Whatever.

by S. J. Goslee

  “Sure there is,” Lisa says absently. “Do you think I should let Larson get me a ferret for my birthday?”

  “No.” Rosie researched ferrets five months ago. They’re sneaky, and there’s a good chance they’d eat Godzilla and Professor Cheese. Lisa has a house rabbit. “And normal has totally left the building.” He hasn’t decided whether to tell Lisa about Wallace yet, but he’s leaning toward no fucking way. Telling someone will just make it a Thing.

  A bigger deal than it actually is.

  Before, Mike had always liked November. It’s a good time of year—not freezing yet, not too rainy. It has Thanksgiving, which, even if it involves crazy Uncle Louie and Nana the Tyrant—he loves his grandmother, but she’s retired military and sometimes that’s just exhausting—is mostly all about truly excellent food and falling asleep in the living room in the middle of the afternoon, watching football with Gramps.

  Now, he’s got Homecoming, and Wallace, and he’s dreading every second of every day.

  It’s like the apocalypse came, only instead of nuclear bombs and zombies, Mike gets school participation, gay thoughts, and motherfucking cheerleaders.

  He has no idea how to get out of this mess.

  Mike had made a list of all the possible reasons Wallace could have had for kissing him, but he didn’t come up with a lot. Mike doesn’t have many self-esteem issues, but that just means he accepts the fact that he’s not perfect. Awesome, yes, a guitar god, obviously, but good-looking? Handsome to the degree that attracts other handsome people? Not really.

  Maybe Wallace is just curious. Maybe he’s doing some experimenting himself, and Mike seems like a good choice to dick around with.

  Safest bet for Mike: stay away from Wallace and keep the status quo. He’s got a horrible feeling it’s not going to be easy to do.

  “I could argue that there was no normal here to begin with, given that Cam is apparently a fully formed, functioning human being. Or I could say that we make our own normal.” Lisa pauses. “Either would fit.”

  “I’m in the running for Homecoming King,” Mike says.

  “Yeah, that’s a little weird.”

  “You think?” Mike finally finds his bike, but it’s under a couple precariously perched boxes. He can’t remember the last time he’s used it.

  Lisa says, “You could run for Queen, but I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

  “Why are we even friends?” Mike knocks over what looks like pretty much every kitchen gadget in creation trying to unearth the bike. He kicks boxes aside in a huff; he’s going to be late for work.

  “Because I let you see my boobs.”

  “That’s a lie,” Mike says, walking his bike out into the dying afternoon light. Touch them, yes, but Mike has never ever been allowed to see Lisa’s boobs, even when they were dating.

  “Oh, that’s right, because it would’ve been a waste.”

  Mike says, “I’m hanging up now, and I’m totally not saying goodbye,” and hits End, stuffing the cell into his back pocket. He zips up his hoodie against the cold and sets off down the street.

  * * *

  The House of Cheese is about a twenty-minute bike ride from Mike’s house. Not fun, but not hard, either. It’s nestled between a consignment shop and a dentist’s office, with an ice cream parlor on the corner and a used car dealership on the other side of the street. Since Mike can’t really see the appeal of specialty cheese, he has no idea how Uncle Louie manages to stay in business. If they were in a mall, maybe, just from curious foot traffic, but people actually have to decide to come to the House. They have to make a conscious decision to go get a head of stinky French cheese. There can’t be that many pretentious jackasses in the world.

  Mike slows his bike a half a block away from the shop, next to the ice cream parlor, because waiting outside the House, presumably for Leoni, is Wallace. He’s leaning against the brick with ankles crossed and head tilted down. His dark hair falls over his forehead in messy waves. He’s tapping fingers rhythmically on his thigh, and Mike realizes he’s got earbuds in. An iPhone wire winds over his chest, disappearing into the left pocket of his jeans.

  Wallace is taller than him. He’s lean and rangy, like a wolf, with big hands and knobby wrists, and enough leg that Mike isn’t sure he’s jealous of him or wants to rub one off on his thigh.

  Mike’s in serious trouble here. Christ.

  He takes a deep breath and pushes off again on his pedals, breaking at the bike rest in front of the shop so his tires skid a little on the sidewalk.

  Wallace glances up at him, eyes widening slightly in surprise. And then he grins, just this side of sheepish. “Tate,” he says.

  “Hey,” Mike says. His stomach feels like it wants to eat itself. Wow, this is so awkward.

  “Yeah, so.” Wallace tugs his earbuds out. The tops of his cheeks are a little pink, but Mike isn’t sure if it’s from the cold or not. “I should probably apologize for—”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mike definitely doesn’t want to hear this. He cuts Wallace off with “Whatever, man, you were drunk, I was drunk, things happened, let’s really not do this, okay?”

  “I wasn’t drunk,” Wallace says, a quizzical little wrinkle in his brow that is not at all cute, because he’s very obviously a moron and won’t take a fucking life buoy even when it hits him in the head.

  “Wallace,” Mike says, kind of exasperated. He flicks down his kickstand and swings off his bike.

  “I just wanted to say sorry for pushing you,” Wallace says. “I mean, you didn’t really protest.” His grin gets sly, one corner of his mouth higher than the other, and Mike kind of wants to slap him. “But I didn’t ask, either.”

  Mike says, “You always ask before you kiss someone?” before he can stop himself.

  Wallace takes a step closer to him. “Sure,” he says, voice low. His eyes are sparkling.

  Mike has no idea why he’s still in this conversation.

  Wallace is only a couple feet away from Mike, but it doesn’t matter. Mike clenches his hands into fists, feels his heart trip like a fucking traitor, his chest feels hot. He doesn’t want to stare at Wallace, but it’s not like he has much of a choice. Wallace is like a motherfucking cobra, his gaze is mesmerizing. Wallace is messing with him, he knows this, but it’s like his dick doesn’t care. That’s really inconvenient.

  His brain is calling for a strategic retreat, though. He says, “I need to get inside,” and sidesteps around Wallace, almost barreling into a scowling Leoni in his haste to get through the door.

  * * *

  The first week of November is mostly a blur for Mike. He goes to school, hangs out with the guys, and works, but he can’t actually recall any of it in clear detail.

  “You’re acting weird,” Cam says to Mike at lunch on Friday.

  Mike is totally acting weird. He’s not even surprised that Cam has noticed this. Still, he says, “No, I’m not.”

  Cam leans his elbows onto the table, eyes narrowed. “You are, man. You’re acting like that time, that time you ate bad chicken and had the shits for a week.”

  Cam is so classy. Mike’s glad they’re friends.

  “Could we not talk about that while we’re eating lunch?” Meckles says, grimacing.

  “Or at all,” Mike says. “We could try that.”

  Cam keeps staring at Mike. He says, “You’re going to have to tell me eventually, dude. I’m your best friend.”

  Mike stares back. “You really want to know?”

  “Yes, Mike,” Cam says. “Yes, I want to know why you’re acting so fucking weird.”

  Cam is rarely serious. Even his bouts of seriousness aren’t really all that serious. The one time Mike’s ever seen Cam truly upset was when his mom died, and they were both seven at the time. Cam is always a little bit crazy—funny hats, fanny packs, fake mustaches, a stuffed badger—and he cracks tasteless jokes when he’s being carted off to the hospital, no matter how many broken bones he’s got. Every cloud has a sterling silve
r lining for Cam.

  Cam’s keeping a straight face now, but it’s hard to take him seriously under that ridiculous coonskin cap.

  Mike cocks his head. “Are you Davy Crockett today?”

  “Killed me a bear when I was only three.”

  “Mike’s deflecting,” Jason says.

  “And you’re an asshole,” Mike says. Jay knows better than anyone, except maybe Lisa, why Mike is acting so weird. Besides the whole kissing Wallace thing, which no one will ever know about ever, Mike has decided.

  “Mike,” Cam says sternly, and here, right now, Mike thinks he could totally do it. It’s just them, just Cam and Meckles and Jay—his closest friends. He could totally come out.

  Omar sits down next to Cam and says, “What’s up?”

  Omar. Omar would get it, Mike knows this. Omar’s probably the only one he’s absolutely sure about. Mike could say, You know that nothing? From before? Well, that nothing is a big gay queer, and Mike’s totally sure it’ll be awesome and fine and they would all go back to eating their lunches like nothing happened. Right.

  Jason frowns at him.

  “I’m being weird about Homecoming, all right?” Mike says, like a lying liar who lies.

  “Well, duh,” Cam says. “It’s like you’re the star of every eighties teen movie ever.” He smiles dreamily. “I wish I could be you.”

  Sometimes, Mike has no idea what’s going on in Cam’s brain. Or rather, he knows exactly what’s going on in there. He just doesn’t want to think about it.

  “Now,” Cam says, waggling his eyebrows, “have you thought about your royal escort?”

  “I’m going stag,” Mike says.

  Jason says, “Lisa will destroy you,” because he’s apparently making it his mission to stomp all over Mike’s fragile hopes and dreams.

  Mike glares at him.

  Jason just smiles, like Mike won’t kick his ass. Which he won’t. Because Mike is a fucking pansy who loves his friends, goddamn it.

  And then Omar, who is the best of them—the best, despite getting completely trashed at Cam’s Halloween party and throwing up all over Lenny’s hooker boots—changes the subject, and Mike is saved from having to explain that, yes, he kind of wants his royal escort to have a cock and big hands.

  Those things are better left unsaid.

  * * *

  For three years, Wallace has been in the same science classes as Mike. For the past two, they’ve been in the same English classes, too. It’s not like Mike hasn’t noticed this before, it’s just that now he’s much more aware of Wallace’s location in relation to himself.

  “What’s up your ass?” Mo says.

  Mike hunches his shoulders. The hairs on the back of his neck are prickling, but he refuses to look up and confirm that Wallace is staring at him again from across the room. “Nothing,” he says, then leans toward her and hisses, “Wallace is stalking me,” because he has to tell someone. Someone who will probably not make fun of him, like Cam or Meckles.

  Mo blinks. “You’re delusional. And paranoid.”

  Mike shakes his head. Obviously not Mo, either. “Shut up.”

  “You—you know what, whatever.” She grins at him. “You’re just freaking out about Homecoming.”

  “Hell, yeah,” he says, happy to steer the conversation away from Wallace.

  “I’m thinking about skipping out on it. Wanna join me?”

  “Lisa would cut off my balls and put them in a jar. So no,” Mike says. He yearns to skip out on Homecoming, but it isn’t worth it.

  “Okay.” She frowns down at her desk, and Mike curses his tender heart.

  He sighs. “Okay, what?”

  Mo sucks in her bottom lip, teeth closing over her two lip rings. Her eyes are dark, and her fingers are fidgeting with her pen—there’s a blue ink smudge on the inside of her right thumb. “It’s just—the nomination’s gotta be someone’s sick idea of a joke. Look at me.”

  Mike looks at her. The tips of her pixie cut are currently dyed red. She’s got thick black around her eyes, a barbell that cuts across her left eyebrow, and the ends of a black-and-red tattoo curving up over the back of her neck. Mike gets what she’s saying, but at the same time he doesn’t. “Mo, seriously, this isn’t Carrie. You realize your best friend is Dorothy Ramirez, right?”

  Even if it’d started out as a joke, which is possible, because they’ve got the requisite asswipes in their class who think they’re better than everyone else—the junior varsity football players, the jockette clones on the field hockey team, the Mandees, none of whom are actually named Mandee—Dotty wouldn’t let anything happen.

  But Mo just shrugs.

  “You know what you should do?” Mike says.

  “What?”

  “You should own it.” Mike has no idea what he’s doing. Mike has no business telling anyone to own anything, considering the mess that is currently his life, but as long as he’s doing this, he doesn’t have to think about Wallace or making out with guys. That’s a plus right now.

  One of Mo’s eyes squints a little in question. “Own what, exactly?”

  “Homecoming. Don’t let anyone make you feel uncomfortable, Mo. Get yourself a date and go and be awesome.”

  “Right,” Mo says. She’s looking at him like he’s grown three other heads, and he doesn’t blame her. He knows he sounds like a tool.

  “In fact,” Mike makes himself go on, “you should ask Jeremy Smith.”

  “Jeremy—are you high?”

  “Nope.” He just really, really wishes he were.

  “Smith’s a mathlete.”

  Mike says, “He likes you.”

  Mo’s still watching him like he’s some sort of alien or werewolf or hybrid robot dog-beast. Which is fitting, since Mike’s pretty sure Smith’s in the Paranormal Enthusiasts club.

  “Smith,” she says.

  “Jeremy Smith,” Mike says with a nod.

  Mo gives him another weird look before opening Hamlet and toying with the dog-eared corner of a page.

  Up front, Mrs. Saunders is explaining how much of a crazy person Hamlet is, and Mike thinks about how this play is pretty fucked up.

  In his peripheral vision, Wallace’s face is a blur. When Mike finally glances over, Wallace isn’t looking at him, but Mike isn’t fooled. The corner of Wallace’s mouth is curled, and there’s a pink flush across the top of his cheek. Mike’s glad one of them is finding this so amusing.

  Mo slides a piece of paper onto his desk. On it is: seriously, smith?

  Mike writes, yes, smith, just ask him, and tries not to think about how much he’s acting like a giant twelve-year-old girl.

  twelve.

  Mike has nothing against Wallace’s younger brother, Serge. The kid’s pale and weird, and he wears a studded dog collar, but Mike’s best friend owns five different pairs of boat shoes, so Mike doesn’t have any room to talk.

  Not only does he have nothing against Serge, he kind of feels sorry for him. It’s gotta be tough, living in your brother’s perfect shadow. Serge takes it like an emo kid, not a man, but he’s fourteen and a frosh. Allowances have to be made.

  So Mike’s understandably concerned when he sees Serge in the hallway after lunch on Monday, sporting a fist-shaped red mark on his face and a split lower lip. Huh.

  Wallace is standing next to him, frowning with worry, and Serge has a defensive tilt to his chin, even though his eyes look suspiciously wet.

  Mike feels something clench in his rib cage.

  They actually look a lot alike, even though Serge is shorter and thinner. There’s a resemblance when they’re apart, but standing together Mike can see how their noses match, and how many times the expressions on their faces mirror each other as they talk.

  They’re both pissed off, just for two different reasons.

  And then Mike realizes he’s staring and turns away.

  * * *

  Mike might be in an epic battle of wills with Wallace, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do anything when
he spots a couple sophomores roughing Serge up on his way home from school later in the week.

  “Pull over,” Mike tells Omar.

  Omar arches an eyebrow, but obediently pulls onto the side of the road, leaving the van idling. He sits there while Mike pops open the passenger door.

  “Well?” Mike says, looking back at him. “Aren’t you going to help?”

  Omar sighs and twists off the engine. “You’re going to get your ass kicked.”

  “No way, man, I’m a ninja,” Mike says, grinning. With Omar, it’ll be three against two—although, honestly, it looks like Serge won’t be much of a help, poor kid, he’s not doing a lot to defend himself—and Mike considers himself a pretty scrappy fighter.

  Omar huffs a laugh and gets out of the van.

  Serge has his book bag tucked protectively against his chest. He’s scowling, and there’s a smudge of fresh blood on the corner of his mouth. The older bruise on his face is dark purple, yellowing at the edges.

  Mike’s just close enough to hear one of the assholes say “fucking emo fag,” and Serge’s face goes blank, just shuts down, even though his knuckles are white against the dark fabric of his bag.

  Mike says, “Hey, douche bags,” hoping to draw them away from Serge.

  The second their attention is diverted, Serge kicks one of them in the balls; Mike has seriously underestimated him.

  Omar winces. “Ouch.”

  The kid currently not rolling around on the ground crying looks pissed, but also like he wants to run away before Serge can get another lucky shot in.

  Mike makes a c’mere gesture at Serge, and Serge tightens his jaw, but makes his way cautiously over. Mike says, “Get in. We’ll give you a ride.”

  “I can walk,” Serge says.

  “Sure you can.” Mike nods. “Or you can get in the van and those assholes won’t call their friends to jump you five blocks from now.”

  Serge looks at Omar, and Omar shrugs.

  He still seems hesitant, though, and Mike catches his arm and steers him toward the van. “You know me, Serge,” he says. “We’re just gonna drive you home.”

  Mike feels some of the tension seep out of Serge’s arm. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”