Whatever.

by S. J. Goslee

  Serge has shadows under his eyes, and he looks more sickly than Goth-pale. This school year has obviously been hard on him so far. He’s still got a death grip on his bag as he climbs into the back of the van.

  Mike leans into the doorframe and watches Serge settle onto a seat, rubbing absently at his mouth, smearing blood along his jaw, and he’s so tense Mike doesn’t want to take him home yet. He’s got a feeling Serge would just disappear until tomorrow morning, or he’d be hounded by his brother—Wallace doesn’t seem like the type of guy who’d really get this kind of bullying. Fortunately, Mike’s in a benevolent savior kind of mood. Takes his mind off his own problems.

  “Know anything about music?” Mike asks him.

  Serge scowls and says, “Maybe.”

  “Okay.” Mike bobs his head. “Wanna hang out with us for a little while?”

  Serge says, “Not really.”

  “Sure you do,” Mike says. “You’ll love it.” He pats the top of the van before pulling the door closed.

  Omar grins at him. “Are we kidnapping a freshman?”

  “Yes, Omar. Yes, we are.”

  * * *

  It takes a while for Serge to relax. For him to really believe that they’re not going to beat the shit out of him in the comfort of Meckles’ basement.

  Serge loosens up enough to agree with Meckles about Nirvana, even though Meckles is wrong. And he accepts Mike’s admittedly somewhat shaky reasoning on why the Lemonheads rock: they’ve written the sound track to Mike’s entire life, basically, and Evan Dando is a god. Omar shows him how to play the bass part on “My Drug Buddy,” and Serge proves himself a truly terrible musician.

  Cam doesn’t let Serge smoke up. “Not on my watch, little dude,” he says, mainly because Cam’s a bitch and a hoarder. But the contact high is enough to leave Serge mellow when they leave. Mike’s got a tolerance built up, even with his two months of abstinence, but he’s still more relaxed than he’s been in a while. He tends to think it’s the company more than anything.

  Omar drives them back around six, and then Mike walks Serge home, four houses down from his own.

  Mike leans into Serge’s side, comfortable, and the front door opens before they even make it all the way up the walk.

  “What are you doing?” Wallace asks when they hit the front stoop, staring at the arm Mike’s got dangling across Serge’s shoulders.

  “Dropping Serge off,” Mike says. He shifts away and gives the middle of Serge’s back a push. “Go on, scamp. See you tomorrow.”

  Serge doesn’t smile, but his eyes light up as he glances over at him. He ducks his head and mumbles, “Bye.”

  Mike stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels and grins, ignoring Wallace’s frown. He’s not letting Wallace get him down. They had a killer afternoon, even if Serge thinks death metal is an acceptable musical genre.

  With a jaunty wave, Mike sets off across the lawn toward his house.

  “Hey,” Wallace says.

  Mike turns so he’s looking at Wallace and slows his steps. “Yeah?”

  Wallace just stares at him, mouth pulled down. Finally, he shakes his head and says, “Never mind.”

  * * *

  “So what you’re saying is that you have a crush on Rook Wallace’s fourteen-year-old brother,” Lisa says, leaning a hip onto the locker next to Mike’s.

  “Fuck no,” Mike says. “He’s just an all right kid.” Mike wants to take him under his wing, mentor him, do all the shit Wallace should be doing, but is apparently too busy to do. It’s clear to Mike after hanging out with Serge the day before that someone has been entirely remiss in schooling Serge on the differences between tragically hip and cool. Mike doesn’t care how Serge dresses, so long as he doesn’t get his wardrobe from Hot Topic. He should hang out with Girl Meckles.

  Lisa looks at him with a skeptical gleam in her eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Really,” she says.

  “Yes, really.”

  Sighing, Lisa steps closer and slides a hand over his forearm. She moves into him, hooking her chin over his shoulder, sort of a half hug. She says, “You know, I kind of miss you.”

  Mike wraps his other arm around her waist. “No, you don’t.”

  She huffs. “I do. We never hang out anymore.”

  “That’s because you have Larson. And I have cheerleaders.”

  Lisa chuckles. “It’s pretty funny.”

  “Whatever,” Mike grouses. He shifts so his nose is buried in her hair and hugs her tighter. Around them, the hall is mostly empty—the first bell for homeroom’s already rung. They should be rushing, but Mike doesn’t feel like it.

  Finally, Lisa lifts her head and looks right into Mike’s eyes and says, “I know you.”

  “Yeah.” There’s no way Mike can even try to deny that. Lisa’s known Mike as long as Cam has.

  “You’re avoiding things. You’re adopting Serge to avoid even more things.” She pokes him in the stomach. “Are you going to tell me what happened at Cam’s party?”

  “Uh, no,” Mike says, and then says, “Crap,” when Lisa’s expression turns smug. She’d been fishing, and he’d just confirmed her suspicions. He backtracks with, “I mean—what? Nothing happened,” but he’s not dumb enough to think he’s fooled her.

  The second homeroom bell rings.

  Lisa pokes him again and says, “You’re telling me later.”

  Mike has no intention of telling her anything later, but he nods okay anyway.

  * * *

  Health class is a giant waste of time, but Mike only has it once a week. He sits in the back corner in between Omar and Jason, by the bank of windows, and zones out for an hour.

  The classroom is one of two in the gym hallway, and the windows are facing the soccer field. It’s a nice day for the middle of November, and there’s a fifth period gym class out in the sunshine playing croquet. Badly. Mike’s pretty sure it’s on purpose.

  He spots Lenny, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, laughing with Wallace. She’s got a hand on his arm, head tipped back, grinning, and Mike does not care. He doesn’t clench his teeth or tighten his fingers around his pen. That would be stupid.

  He’s not going to be one of those assholes who decides he doesn’t want someone, but gets jealous when that someone wants someone else.

  Wallace leans away from Lenny, though. He’s smiling, from what Mike can tell, but he deftly maneuvers some space between them, so smooth Mike doesn’t think Lenny even notices. Wallace bobs his head in an aw-shucks motion, but keeps his croquet club angled out, so Lenny can’t move any closer.

  Mike frowns. Lenny likes to flirt; even Mike sometimes has a hard time not humoring her. It’s not like she’s even serious, it’s just her default. Wallace is acting like Lenny is making him uncomfortable, though. Huh.

  This is what Mike knows: Wallace has never had a girlfriend.

  Mike tries to think if he’s ever even seen Wallace date. He chews on the end of his pen, watching the orange-gold autumn sun somehow make Wallace’s black hair even richer looking. Wallace elbows Weedy Jim in the ribs, laughing companionably.

  In all those years of heated, evil glances, you’d think Mike would’ve heard something about a girl. It’s not like he even thought it was weird that Wallace didn’t date, because then maybe he’d have thought of this sooner: he remembers that guy. That senior, that varsity baseball player, Buschel, from last year, the one that practically adopted Wallace. Mike remembers it being sickening, all the male bonding and back-slaps and blushing cheeks, and Mike’s horrified to realize that, yes, Buschel and Wallace had probably been fucking like bunnies.

  Mike makes a choking noise.

  Omar looks at him funny.

  Mike coughs into his fist.

  Motherfucking shit, he thinks.

  So Wallace is most likely really, really gay, huh, and that makes Mike—actually, he has no idea what that makes him. It’s practically a confirmation that Wallace is fucking with him, though, like he wan
ts to taunt Mike for being so hesitant about something that Wallace is already so at ease with. Like Mike’s ashamed instead of just really confused. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, and something suspiciously like hurt settles somewhere heavy in his chest.

  Whatever. It’s not like Mike was taking any of this seriously anyhow.

  And even if eventually, by some small chance, he would have, well, he certainly won’t now.

  * * *

  “Serge, my man,” Mike says. Serge is standing by his brother’s Nova in the parking lot while Wallace unlocks it. Mike gives Wallace a tight grin before grabbing Serge’s wrist and tugging him toward Omar’s van. “Ditch your brother and come with us.”

  “Serge,” Wallace says. Mike can hear the frown in his voice, even with his back to him.

  “We’re heading to the Lot,” Mike says to Serge. “Cam’s promised me a death-defying feat. You don’t want to miss it.”

  “I guess,” Serge says. He says it reluctantly, but Mike can totally see a twinkle in his eye. Mike’s on a mission. A mission to shake Serge out of his funk; all this punk-ass emo shit is lame. Goth, fine, Mike can take it—he takes Meckles’ lumberjack and Cam’s stupid surfer, he can handle black, black, and yet even more black—but there’s no law that says a Goth can’t have fun.

  “Serge,” Wallace says louder.

  Mike looks over his shoulder at him. “Don’t worry, Wallace, we’ll keep your bro safe.”

  Wallace is scowling. Mike doesn’t think he’s ever seen his mouth curve down quite so hard before.

  It makes Mike feel strangely giddy. He’s not using Serge by befriending him, exactly; finally pissing Wallace off is just a nice added perk.

  * * *

  The Lot is busy for a weeknight, probably because it’s so nice out. And also because Cam’s got a megaphone—who the hell knows how—and is loudly proclaiming his intentions of jumping his bike over Omar’s van. It’s not the wildest thing he’s ever done, but it’s up there with the stupidest. Nobody is bothering to try to talk him out of it, not even Deanna. She’s got a look on her face like she’s fed up and mostly amused, like maybe letting Cam do this will make him tame for the rest of the year.

  It’s a nice thought. False, but nice.

  There’s a ramp—it’s not so much curved as warped—made out of pieces of plywood; Mike’s not sure where Cam got them, but they look almost rotted through. At least Cam’s wearing a helmet. Usually, they have to fight him on that.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Cam says with a flourish, half on his dirt bike, one hand in the air. “Let’s fucking do this.”

  Serge says, slight awe in his voice, “Is he trying to kill himself?”

  “You’d think so, right?” Mike says, grinning. Cam is a crazy bastard.

  It’s almost dark out, early twilight. Mike can see his breath. They’re loud, all of them, and someone nearby has probably already called the cops. Still, they haven’t gotten there by the time Cam starts pedaling across the asphalt, or when he hits the shaky ramp that barely holds his weight, or when he tumbles headlong and hard onto Omar’s van. He almost makes it. There’s a single moment where Mike thinks he’s actually going to catch enough air to at least roll over the roof. But then his front wheel hits the top corner and Cam flips over onto his back, slamming into the luggage rack and then careening off the other side.

  “Hot damn,” Cam says, panting and nearly breathless, when Mike reaches his side. “Son of a bitch. Ow.” He’s grinning maniacally and holding his arm awkwardly against his chest.

  “Hospital,” Mike says.

  “I can shake it off,” Cam says. There’s some strain around his eyes, though, and he’s steadily turning pale gray.

  “Hospital,” Deanna says, resigned.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t break your head,” Omar says.

  Jason has his cell phone up to his ear. He says brightly, “Hi, Mr. Scott,” and Mike starts helping Cam to his feet.

  * * *

  Mike has no idea what time it is when Omar finally drops him and Serge off, but it’s late. They’d gone to the hospital with Cam, waited for his dad to show up, and then gone for milk shakes with Omar and Jay.

  All the stars are as bright as the moon, and the air is crisp and frigid. Mike has his hands stuffed in the front pocket of his hoodie as he walks Serge home. He’s not even sure why he does it, why he feels like he has to make sure Serge actually gets to his front door, but it could be the way Wallace opens it before they reach it—again—and how he still looks angry.

  Wallace says, “You’re late.” His arms are crossed, and his gaze bounces hotly between them.

  “Sorry, Wallace,” Mike says insincerely. “Didn’t realize the kid had a curfew.”

  “I don’t,” Serge says, glaring at his brother.

  Mike claps his shoulder. He’s getting a really nice sense of satisfaction in annoying Wallace, since it’s kind of amazingly shitty that Wallace can kick his ass when they’re twelve and then kiss him all these years later with absolutely no explanation or apology. Mike’s spent so many years raging against Wallace, while Wallace never even got flustered—just smiled at Mike like he was someone’s amusing pet monkey. And now there’s something in Wallace’s eyes that Mike’s never seen before, and it warms Mike right down to his soul. This is Mike, finally gaining the upper hand. This is Mike: triumphant.

  He grins up at Wallace, tips his head back, and stares him right in the face.

  Wallace works his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

  Serge says, “It’s not even ten, god,” and pushes past Wallace to get inside.

  “Things happened beyond my control, Wallace,” Mike says. He feels like he’s being gracious here, offering an explanation.

  Wallace remains silent and continues to try to burn a hole through Mike’s head with his eyes.

  Mike nods. “Right.” While there’s fun in making Wallace speechless, he thinks it’d be better if he could get Wallace to yell at him—he’s not going to examine why it would be better—and now they’re just staring at each other, a silent standoff.

  When Wallace eases up on his frown and licks his lips, Mike’s mind goes from zero to sixty in a direction he totally doesn’t want it to go. Right.

  Mike’s just going to get out of there while he’s still ahead.

  thirteen.

  Cam’s stunt leaves him with a dislocated shoulder and a broken wrist. Mike thinks he got off easy, considering the way he’d landed.

  No one’s all that sympathetic, because he’s still alive and with no permanent damage, and also, Cam doesn’t really invite sympathy. Cam wants people to remember the stunt, the sick way his bike flipped, the hollow thud of him hitting the roof. He goes over the shaky cell-phone video of it, pointing out all the little details with giddy relish and self-satisfaction.

  Cam and Deanna have a fight about it and break up for exactly one day. They make up, mainly because Cam isn’t going to change, and because Mike thinks Deanna doesn’t really want him to.

  Despite being injured, Cam doesn’t use this as an excuse to get out of the Homecoming dance. Mike’s caught between being relieved and horrified, because he knows Cam just wants to go and watch Mike humiliate himself, but it’ll still be nice to have his friends there. They’ve been at the mall for almost two hours, though, and Mike kind of wants to jab an ice pick through his brain. He only agreed to shop with Cam because the alternative was shopping with Lisa. He’s starting to think that actually would’ve been easier.

  Cam tells Mike, “You can’t actually go stag, you know that, right? Everyone will totally think you’re boning Jay.”

  Mike blinks. He doesn’t even flush, because there are so many things wrong with that sentence—so crazy it’s not even embarrassing. “No they won’t,” he says.

  “Two dudes going stag with a bunch of other couples equals gay,” Cam says. He holds up a pink-and-green striped shirt with his good arm. “What do you think?”


  “I think—” Mike thinks that maybe it is gay, but also maybe that it doesn’t matter. He shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone would think I was dating Jason. Dude’s too skinny.”

  Cam doesn’t even give him a weird look; he just nods his head. “True that.” He picks up another green shirt and adds it to his pile to try on. Mike has a packaged white shirt and a dark blue tie. He hates shopping.

  “Isn’t your suit navy?” Mike says.

  “You’re right, I should go for something yellow,” Cam says, then starts back down the row of dress shirts.

  “Anyway,” Mike says, trailing reluctantly after Cam, “what about Omar?”

  “Omar has a date.”

  “Omar has a date?”

  “You should be more surprised that Meckles has a date,” Cam says, flipping through novelty ties. Mike catches glimpses of turkeys and cornucopias.

  This is true, except Mike’s mainly responsible for Meckles’ date. He’s 99 percent sure Dotty did the asking, too, and he’s looking forward to the inevitable and hilarious panic attack Meckles’ll have day of.

  But Omar is just Omar. He’s not like Meckles; Mike just can’t picture him taking time out of his busy schedule of being absently wise and terminally laid-back to suffer through the teen awkwardness of dating. He just figured Omar would wake up one day married with three kids. Like magic.

  “Who is it?” Mike asks.

  Cam looks over and waggles his eyebrows. “Fitzsimmons.”

  “Jules? He’s taking Jules Fitzsimmons?”

  “Well, I doubt he’s taking Gabe Fitzsimmons,” Cam says, frowning at what looks like a solar system tie.

  “Huh.” Jules Fitzsimmons is a control freak, but her older brother’s a nut job. He has dead eyes and a penchant for staring. Even Cam thinks he’s out of his mind, and Mike knows Lisa—Lisa, hardened soul, Viking—is a little afraid of him, so he has a point.

  “I think I’m going about this the wrong way,” Cam says. “I’m pretty sure I can pull off a bolo. I’ll get a brown suit and cowboy boots, like I stepped out of Dallas and into Dee’s dreams.”

  Mike doesn’t say anything, even though he thinks it’s the worst idea ever and that there’s a strong chance Girl Meckles will kick his ass over it. Deanna’s being an actual girl about Homecoming; she’s getting her hair and makeup done with Lisa and everything.