Jon From High School

by Jeremy Jenkins

There were a few people it could be—the guy in the front wearing the green baseball cap was the most likely. He had a clipboard balanced on his knee and calculating, judgmental eyes.

  I knew those eyes held the keys to the kingdom for everything I wanted.

  Not those eyes on that fucking Great Gatsby cover.

  Those blue eyes that knew the truth about me.

  The buzzer sounded, the ugly noise reverberating through the gym.

  “Preston! Time!” Coach bellowed.

  I hustled back, and did my best to get my focus back where it belonged:

  On basketball.

  The game played out just like any other. I was actually surprised by how smoothly things went. I think the only reason I didn’t royally fuck up, honestly, was because I was playing a little game with myself called, “Only focus on the ball.”

  So that’s exactly what I did. I pointed my gaze at the ball, at that orange sphere that was the world to me. I forced it to orbit around my head like a moon.

  I did not look at the stands again. Not once.

  Even though I had to fight the compulsion to check.

  Pass. Shoot. Swish. Defend. Evade. Dodge.

  The moves came to me like second nature. I felt like my body was dancing for me; my mind didn’t have to stop and think.

  Basketball was easy like this; automatic.

  I could do this in my sleep.

  Before long, the timer was ticking down the last few seconds.

  My teammate passed me the ball.

  I ran up the court with it, dribbling all the way to the line.

  Easy. Fast. Fun.

  This was fun.

  Effortlessly, I took a shot.

  The ball sank into the hoop perfectly with that satisfying schwick sound.

  The crowd clapped and whistled, then that ugly noise came from the scoreboard.

  The game was over. We’d won.

  Well, we already knew we were going to win—we were far ahead against the other team in points since the first period. But it looked good that I got that last shot in.

  Real good.

  Coach’s eyes sparkled with pride as I jogged over.

  “You were really something out there, Preston!” he beamed.

  “Thanks,” I said, puffing out my chest.

  Then he leaned in and said, “That Dartmouth guy… there’s no way he’s not gonna approach you. You’ve got this in the bag.”

  I grinned, but I couldn’t help but feel like something was missing.

  Even though I could feel the eyes of approval gazing down at me from the crowd, the only ones I cared about were missing.

  It was funny how victory without Victor felt like it left a why-shaped hole in my gut.

  Where the hell did they go?!

  I didn’t have much time to wonder that, though, because the crowd rushed me with attention and congratulations. Everything after that became a blur of celebration and happiness and well-wishes.

  After the swath of people petered out and the team was standing around bullshitting, the guy in the green hat approached me, just as Coach said he would.

  He took me off to the side of the court.

  He asked me if I’d ever considered Dartmouth.

  I explained that I didn’t think my GPA was up to snuff.

  The scout said we could fix that.

  I took a second to wonder how much this country cared about sports, if they were going to waive something like a 2.1 GPA when faced with the altar with that round orange ball perched upon it. But then I swept the thought aside.

  “I’ve already got a scholarship and admission to—”

  “I’ll be straight with you, Jon. From what I saw on the court today, the admissions council is going to want you. Don’t quote me here, but with talent like that? We’ll give you all the financial and academic support you need to succeed at Dartmouth.”

  A weight lifted in my chest and it felt like my heart had wings. “Really?”

  Maybe I didn’t have to go to the state school. I had choices.

  This was… this was my future, staring at me in the face.

  “Are you interested?” he asked with a gleam in his eye; the look of a man that was the first one to find a piece of well-hidden treasure.

  “Yes,” I said. “Tell me what I need to do.”

  Once I was done talking to the scout, I felt this strange sensation in my chest. It was light and floaty, like foam.

  Suds.

  Soapy suds in the shower.

  Again, I looked at the bleachers, searching for Victor and FUCKING MARTIN.

  They were nowhere to be found.

  I scratched my head, feeling a little hurt that he didn’t see me crush.

  I guess that was the essence of a crush.

  Not that I had a crush on Victor or anything. I was just wondering where he was at, after all.

  And I really wanted to talk to him.

  Dammit, I just wanted to talk to Victor.

  My future had been secured. I could rest on my laurels for a bit as everything unfolded before me. And I could afford to take risks.

  I didn’t care what was said last time. I wanted to make it up to him. I wanted to be close to him.

  It was a nice feeling, to not have to be an asshole for once.

  Cathartic, I think was the right word.

  The rest of the team began to sift away. They could have disappeared through the walls for all I cared. I was a man with one mission:

  Figure out where Victor went, and ask him why the hell he missed my game.

  My heart thundered in my chest as I looked under the bleachers.

  It was dark back here; a good make-out spot, but there was no one.

  Had they come down here? Had him and Martin made out?

  Again, pain shot through me.

  From my thumb, and my chest.

  Why did I care? I’d been a complete asshole to Victor this whole time. If he wanted to hook up with Martin, that was his business, not mine.

  But dammit, I wanted it to be my business. I wanted it more than anything.

  I tore through the doors of the gym and whipped to the right, trying to see if they were at the concession stand.

  There was no sign of them.

  Then I whipped my head to the left, where some students were wandering around.

  Right. The band room.

  The place where we started all of this.

  For some reason, my gut pointed me in that direction.

  I knew that’s where they were. Probably making out in there or something.

  I needed to see. My mind latched onto it, and I knew it would unwind in my head until it drove me fucking bananas.

  Don’t look, don’t look—!

  But I couldn’t resist.

  I knew they were making out in there. I knew it on a gut level.

  Still, I needed to confirm with my eyes.

  I needed to cut this thread tied to Victor once and for all.

  So, I peered in through windows in the double doors.

  The room was empty.

  The tension in my chest eased.

  Then I saw a flash of flesh.

  My heart sank.

  They were making out in there.

  I ripped my eyes from the window and tore down the hall.

  Had they seen me? No, they couldn’t have. They were too much in each other’s business to notice anything around them.

  My arms tingled. Rage simmered under my skin.

  I wanted to beat someone up; hit something.

  In the before-time, I would have sought Victor or one of his friends out. Yelled at them. Called them names. Or, I would have challenged Kyle, Terry, or Phil to a fight.

  But now? There was nothing around to hit, but my rage needed to go somewhere.

  My breath hissed through my nose. There was nowhere to point this beam of anger—

  I punched a locker nearby.

  It was dented.

  It hurt.

  It felt good.<
br />
  I punched it again and again, bruising my knuckles to oblivion.

  But this anger needed to come out at something. It felt good to punch it into this locker.

  I roared and beat the shit out of it, noticing red streaks on the dent.

  Fuck, my knuckles were bleeding.

  Pussy, I thought to myself. I was just a gay pussy boy, trying so hard to pretend to fit in with everyone else. Being a bully. Being a jock. I had everything that version of me wanted, now.

  But I didn’t have what I really wanted.

  Martin’s lips on Victor’s.

  The image wouldn’t leave my mind. It was burned there; branded forcefully.

  Why had I looked into the window?

  Why did I need to see?

  I knew the tears weren’t far away. I knew they were threatening to spill out over my eyelids.

  I couldn’t risk anyone seeing them.

  Then they would really think I was gay.

  I tore down the hallway and into the men’s locker room again.

  It was empty. Thank God.

  I thrust open my locker and pulled out my gym bag, fuming.

  What was I looking for? I couldn’t even remember.

  All I knew was that I needed to sit down.

  I sat my ass on the bench, put my head in between my knees, and took slow, practiced breaths.

  But still, all I could think of was the image I’d just walked in on.

  The horror.

  It was… it was burned into my brain.

  He’d moved on. He’d found someone.

  Someone better than a big dumb asshole like you, my inner voice whispered. You can’t even read. You got into college by being good at one thing. You don’t deserve to go to college; not really. You’re taking a spot that was supposed to go to someone actually good at academics…

  I sat there for a while, letting my inner voice beat me up.

  But when I was done with my meltdown, I stood up with a new resolve.

  I was cold.

  I felt cold.

  My thumb hurt.

  I looked down at where I’d picked it.

  I was bleeding. Again.

  The habit would have to stop.

  I had a lot of habits I’d have to stop.

  Anyway, I didn’t want it to get infected, so I walked over to the supply closet, my footsteps echoing on the tile floor. I knew there was a first aid kit in there somewhere—I’d seen some of the guys on the team go in here and come out with athlete’s tape.

  But as soon as I opened the door, I heard a sound to my right.

  I whirled around and saw FUCKING MARTIN standing right there, staring at me with a victorious grin.

  “The fuck are you doing here?” I barked, still hot from rage.

  “To set things straight,” he said.

  Confusion crinkled my brow. “The fuck are you talking about?”

  “You saw us,” he said, taking a step closer.

  There was something about him that seemed so villainous. I couldn’t tell if it was his voice or the way he moved or what, but it reminded me of Scar from The Lion King.

  “What?” I said, feigning ignorance.

  “I saw you. Through the window. There’s no point in lying, Jon. Even though you’ve been lying to everyone this whole time.”

  My lip lifted into a snarl. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I paint the wall with you!”

  He didn’t flinch.

  Fuck, I’d have to try harder. “Did you hear me? Are you deaf? I said leave!”

  I shoved him.

  He staggered back a step, but a little grin emerged on his face.

  No. Oh no.

  It was at that moment that I realized he had something on me.

  “I have something to show you,” he said, reading my face.

  I grasped for words, but they weren’t there. I was too busy hiding under my facade, terrified.

  Martin pulled out his phone, hit a few buttons, and showed me a picture.

  There, on his screen, was a photo of me making out with Victor in the woods.

  Panic surged through me. “How—”

  “You and your stupid friends aren’t the only ones that go up to the quarry at night. I started going there when I first came to Shady Grove at the start of the year. It was my spot. Then I started noticing other people had spots around there, too. Victor, for one, usually went there during the day and sat on that big-ass pipe with his earbuds in. And then there were you and your friends, getting drunk on that piss water at night. Pathetic.”

  I moved to snatch his phone, but he tucked it into his pocket. “Don’t bother. Even if you deleted it, It’s backed up on my iCloud, and I have copies in an email draft, just waiting for me to hit send.”

  A lump formed in my throat.

  I swallowed it away. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to stay the fuck away from Victor Petoskey. If I so much as see you talking to him again, I’m going to send this photo to everyone in my contact’s list… and yours.”

  I didn’t know if he was bluffing, but I couldn’t take that risk.

  I felt weak. Powerless. I knew this kid knew computer shit left and right, and I didn’t stand a chance against him.

  “Is that all?” I asked, my voice weak.

  “For now,” he said with a wicked grin. “I want you out of the picture, Preston. With everything that comes to Victor Petoskey. Got it?”

  I hated him. I wanted to wrap my fingers around his thick neck and squeeze as hard as I could.

  But I couldn’t do it. I was too afraid of the consequences.

  Because if he said was true…

  My entire life would be ruined.

  I nodded my head like the shit stain I was.

  “Good. Glad we could come to this little understanding,” Martin said gently.

  His words felt like he was twisting a knife in my heart.

  I’d never felt worse.

  I felt like I was going to faint.

  “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, there’s one more point I wanted to drive home…” he purred.

  Then in one lightning-fast motion, he shoved me, hard.

  I was taken by surprise, so I lost my footing and stumbled backward into the closet.

  He slammed the door closed, sealing me in the darkness.

  I sprang to my feet and tried the knob, but it was stuck in place. He must have been holding it.

  “You son of a bitch!” I yelled, smacking the door with the flat of my hand. “Let me out of here!”

  He flipped me the bird through the small glass window.

  I tried the knob again, turning it furiously to no avail.

  Had he locked it? But the lock was on the inside… you couldn’t just lock someone in a closet, doors weren’t built that way anymore—

  I thumbed the rounded doorknob, feeling for the keyhole ridge.

  It was missing. This side of the knob was smooth brass.

  That meant the lock was on the other side.

  Fucking jank-ass seventies building with its jank-ass doors hung the wrong goddamn way—!

  Martin looked at me through the glass again with a satisfied smirk, flipped me the double birds, then disappeared.

  I sank to my knees in the darkness, the single beam of light slanting in from the rectangle above the knob.

  I was literally trapped in a closet.

  And I’d never felt more alone.

  But I knew I would do what Martin said.

  I would stay away from Victor; completely cut him out of my life and out of my thoughts.

  There was just too much at stake.

  Ten Years Later

  9

  Victor

  I walked out of the venue feeling accomplished, swishing the tendrils of my low-fade haircut from my face.

  The crowd swarmed me.

  “Petoskey! Can we get your autograph?!” squealed a young woman nearby.

  “Sure,” I said with a grin.
r />   She fumbled through her bag, completely stoked to be talking to me (which felt weird), and pulled out my first album.

  My manager handed me a silver sharpie and I signed it.

  “Love your music!” she cried.

  “Thank you. I love making it,” I said, filled with glee.

  It had only been a year since I’d “made it,” as they say, and it all still felt unreal.

  Everything about this felt like a dream. It was like I’d gone to sleep and woken up in a land of light and fame.

  Sure, I’d worked hard through my early twenties to make it happen. I went to college and gave up the saxophone in favor of electronic music. All my hoity-toity friends back then called it “computer farts,” but I saw something in it. There was a beauty in the way I could twist notes inside the machine. And I just kept doing that, getting better at it, and combining it with elements of classical music, until everything just kind of worked out.

  Now I was playing at concerts, and people were treating me like some kind of ascended being.

  Like now.

  I felt worshipped, and it felt weird.

  “When are you releasing your next album?!” the girl shrieked.

  I gave her my most charming smile and said what I’d been trained to say: “I’ve got it in the works. You can hear back more soon if you follow me on social media.”

  God, it all sounded so fake coming out of my mouth like that. But it had to be done.

  I needed to feed the beast. Keep this thing going.

  The girl plunged her hand into her pocket, fumbling around for her phone. “Hey, Jon, can you hold my purse?”

  My attention snapped to the guy at her side.

  It was him.

  And holy fuck, ten years later, Jon Preston looked like… well, he still looked like Jon Preston. Though the lankiness of youth had left him.

  Back then, when we had our little experiences, we’d both been kids.

  But now? Now Jon Preston was a man; a man with a thick neck and even broader shoulders and a maturity in the light lines of his face.

  And a girlfriend.

  Our eyes met and lightning passed between us.

  His sculpted lips came open in that same “o” face, and all of the memories lit up in my brain like a Christmas tree.

  That time in the shower. That time I came all over his face…

  I smiled.

  Jon looked horrified.