by Jay Bell
“Let’s call it a day,” David said at the next save point.
Gordon looked at the clock, knowing they had another half hour before David’s father came home, but he didn’t say anything. He loitered another ten minutes, discussing what they would do tomorrow, before he finally left.
David closed the door to his room and counted under his breath until he heard the front door close. Then he turned on his stereo, set his MP3 player to shuffle, and cranked up the speakers. He loved to dance. The music didn’t matter as much as the rhythm, as long as the beat was strong and he could move to it. Hip hop, metal, pop, anything. On the really bad days, dancing was his ultimate cure, a surefire way to exercise and exorcise his demons. David loved to freak out when he danced, not doubting for a second that bullies would line up around the corner if they could see the way he flailed his arms and spun around, but he didn’t care. He was home. David unplugged the bar lights and moved his body, lost in a world devoid of light but filled with sound.
* * * * *
“Did you set the table?”
David nodded at his father and finished filling his glass with tap water. Then he took his seat at the small, narrow table. For a piece of furniture, it wasn’t very optimistic. The table could only sit two comfortably, implying the owner wasn’t planning on guests or a larger family.
When David’s parents had divorced, he had pictured a lazy bachelor’s life with his father. Richard Henry would finally loosen his tie and sit with his son in front of the TV every night as they picked at their microwave dinners. David had assumed his mother’s nagging and constantly pursed lips had made his dad a starchy person, but his dad had only gotten worse since she left.
His father set a plate in front of him before taking his seat. Pasta with tomato sauce, as usual. On the weekend, his father cooked a big pot of pasta sauce, divvying it into freezer bags. When he came home on weekdays, he would boil a pot of water for the pasta and toss the sauce bag in the microwave. If his dad was feeling energetic, he would make a chopped salad. David would prefer having pizza delivered or going out for a greasy bag of fast food, but neither was as cost-effective as the endless parade of pasta.
“How was school?”
“The usual,” David answered between bites. Despite his lack of enthusiasm for the cuisine, all that dancing had made him hungry.
“Only a few weeks until summer break. Any sign of your grades?”
“I don’t know. Straight A’s? Isn’t that what I always get?”
His fathered peered at him from over his glasses, chewing carefully before dabbing his carefully trimmed mustache with a napkin. “Last semester you got a ninety-one in math. That’s two points away from being a B.”
“Well, math isn’t my best subject. Especially this year.”
“Do you find precalculus challenging?”
“Boring is more like it.”
Of course having his desk next to the biggest asshole in school didn’t help. If only his dad knew what he went through every day, but David couldn’t imagine them discussing it. Then again, why not? That’s what parents were for, and it sure beat talking about grades.
David set down his fork. “Did anyone pick on you in school?”
“Are you having trouble?”
David shook his head. “I was just wondering what it was like for you.”
“Is that why your grades are slipping?”
He sighed. Why couldn’t his father just talk to him instead of treating him like a problem that needed to be solved? “My grades are as good as they’re going to get. But yeah, there are guys at school who make my life hell. I don’t want to go back.”
His father wiped his mouth again and shook his head. “You can’t be homeschooled with Gordon. I know you think that sounds like fun, but his education isn’t as rounded. He certainly won’t be getting into a decent university.”
“I don’t want to be homeschooled,” David said, his voice starting to rise. “I just want people to leave me the fuck alone!”
As starchy as his dad was, he never had been bothered by what his mother used to call “foul language.” David used it sparingly enough that when he did, his father took him seriously. “I can talk to your teachers if you want,” he said. “No one has the right to pick on you.”
“It won’t help,” David said.
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t change who people are. It’s human nature to hate anything that’s different.”
His father tossed his napkin on his empty plate and sighed. “Is this about your sexuality?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” David hated it when he called it that. Sexuality sounded so clinical. But he was grateful that his father didn’t have a problem with it, being too logical and pragmatic to have any objections. The truth was, David didn’t know why people hated him. Faggot and gay were fairly general insults, but with him, people seemed to mean it. He wasn’t particularly feminine, hadn’t been caught doing something with another guy, but people assumed he was gay anyway. And it was true, which meant he was alone. He didn’t know any other students that were gay, at least not openly. And what Connor Williams had said today was just to pick a fight with Chuck. David was sure of that. People said a lot of things about Connor, but not that he was into guys.
“Listen, son. There are a lot of ignorant people in the world who make life unpleasant for the rest of us. If you want revenge, keep your head down and study. Make something of your life. Then, when they’re hauling away the garbage from the curb of your house every week, you’ll be glad you didn’t sink to their level.”
For his dad, the advice wasn’t terrible, but what his father didn’t understand is that turning the other cheek was likely to get David hit on that side as well. He just didn’t get it, but he was in for a rude awakening. When they sat at this table to eat dinner tomorrow, his father would see the bruises and cuts, and David would at least have the satisfaction of proving him wrong. Maybe tomorrow things would finally change.
Chapter Two
Connor lit another cigarette, considering the ghostly wisps of smoke surrounding him before reaching over to roll down the passenger-side window. Sitting in the car for the better part of an hour—having cut sixth period class—had left the oxygen level dangerously low. In the corner of his eye the school doors opened, the students pouring out. Connor turned down the radio, the knob coming off like it always did, before he turned his attention to the oncoming crowd.
Before long Chuck came out surrounded by more minions than usual. Connor allowed himself a cocky smile. Chuck could bring all the reinforcements he wanted. It wouldn’t make a difference. When the leader was scared, the troops were terrified, and Connor knew just how afraid Chuck was. Regardless, he leaned his seat almost all the way back, Chuck and his lackeys passing without noticing him. They headed for the silver Mazda RX-8 that David Henry had taken a spill over yesterday. Chuck even wiped the hood with his sleeve as if the handprints were still there, before he turned his attention to the school.
Connor followed his gaze, shifting his seat back up and searching for the same person. Out the door David came, walking down the lane without making an attempt to hide or run. Except he wasn’t feeling brave or planning to make a stand—that was clear from his body language. His lanky frame was tense with fear, his shoulders hunched. David had a decent build. Standing up straight would make him taller than Chuck, a good advantage in a fight. Instead he played the quintessential victim. Connor supposed David’s short curly hair didn’t help, nor did the full lips that somehow made him appear sensitive, like they had become pink and swollen from reading too much poetry aloud.
Why was David doing this? He wasn’t going to fight, probably wouldn’t even find brave words, but still he was marching on as if meeting his fate. Connor looked back at Chuck and saw his little rat eyes glimmering with excitement. He had probably stayed up all night jerking off over the idea of taking out yesterday’s humiliation on David today. And David was willing
to make all his fantasies come true. How could he be so stupid?
Just as David was passing by, Connor stepped out of his car. When David turned to face him, one of his shoes pivoted on a piece of gravel with a sound like a needle dragging across a record.
“Get in the car.”
Connor hadn’t meant to say it like that, with irritation and maybe a little hostility. All his anger was directed at Chuck, and he was having a hard time controlling it.
David glanced between Chuck and Connor, clearly weighing his options. Connor knew then that David had heard everything about his past. Not surprising since there wasn’t a soul in this godforsaken shithole who didn’t whisper the stories as he walked by.
“Get in,” he tried again, but knew he would have to give David just a little more. “I have to pick up my little brother. He’s in grade school.”
David’s brow furrowed as he tried to reconcile this information with the monster in his mind. One wary look toward the group of bullies sealed the deal. David headed for the passenger-side door while Connor kept his eyes on Chuck, making sure he stayed put. And he did, looking like an angry child on the verge of a temper tantrum. Once David was seated, Connor flashed Chuck his biggest smile and got back in the car.
Turning the ignition, he let the engine growl a few times before blasting out of the parking lot. In the rearview mirror he saw Chuck flip him off and smirked. Chuck would never have the balls to do that to his face.
“Actually, I don’t live far from here,” David said, clutching the door handle with white knuckles.
Connor slowed to the speed limit.
“Just a couple of blocks, really,” David tried again, still appearing afraid.
“I can’t keep my brother waiting. Just one detour.”
In truth, he still had plenty of time, but he was desperate to prove that he was more than what the rumors claimed. If only he could think of something to say. He drummed on the steering wheel, willing his mind to start working.
“Sit tight. We’ll be there soon.” Smooth!
“So,” David said, looking resigned to his fate. “What kind of car is this?”
“1968 Chevy Chevelle.”
The car was a piece of crap, the paint stripped away to the gunmetal gray below. His uncle had been planning to paint it before marrying a woman with three kids. With his new minivan life, he sold the Chevelle to Connor. Considering all the rust and engine problems, the car should have been free, but it was all Connor could afford. At least with an old muscle car, people assumed you were an enthusiast and in the process of restoring it.
“So are you fixing it up or something?”
Right on cue! “Yup. Some paint and a little work, and she’ll be as good as new.”
Or in the junkyard by the end of the year, but so far the car had held together. The conversation lulled again, so he reached for the radio, only to notice he hadn’t picked the knob off the floor yet. Why was this so hard?
“Uh, I’d offer you a cigarette, but we’re almost there. I don’t smoke with my little brother in the car.”
“I can’t stand the smell of them anyway.”
Great.
“Not that I mind,” David added quickly.
“No, you’re right. Nasty habit.”
Connor rubbed his chin, wishing he had shaved that morning. Instead he had eaten his bowl of cereal slowly, imagining a situation similar to this one where he and David ended up hanging out, talking the night away. Everything would have been perfect. Except now Connor couldn’t muster a single damn word.
The blinking school zone sign came into view, which meant they were close to picking up Tommy. Two minutes to be charming, Connor. Now or never!
“Fuck,” Connor muttered. He glanced in the rearview mirror, not surprised to see that his expression looked just as hopeless as David’s. He hit the turn signal and pulled in behind the other cars already waiting, Tommy running down the sidewalk even though he was supposed to stay by the door. They shared the same green eyes and blonde hair, except Tommy’s—flopping behind him—was still the platinum blond of youth where Connor’s had darkened to gold years ago. Tommy sprinted to the car, a doofy grin on his face that turned to puzzlement when he noticed the passenger.
“Two door car, right,” David said, stepping out. “You can sit up front, if you want.”
But Tommy scrambled in the back anyway. “Who are you?” he asked as the car pulled away from the curb.
“David. And you?”
“Tommy. Are you my brother’s friend?”
David looked at Connor, appearing amused. “Sure.”
Tommy was far from finished. “Do you like comics?”
“No. Well, I like to read, so kind of.”
“What about movies?”
“Yeah, especially black and white stuff with a lot of murder.”
David’s description failed to impress Tommy. The kid had grown up on dubbed Japanese cartoons, but Connor knew a little about film noir.
“Ever see that one with the two sisters? One used to be a child star, except now she’s old and taking care of her handicapped sister.”
David grinned. “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. That one is crazy.”
Connor chuckled. “Doesn’t she make her sister eat a bird or something? She’s completely psycho.” He hesitated, not wanting the conversation to turn to such subjects. “Or Casablanca. I know that one doesn’t have much murder in it, but it’s not bad.”
“Yeah,” David nodded. “I like that one too.”
Silence reigned supreme for half a second before Tommy conquered it. “What about music? Do you like rap?”
David started rattling off the names of the bands he liked, and in that moment Connor decided to get a tattoo on his forehead that read “I love my kid brother.” Tommy kept pestering David with questions as they headed back toward the high school, giving Connor a couple more chances to interject.
“Turn here,” David said.
The sign on the subdivision read “Bonita Vista Condominiums.” Connor never understood what differentiated a condo from an apartment. He pictured condos as little boxy units stacked on top of each other, probably near a beach. The condos here appeared more like townhomes, row after row of two-story buildings, all connected to each other. Maybe some marketing department had decided that “condo” sounded wealthy, whereas “townhome” sounded quaint. Regardless, Connor was relieved that David didn’t live in a big house. Not that the condos were likely to be cheap, but at least this put them both in the same financial solar system.
“Right there.” David said. “Where that guy is sitting.”
Sitting on the front steps of one condo was a chubby-faced kid with glasses just as round as his face. The kid stared with an expression of confusion so intense it neared revulsion.
“Is that your little brother?” Connor asked.
“No, just a friend.” David grabbed his backpack from the floorboard. “Listen, thanks for the ride, but none of this is going to make a difference.”
“You mean with Chuck?”
David nodded. “He’s just going to beat me up tomorrow. Or the day after.”
“Not if I give you a ride home every day.”
The words slipped from Connor’s mouth before he had a chance to consider them, and he blessed their careless speed.
David just stared in open surprise.
“Okay?”
David nodded and fumbled for the door handle.
“Byeeeee!” Tommy said, clambering through the gap between seats to get to the front.
As soon as they were out of the subdivision, he gunned it toward the west side of town.
“I don’t think he likes you,” Tommy said after a moment.
Connor laughed. “That’s because your big brother is a scary guy.”
“I don’t think you’re scary.”
Connor grabbed Tommy’s stomach, causing him to shriek and giggle, but even this didn’t silence his questions.
“Do you like him?”
Connor thought about it a moment. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”
* * * * *
Florescent light poured through the windshield, bathing Connor’s bare chest as he considered the shirt in his hand. He leaned back against the car’s leather seat, the creaking noise strangely comforting before he gave in and pulled the shirt over his head. Working at McDonald’s was bad enough without the crappy uniform. Why did anyone care what he wore? It’s not like the patrons had discerning taste, or at least they abandoned it when deciding to eat here. So what if the employees wore jeans and T-shirts?
The ugly maroon shirt with its gray and yellow horizontal stripes always smelled like grease, even after Connor washed it, which wasn’t often anymore. Even more annoying were the black slacks that went with it. Connor unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down, kicking off his shoes. He was groping around in the backseat for his work pants when someone knocked on the door, causing him to jump and bang his head on the roof.
“Fuck,” he said when he saw it was Riley. “Don’t do that!”
Riley smiled through multiple lip piercings.
“What are you doing in there?” she asked after Connor rolled down the window. “Jerking off or something?”
The idea was definitely more appealing than flipping burgers. Connor barked a humorless laugh and got his pants on as quickly as possible. Not that he was shy, but Riley was sneaking glances at his package and not bothering to hide her interest.
“Is Mike here already?” he asked as he fumbled with the annoyingly small zipper.
“Of course.” Riley brought her eyes back up to his face. “I don’t think he’s noticed you’re late yet.”
“Good.”
Connor got out of the car, wishing Riley would step back a little. She had only been working here a week and had taken to Connor immediately. Well, not right away, but shortly after being warned by the other workers what a psychopath he was. That was his main appeal for Riley. She was a freak, or at least desperately wanted to be. Her long hair was dyed black, except for a single streak of blue, her heavy makeup echoing these hues.
