His Own Way Out

by Taylor Saracen

  Though there was distance between them, Blake could see the trepidation in Rider’s eyes.

  “Not anymore. At least I try not to,” Blake answered, shaking his head for emphasis.

  “And how’s that working out for you?” Rider asked genuinely. It was odd that a guy who seemingly had his shit together was interested in hearing Blake’s thoughts.

  “I have no idea,” Blake confessed, unable to hold back his laughter. “Every day is different.”

  “Well, you give me hope, Blake, because for me, every day is exactly the same.”

  “I hope you get into Kentucky and find some change.”

  “And I hope you don’t change at all,” Rider decided. It looked as if he was going to close the gap between them, but instead his feet remained planted in the dirt.

  “You don’t know me,” Blake reminded, the sincerity in Rider’s statement taking him aback.

  “I know enough to know you shouldn’t.”

  And with that, Rider gave Blake a wave and turned to head back to the party. Blake watched as he took the steps by twos and disappeared into the house to pretend to be someone he wasn’t. He wondered how many people stood under the same roof wishing they weren’t who they were.

  Lying down on the cold ground, Blake gazed up at the moon, thinking of how the moment would have been poignant if he hadn’t been left in a corn field with balls as blue as his eyes.

  6

  As expected, wrestling tryouts had gone well for Blake and he had no problem making the team. Not only had his performance caused a surge in his self-worth, but the mere act of being on the mat had elevated his mood, which was already improving by the day. He was in a good place, probably the best that he’d been in since he transferred to WCHS, and he didn’t take that for granted.

  “Look at you,” Grace exclaimed when she came into the kitchen to find Blake scrambling eggs and frying bacon.

  Turning over his shoulder, he grinned at his mom, gesturing toward the toaster. “I’m making toast, too. Do you want me to fix you a plate?”

  “To what do we owe this pleasure?” Logan asked, grabbing a piece of bacon out of the pan. “Ouch!” he yelped when Blake swatted his ass with the wooden spoon he’d been using on the eggs. “What the fuck? You got my pants dirty, you prick!”

  “I offered breakfast to Mom, not you. I didn’t make enough to feed your big mouth.”

  “He can have mine,” Grace decided, kissing Blake on the cheek. “I need to get to work.”

  “You’re missing out,” Blake said in a sing-song tone.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Logan interjected, taking a seat at the table and tapping his fingers as though Blake’s preparation was taking too long.

  Grace clicked her tongue and shuffled out of the room just as Dominic was coming in.

  “How was work?” she asked her boyfriend, who was clearly beat after his overnight shift at the gas station.

  “It was work, Grace,” he said as if her obvious attempt at pleasantry was completely missed.

  “I’ll see you later,” Grace said, ignoring the edge in his voice. “Bye boys.”

  Blake waved goodbye and glanced at Dom. “Do you want some breakfast?”

  “I could eat,” Dominic nodded.

  “Fucking asshole,” Logan scoffed, looking slightly amused by Blake’s pettiness.

  “You already had a piece of bacon,” Blake defended. “That should hold you over.”

  “Did I steal your breakfast?” Dominic asked, seemingly less concerned when Blake dropped a plate of food in front of him. He dug in immediately.

  “Since when do you do nice shit for Dom anyway? You only gave him breakfast to piss me off,” Logan pointed out as if Blake’s motivation weren’t glaringly apparent.

  “Is that true?” Dominic questioned, his mouth full of eggs.

  “Yup,” Blake confirmed as he took a bite of his bacon.

  Dom shrugged. “I’m not above eating spite food.”

  “Nobody ever thought you would be,” Logan huffed, standing up to get a slice of cheese out of the refrigerator.

  “Have you actually given thought to that, Lo? Like, you’ve sat around and wondered if you would eat food that was given strictly to aggravate another person? That’s popped into your head often enough to have formed an opinion on Dom’s position?”

  “Honestly, Blake, you’re so annoying that I wouldn’t want to eat your food and risk becoming an asshole by proxy,” Logan stated, before leaving the room.

  “You really made him mad,” Dom noted.

  “I did,” Blake agreed.

  “And here I am reaping the rewards. You know, you’re not a shitty cook. You should do it more often, especially for me.”

  “Yeah,” Blake pursed his lips. “That’s not gonna happen. Enjoy the meal, it’s your last.”

  “That sounds like a threat,” Dominic stated, nonplussed.

  Blake laughed. “It came out more sinister than I meant it.”

  “You’ve always been a little boring. I thought things were about to get interesting,” Dom grinned, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Blake said offhandedly, taking his plate to the sink to rinse it off.

  It never ceased to be unnerving that Blake couldn’t read Dominic. With other people, he could determine a cause and effect relationship to their actions or words, but with Dom, there was only impulse. When he was younger, Blake thought Dom’s unpredictability was cool. He liked that he never knew what was going to come out of his mouth, until the shit that did was undercutting. Almost seven years later, like it or not, Blake had grown somewhat used to not being used to Dominic.

  “Grace said you made the wrestling team,” Dominic began, instantly interrupting himself— “Get me some orange juice.”

  Blake figured it was an improvement that Dominic had shown interest for a split second. It was hard not to compare Dominic to others in fatherly roles, although it was a position Dominic neither wanted nor deserved. While Blake’s actual father was very much a rolling stone, he was invested in a way no other man Grace had been with could be, and that was fine with Blake.

  “Please,” Blake prompted as if he was training a child in the simplest show of politeness.

  “Please,” Dom repeated, belching a “thank you” when Blake handed him a glass.

  Every one of Dominic’s bad habits made Blake want to be better. He was oddly inspiring.

  “I’m leaving,” Blake announced, deciding he didn’t want to spend another moment with the guy. His first practice of the season was later that day and he didn’t want things to be dampened by additional time with Dom.

  “Break a leg,” Dom called as Blake exited the house.

  He didn’t have the energy to tell the asshole that the phrase wasn’t used in sports for obvious reasons. Placing his headphones in his ears, Blake walked to school, got on the bus to Lexington, and didn’t remove the buds until he was sitting at his table in Homeland Security.

  “How was your weekend?” Steve asked, placing his book on the table as he sat down in his usual spot beside Blake.

  “Fine. How about yours?”

  Monday mornings were typically exhausting, but they were made more so when they were spent with Steve.

  “Good,” his classmate replied, licking his thin lips as if he was priming his mouth to ask a question.

  Blake regarded Steve expectantly for a moment before glancing away, hoping that when he looked back again things would be less awkward.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Steve ventured, which was strange on its own accord considering the guy asked him a never-ending succession of questions daily.

  There it was. After a few months of being forced to hang around with Steve, Blake had gained the ability to read his cues, even when Steve was too obtuse to have honed the same skill.

  “I guess,” Blake answered, hoping it was something he felt apt to handle at eight in the morning.

  “Are you gay?”

&nb
sp; The question hung in the air between them, as invasive as it was inappropriate. Blake knew he didn’t have to reveal any pieces of himself to Steve, but he had made a decision last year—after the Xander shit went down—not to pretend to be something, or someone, he wasn’t.

  “No,” Blake replied, noticing how a look of relief washed over Steve’s acne scarred face.

  Relief. A guy who had no stake in Blake’s life whatsoever was relieved to hear he wasn’t gay, something that would never impact him in the least.

  “I’m bi,” Blake continued, watching the relief shift to confusion. He had no idea how a teenager in 2012 could not know what bi meant. “Bisexual,” he clarified. “I’m into guys and girls.”

  “Oh,” Steve nodded his understanding. “That’s still kind of gay though, right? I mean, if you’re into guys...that’s gay.”

  Though Blake truly wanted to tell the guy off for being so ignorant, he decided an attempt at educating him was a better course of action.

  “It would make me gay if I was only into guys, but since I’m also into girls, it makes me bi.”

  “It’s the being into guys part that bothers the rest of the team,” Steve stated. “I mean, the fact that you’re into dudes at all…" He paused as if contemplating how to make what he was saying less shitty. “They don’t want you to wrestle with us.”

  Blake stared at the de facto dickhead of a spokesman in utter disbelief. There was no doubt in his mind that the team had put Steve up to the conversation because they knew he was dense enough to go along with it. They didn’t want him on the team. They didn’t want to wrestle with him. Shaking his head, Blake attempted to grab onto any of the words that were frenetically popping into his head but was unable to settle on anything that had enough weight. Instead of a full retort, Blake simply said, “Well, it’s not up to them,” because it wasn’t.

  “All I’m saying is they don’t want to wrestle you in practice and stuff in case you get, like, turned on by it or whatever,” Steve added, as if the sentiment made shit any better. “We wouldn’t have a girl on the squad, you know?”

  “That’s so stupid,” Blake spat as the anger boiling in his blood heated his face. “You dumbasses should be more worried about the fact that I’m going to be a beast this year, who devours everyone before I crush State.”

  “You can only do that if people are willing to wrestle you,” Steve reminded, his voice lacking the hostility that would have married well with the malicious statement.

  Too flabbergasted to say anything else, Blake seethed for the remainder of the morning and then some more when he got back to Woodland. There was no chance he was going to let a bunch of homophobic, biphobic ingrates run him off the team. They had some nerve putting Steve up to the task, but they would have to face him themselves. What a bunch of pussies. After months of looking forward to wrestling, he was determined not to let the bullshit bother him, but he had no idea how to ignore something so absurdly wrong. Regardless of how much he wanted to forget that Steve had said anything, Blake knew there was no way to easily purge the feelings of rage and hurt he was experiencing.

  And just like that, Blake was dreading the practice he’d been looking forward to for weeks.

  7

  Showing up to practice took more nerve than Blake expected. The stress pressing on his chest was similar to what he’d experienced when he faced his peers after Xander outed him, but somehow it managed to be exponentially worse knowing that people were so disgusted by him that they didn’t want him to participate in a sport they all loved. He should have been angrier than he was, should have allowed himself to be driven by their fear. In theory, their hate should have spurred him to be better, to excel in a way they couldn’t because they didn’t need to rise after being pushed down. It was easy to imagine walking into the room and telling them all to go fuck themselves before absolutely wrecking them on the mat, but actually entering a room full of people who didn’t want him there wore on him more than he would have liked.

  Blake stood among the team, his team, attempting to hear past the sound of his heart pounding in his ears as Coach gave his instructions. Although Blake knew that he needed to calm down, he couldn’t. The deep breaths he attempted to draw to slow the pace of his pulse were too shallow to settle it down. The last thing he needed was to pass out. Clearing his throat, Blake took a sip of his water, trying to cover the erratic pants escaping his lips. He had to get it together. Their opinions shouldn’t have meant anything. They were nothing more than a bunch of ignorant fucks who were most likely living their glory years, with nowhere else to go but down. They’d live and die in Unionville or some other small town where they’d spout off shit about valuing their neighbors while being assholes to anyone who was different from them.

  “Alright,” Coach said, ending the speech Blake hadn’t been able to pay attention to, “Pair up.”

  It was immediate, every guy quickly found a partner while Blake stood on his own, odd man out. Though he wanted to lay Steve out, Blake found himself wishing the squirrelly motherfucker would’ve thrown him a goddamn nut and teamed up with him.

  “We’ll cycle you in, Mitchell,” Coach Lowery said, and Blake wondered if the older man knew why he was sitting alone on the bench. If he did, he didn’t show any sign of correcting the team’s behavior. He was probably like them anyway. It was delusional to expect more. There would have been a modicum or vindication, but it wasn’t like having Coach read the team the riot act would make Blake feel any less like a leper. In fact, it would probably make things worse, if that were possible.

  Thirty minutes passed, and Blake’s ass was firmly planted on the bench as nary a teammate glanced in his direction. He’d never felt more seen and ignored in his life. On wobbly knees, he walked over to Coach Lowery, intent on participating even if he wasn’t wanted.

  “Coach,” Blake said, cursing his voice for cracking with stress. “I’m ready to get out there. Do you want to pair me up?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” he said watching the boys on the mat. “How about you go in for DePandy?” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey DePandy, take a breather. Lakin, you have Mitchell.”

  “I gotta take a leak, Coach,” Tyler Lakin said nervously. “Jeremiah can take Blake.”

  “Fine by me,” Coach Lowery huffed, unaffected by the brush off.

  “Why don’t you take Mitchell when you get back from the bathroom?” Jeremiah Burbar suggested, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m already winded.”

  Coach Lowery narrowed his eyes. “If that’s the case you shouldn’t have made the team, Jer. Stay in, work on your stamina.”

  Jeremiah nudged his knuckle against his nose as Blake joined him on the mat. “Don’t try any funny business,” Jeremiah warned, the statement taking Blake aback.

  “Funny business,” he repeated, “like telling fucking jokes? Don’t worry, man, I take this shit seriously.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Jeremiah said as if Blake hadn’t gotten the message clearly.

  Blake rolled his eyes and got low, ready to practice the skills he’d observed the team working on for the last half hour.

  “Watch your hands,” Jeremiah chided, standing up to shove Blake after being pinned to the ground.

  “Learn to wrestle,” Blake retorted, jaw clenched. “That was regulation take down.”

  “There’s nothing regulation about you,” the senior snarled, as the venom in his voice sank into Blake’s skin.

  “Fucking dick,” Blake scoffed, shaking his head as he eyed down the douchebag.

  “I figured you’d call me a dick. It’s what you got on your mind, right?”

  “Clever,” Blake muttered, trying to hide that the statement had knocked the air out of his lungs.

  “Any other compliments?” Jeremiah challenged.

  Blake shook his head. “Can’t think of one.”

  With that, Blake started to walk, sure that it wasn’t the right decision, however, he was painfully aware that he could onl
y take so much, and he knew he was nearing capacity. As much as he knew he would regret fucking off, he knew he’d regret staying for further berating a lot more.

  After a quick change, Blake began the three-mile trek to the only place it made sense to go.

  “I thought you had practice today,” Greg said, as he opened the front door to let Blake in.

  “Yeah, that didn’t go so well,” Blake replied, dropping his bag in the foyer and following his friend up to his bedroom. “Got any weed?”

  “You know I do,” Greg nodded, turning back to grin at Blake. “You look pissed.”

  “I am pissed.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you after you pack the bowl,” Blake sighed, lying back on Greg’s bed and draping his forearm over his face.

  “Did you fart or something?” Greg asked. “Like bust ass while a dude had you in a hold?”

  Despite himself, Blake chuckled. “That would have been less mortifying.”

  “Did you shit yourself?”

  Sitting up to glare at Greg, Blake uttered, “No, I didn’t shit myself, dumbass.”

  “What happened then?” Greg pressed, handing Blake the pipe and lighter.

  “Nobody wanted to practice with me. Like, they were doing anything they could not to go near me.”

  “Because of that stuff Steve brought up this morning?”

  Blake nodded, placing his lips on the glass to draw the marijuana deep into his lungs. Closing his eyes, he let the smoke fuzzy his mind, making the events of the afternoon feel like they were a million miles away.

  “Did you tell them that you have good taste and that you wouldn’t be into any of them because they’re budget beefcakes with fucked up faces?” Greg inquired, reaching for the weed.

  Clapping his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter, Blake shook his head. “Nah, I think I missed the boat on that one.”

  “There’s always tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “What the fuck, Blake!” Greg cried. “You’re not going to quit the team. That’s what they want. You show up tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that with fucking bells on. Not only because you love wrestling, but in spite of them. Let this bullshit inspire you to be better than every single last one of those motherfuckers.”