone, Doug started to cry.
‘Yet, love endures, though starving and alone.
A dove's wings clung about my heart each night
With surging gentleness, and the blue stone
Set in the tryst-ring has but worn more bright.’
Exile (Hart Crane)
[End of Part 20]