Jon From High School

by Jeremy Jenkins

  That was the thing I realized, about futures. They were never completely clear. They were only ever partially cloudy.

  And something like realizing you were gay in the middle of high school? That must have been like a black cloud blocking out the sun, throwing the entire landscape into shadows.

  No, I thought to myself. You mustn’t empathize with him. He’s an asshole. You should forget about him.

  But the more I tried to clear him from my mind, the more I thought about him. If I thought of him as Jon Preston and Jon Preston only, it might have been easier to get rid of him. To revel in the knowledge that I got the douchiest dude-bro in high school to suck me off.

  But he wasn’t Jon Preston to me; not anymore.

  He was just Jon.

  A person going through the tumultuous waters of self-discovery and human sexuality.

  Sure, he was a bully to me before this. He deserved all the confusion coming to him.

  But I’d been there, so I couldn’t sit here in class and be completely cruel—as much as I wanted to.

  I knew Jon was jealous of Martin—that guy I’d sat next to in the bleachers on that day during basketball practice when Jon made a fool of himself and threw the ball at us.

  I wanted him to throw that ball at me again and again; grace me with his attention.

  So, I kept paying attention to Martin.

  He was cute, and gay, and he was kind of a loner like me. Plus, I genuinely liked spending time around the guy. He gave off flirty vibes, but it wasn’t something I was willing to explore just yet.

  I didn’t want to lead him on.

  But, I kept walking Martin to class every day, feeling Jon’s tawny eyes boring into my back like daggers.

  I knew it was wrong. But the satisfaction of making him jealous was simply too delicious to deny myself.

  And it wasn’t like I was doing anything wrong. I was just hanging out with a new friend, was all.

  A new friend that happened to be cute. And gay. And also in band.

  We shared the same schedule—it was impossible to get away from one another.

  But, I found myself wanting to spend more time with Martin as the weeks ticked by. Just as friends, of course. I didn’t feel that same powerful connection I did with Jon. Though I had to wonder—did I really even like Jon? Or did I just like the power?

  Was I unintentionally manipulating the people around me?

  Was I a good person?

  “Something bothering you?” Martin asked me at lunch.

  I stopped chewing and staring at the broad backs of the jock table. “What?”

  “I asked if something’s bothering you. You seem out of it today,” he said, his eyes full of concern.

  “Today? Just today?” I asked, chewing on my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  Martin chuckled, and I caught sight of his one crooked tooth. Then he leaned in and lowered his voice. “I think I know what’s going on here.”

  I stiffened. “What?”

  “You like someone,” Martin accused.

  I shoved more of my sandwich in my mouth. “Of course I like someone. Everyone likes someone.”

  “Yeah, but you really, really like someone.”

  “No I don’t. I don’t have time for something like that.”

  He looked left, then looked right. “Just because you don’t have time for something doesn’t mean it won’t happen anyway.”

  A small thread of hope twanged in my chest like a harp string. “I don’t like anyone.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?”

  “Why do you gotta be all up in my business like this?” I said with the hot undercurrent of annoyance.

  He shrugged and leaned back. “Just trying to get to know you better, is all. We’re friends, right?”

  Friends. Were we friends? For some reason, that label didn’t seem to fit.

  Was he fishing to see if I liked him? I mean, sure, I’d been using him to make Jon jealous. But in doing that, I realized I genuinely liked the dude.

  But crush-material? No. He was too… too nice. Too accessible. And I didn’t feel that same spark with him that I felt with Jon.

  If only I could merge Martin and Jon into one person. If only it was possible to have that unreal attraction and connection to someone, and be friends with them, too.

  “We are friends,” I said hesitantly. “But I promise. I don’t like anyone.”

  “Well…” he said, leaning in conspiratorially and lowering his voice. “I’ve got a crush on someone.”

  “Oh really?” I asked, trying to seem like I didn’t care too much. What I really didn’t want was for him to come out and admit he had a crush on me—

  “Jon Preston. What do you know about him? I’ve seen you guys talking.”

  I nearly choked on my sandwich. “J-Jon Preston?”

  Heads at our table of emo kids whipped around to look at me, teased hair flying away from their faces like pom-poms.

  “He’s the biggest asshole of all time,” I said quickly.

  The heads slowly returned to their conversations. I could feel their attention slide off of me like water on a duck’s feathers.

  “Then why do you talk to him so much?” Martin pressed quietly.

  “We used to be friends,” I half-lied.

  “Hm.”

  “‘Hm’ what?”

  He shrugged. “I just think it’s odd that someone as nice as you would be friends with a quote-unquote asshole with him.”

  “You just admitted you have a crush on him. Surely there must be something you see in it—”

  “I didn’t say I had a crush on him,” Martin clarified, his eyes glittering wickedly. “I just said I had a crush on someone, then asked you if you knew anything about Jon Preston—”

  “Whatever. If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck—”

  “I’m just saying I don’t have a crush on Jon Preston. But…” he leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper, “I’m wondering why you do.”

  My face flared, but I tried hard to keep my cool. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “There’s no shame in it,” Martin reasoned. “The guy’s hot as hell. I mean, every girl in this school has wet panties for the guy. I would, too, if he was my type.”

  “And what is your type, Martin?” I asked, trying to claw at another subject. Anything that wasn’t Jon. I was so done talking about Jon, thinking about Jon, and most of all, I was done with trying hard not to think about Jon, and failing, and thinking about him anyway.

  “My type?” he said with a cute smile, showing that crooked tooth again. “My type is tall, dark, and handsome.”

  “Oh really?” I asked, trying not to sound alarmed.

  It was me. He was talking about me!

  The bell dinged overhead.

  “Saved by the bell,” he said with a weak smile. Then he smacked his forehead. “Oh, and I was going to ask you—which was why I was thinking of Jon Preston in the first place—do you want to come to the basketball game with me this Friday?”

  My insides tensed. “You mean the last game of the season?” Like a date?

  “Not like a date,” he said, reading my face. “There’s a bunch of us band kids going, if you want to join. It would be nice to have you there. But honestly, if you wanted to make it a date, I’d totally go with you.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was joking. Then I saw the light in his eyes and knew that yes, he was just being nice.

  And joking.

  Eh, what the hell.

  “Okay, sure.” I said.

  “Great! See you then,” he said, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

  And just like that, he walked away, leaving me feeling very… un-confused, for once.

  I looked down at my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, at the wavering stripe where the two fillings meshed together. Maybe it would be better to spend time with Martin instead of low-key ob
sessing over Jon.

  I chewed on the rest of the sandwich as I chewed on the thought, watching how all the students got up from their tables and herded out the door.

  It was then that I chanced a look over at Jon, but he was already gone.

  Friday came up quick.

  All day, I was thinking about going to the game with Martin.

  Would Jon see me in the stands and get jealous again?

  It wasn’t nice to think that, but I couldn’t deny the pleasure that coursed through me when I lingered on that thought. It would be nice to taste that power again, after the shitty way Jon had been treating me.

  I had time to go home before the game started at eight, and I used that time to get ready.

  I painted my nails black and listened to Taking Back Sunday’s Make Damn Sure while I teased my hair.

  “I just wanna break you down so badly…” I sang along, hooking an earring through my ear. “In the worst, way…”

  I thought of how his face looked after he threw that basketball at me and Martin in the bleachers. How he seemed to be seething with rage…

  And then how I came all over his face in the shower. How he looked then…

  In my reflection, my lips pulled into a grin as I carefully painted on my eyeliner in thick, black stripes.

  When I was done, I leaned back to admire my handiwork: my black hair was perfectly teased to swoop over my face, showing off the fresh red stripe I’d given myself yesterday. It felt good to experiment with hair products; it made me feel like I was in control of something. Anyway, it turned out fine, but a little dry. I looked like a rocker. I looked badass.

  Now—what to wear?

  I went into my closet and eyed the stack of black skinny jeans.

  There was only one pair of white skinny jeans, and I only wore those on the days I felt extra, super skinny.

  I hadn’t eaten very much this week—obsessing over someone tends to kill the appetite.

  I knew those jeans drew attention to my ass. I knew there was something magical about them that attracted guys’ eyes like a magnet.

  And I knew those were the ones I was going to wear.

  I pulled them on, and unsurprisingly, they hung a little loose. Guess I needed to use my studded belt, what a shame…

  I threaded the sparkling, metallic belt through the jean’s loopholes and secured it at the front.

  Donning this made me feel like I was doing one of those superhero dress-up montages, getting ready to face Mr. Freeze or something. Only, unlike that 1999 Batman & Robin film, my montage did not consist of pulling on tight leather outfits and zooming in on my ass.

  Still, the sentiment was the same.

  All I need was a shirt…

  I pawed through my closet, looking for my Metallica band tee. It had to be here somewhere—it would complete this look.

  I watched my freshly painted black nails shine in my yellow bedroom light as I searched through my hangers.

  Nothing.

  Where was it?!

  I checked my phone.

  A text from Martin shone on the screen, telling me he was here.

  Fuck!

  I snatched my tight, black, hole-ridden Slipknot tee and yanked it on, then charged out the door.

  8

  Jon

  I dribbled the ball to warm up.

  Everything hinged on this game. My future. My reputation.

  Everything.

  I knew there was a scout from Dartmouth in the stands somewhere, watching. Taking note.

  And I knew Coach had asked him to watch me, specifically.

  I was the star player, after all.

  Basketball was the only thing that let me focus; that got me out of my head and saved me from myself. Hell, it was the only thing I could cling to these past few weeks and not have to think about Victor.

  “Preston! Get your ass over here,” Coach bellowed.

  “Coming!” I shouted.

  I’m gonna come, Victor’s voice echoed in my head, right before he came all over my face.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t stop lingering on how… how erotic that felt. How just the thought of being humiliated like that again was getting me stiff.

  But as I jogged over to the huddle, all of my thoughts evaporated and my cock calmed the fuck down.

  There was nothing about any of these other guys that did it for me, but there was no way to tell anyone that without them thinking I was a liar.

  Sure, I’d thought about coming out of the closet for the past week. Maybe sticking a toe outside of it. Maybe telling some stranger in public somewhere, just so that someone would know. It felt like now that I finally knew the truth, I wanted to live more in line with that, instead of living a lie.

  Because that’s what it felt like. I’d been living a lie my whole life.

  But thinking about something as momentous as coming out of the closet was a different thing than actually doing it. Thinking about it was safer, because then I could run through all these scenarios in my own head in peace.

  Though, I couldn’t help but think if I was only gay for Victor, what was the point of coming out? It wasn’t like I wanted any other dudes coming after me. Mostly, I just wanted to be left alone so I could focus on sports.

  And the only other gay kid in this school was FUCKING MARTIN!

  There he was, sitting in the stands closely—very closely—next to Victor.

  A sharp pain shot through my thumb.

  I made myself stop picking it.

  Then I made myself think, “Well, good for them,” followed by the unwelcome thought, “So they’re a couple now.”

  I tried to pay attention to Coach’s pep talk, but I was distracted.

  Victor and FUCKING MARTIN were sitting so close to one another, their thighs were touching.

  Why the fuck were they even at this basketball game, anyway?! They were band nerds. Nerds didn’t belong here. This was the jock’s domain—

  “Preston! You paying attention?!” Coach roared.

  “Yes, sir!” I lied automatically.

  “Good. Now about this play—”

  I listened as best as I could, but my attention was firmly fixated on what I knew was happening in the stands behind me.

  The only person that had ever mattered to me was starting to matter to someone else.

  And so the game started. The first period flew by, and by the end of it we were head. The sound of squeaking sneakers filled the gymnasium as the ball bounced through the space.

  Here, I could zone in instead of zoning out. Zoning out would put me on that island again, by myself, with my own thoughts, forced to circle that lonely palm tree over and over.

  Victor.

  Whatever. I didn’t care about him.

  I passed the ball to my teammate, then charged in a big arc around the opponent’s defense.

  Focus. That’s all I needed to do.

  Whenever the ball was passed to me, I could feel the eyes of the crowd on me.

  I knew the Dartmouth scout had his eyes on me, too. The eyes of my future, watching me like those pair of blue eyes on the cover of that book I was being forced to read in class right now—the Great Gatsby.

  Fucking hated that book. Hated reading.

  I hated the eyes on the cover as they watched me over the past few weeks, judging me for what I’d done.

  How I’d let Victor come on my face. How much I liked it.

  How much I longed for another chance to play more with his massive dick…

  No one knew except me, Victor, and those eyes.

  The eyes of the book I couldn’t read.

  Everything was backwards.

  Everything in my life was backwards.

  I dribbled the ball furiously down the court, weaving through the opposing team.

  It was easy.

  When I took my shot, I didn’t do it for the scout. I didn’t do it for the crowd. Hell, I didn’t even do it for my own selfish ass.

  I did i
t for Victor.

  The crowd’s eyes followed the ball as it made its long arc through the air and landed on the rim.

  Collectively, the gymnasium held its breath.

  The ball tipped into the net.

  The scoreboard buzzed.

  That put us ahead for the first period.

  Excellent.

  Coach bellowed and called everyone over.

  As I ran toward him, I glanced at the spot in the stands and saw that Victor and Martin had vanished. They had probably stolen away, bored by the basketball game, and decided to have a nice time making out under the stands…

  A sharp pain shot through my thumb.

  “Great work out there, Preston!” Coach yelled at me. Then he leaned in and muttered, “Saw the scout nod and write something down. Keep up the good work, son.”

  “Will do,” I said, panting as the sweat slid off me.

  Again, I combed the crowd to find them.

  They were nowhere to be seen.

  Where the fuck were they? How could Victor miss the fact that I was killing it on the court? How could he blow me off like this?

  The nasty voice in my head came back. Blowing. Victor was blowing something, all right.

  My thumb hurt more.

  A vein throbbed in Coach’s temple.

  “I need a sec,” I said.

  Coach nodded, his eyes bulging. “Get some water, then get your ass back out there. I want to see more of that kind of play, Preston.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Coach clapped me on the shoulder.

  I hustled over to the water cooler, poured some of the ice in my squirt bottle, then dumped it over my head.

  I needed to get my head in the game. I needed to focus.

  I was already doing well.

  But like a cat’s cradle tangling around my mind, all of the ties connecting me to Victor tightened and pulled at me the more I tried to wiggle free.

  Whatever. All I had to do was keep playing my best.

  Not for Victor. For my future.

  I looked over the crowd again, this time trying to locate the Dartmouth scout.