Whatever.

by S. J. Goslee

  “Uh, no,” Serge says, very obviously horrified.

  “You don’t have a choice, my friend,” he says. There’s a good chance this’ll piss Wallace off, and a tiny part of Mike is looking forward to it. It’s better than being ignored, right?

  A flush starts up from Serge’s neck, mottling his pale skin—Mike realizes Serge is pleased. It’s both gratifying and tragic, because Serge should have kids his own age to hang out with, guys who’ll appreciate him.

  For the first time ever, Mike wishes he were involved in some clubs that spanned grade levels. Maybe he can get Lisa to take Serge with her to drama. He doesn’t seem like the kind of kid who’d enjoy a pickup game of baseball.

  Although that doesn’t mean Mike isn’t going to badger him into occasionally playing, anyway, because Serge is kind of great, bad music choices aside, and if no one else will take him, Mike is perfectly willing to keep Serge himself.

  * * *

  While Mike dutifully dresses in the gray suit Lisa chose for him, Serge goes home to take a shower. Mike doesn’t know what he tells his parents or siblings, but he comes back looking surprisingly dapper in Mike’s black suit, his face still flushed.

  Meckles calls Mike at seven thirty and hyperventilates into his phone like a crazy person. This makes Mike feel ten times better about the evening ahead.

  Mom makes an appearance right around when they’re supposed to leave. She loiters in the doorway to the den and says, “Don’t you boys look handsome,” and, “It’s good to see you, Serge,” and, “I’d take pictures, but I know Michael would never forgive me.”

  Mike says, “Mom,” but all she does is laugh.

  And then it hits Mike that there’s a good possibility that his mom might think Serge is his date, and Mike is frozen in terror for all of two minutes—that feel like at least twenty—while the white noise in his head drowns out whatever small talk Serge is surreally engaging in with his mom. It’s like his worst nightmare, right up there with Homecoming committee and being gay, so yeah, why not this?

  When Omar honks the van horn and Mike’s jolted out of his catatonia, he grabs Serge’s arm and hauls ass out the front door.

  Mike’s mom just shouts, “Have fun!” after them, and Mike resists the urge to yell It’s not a date! back in her face, because she’d probably take that as confirmation.

  Omar glances at them in the rearview mirror when they climb in the back, one eyebrow arched.

  Jules half turns from the passenger seat and says, “We’re sneaking in a lowerclassman? How old are you, kid, twelve?”

  Serge looks torn between snapping at her and sinking down into the footwell and disappearing. Serge kicks his foot into the back of Omar’s seat and mumbles, “Shut up.”

  Jules laughs. She looks nice, Mike thinks—less starched. Her hair is even down, falling softly over her shoulders. Omar smiles over at her, like she’s charming or adorable or something, and it’s just too damn weird.

  Luckily, it only takes ten minutes to drive to the high school from Mike’s house, and half of that is spent air guitaring to “Pinball Wizard,” which actually makes Serge laugh.

  The plan, Mike thinks as he gets out of the van, is to be in and out. Mike isn’t sure about anyone else, but he doesn’t want to hang around the whole night. He’ll call his mom for a ride if he has to. He tugs on the front of his jacket, the hems of his sleeves, and tries to look more comfortable than he feels.

  * * *

  The music is deafening, even before they open the inner gym doors.

  Naomi, one of the seniors from Homecoming committee, bears down on him as soon as they enter. She’s got on a hideous neon pink minidress, gold stiletto heels, and says, “You’re late, Tate. You need to be announced,” in this really pissy voice. She looks like she wants to smack him with her clipboard.

  “I need to be what?”

  She gives him a long-suffering, almost-disgusted sigh. Naomi has never really liked Mike, so she’s probably horrified that Mike’s even on the docket. Hell, Mike is, too. “Announced,” she repeats. She overpronounces the word, drawing it out in a hiss like the poisonous viper she is. “You’re after Rook and Sierra, okay?”

  She takes his shoulder and prods him along the gym floor, positioning him at the bottom of the side steps going up to the temporary stage. She narrows her eyes and says, “Stay.”

  Mike frowns and murmurs, “Why am I even here?” as Naomi wanders off. He means it rhetorically, but Dotty sneaks up behind him and says, “Because of us.”

  “What?”

  “Us,” Dotty says. She leans into his arm, hooks a thumb over toward where Lenny is making eyes at some dude who Mike’s pretty sure isn’t her date. “We totally nominated you. Me and Lenny and Rook.”

  “What?” Mike can’t fucking believe this. “This is all your fault!” Cheerleaders are evil. He’s not sure whether he’s impressed or pissed.

  “Oh, come on. We figured it’d be cool, you’re our committee rep.” She tips her head up and gives him a winning smile. It’s the kind of smile that’s both mocking and sweet. Dotty’s a total asshole.

  “I don’t give a crap about Homecoming and you know it,” Mike says, but he mostly sounds defeated, and maybe a little amused. Dotty has a smug look on her face, and what the hell, everything’s already done, anyway. It’s not like he can change it. Mike is getting used to feeling out of control. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

  Dotty reaches up to straighten his tie.

  Mike smacks her hands away. He doesn’t need to be groomed. He straightens his own tie, then turns and notices Wallace a couple steps up from him, pointedly not looking at him. Mike just knows it’s on purpose.

  Wallace’s Homecoming escort is Sierra Montoya, which is the stupidest name for a real person in the entire universe. She’s also stunning. And Mike can’t believe he even said that word in his head, but it’s so true. Wallace and Sierra are a matching pair in black, their dark heads tilted together, and Mike has the irrational urge to grab hold of Sierra’s sleek bob of hair and yank. Just—take her down like a puma culling a caribou. He curls his hands into fists, jagged nails digging into his palms, and starts up an inner monologue on all the reasons he does not want to be Wallace’s pretty, pretty princess instead.

  One: Wallace is the devil.

  Two: Wallace will, ultimately, laugh at him. That’s the kicker. That’s the hump Mike can’t get over, even if he was willing to play whatever game Wallace had started on Halloween.

  “Hey.” Meckles knocks Mike’s arm with his elbow.

  Mike glances up at him. Meckles looks almost relaxed, which means Cam probably caught him for a smoke before they came inside. “You good?” Mike asks.

  Meckles says, “Yeah, sure.” His face is flushed, but he’s smiling. “You?”

  They’re about to be announced like debutantes to a room full of their peers. Mike wouldn’t exactly call that good. Mo and Smith look like they’re lining up to get pushed off a cliff. Mike kind of feels the same way.

  He shrugs and says, “Fine.” He actually has no idea how this is supposed to play out. There must have been King and Queen voting, but fuck if he remembers that. He’s planning on being far, far away from here by then.

  Meckles claps him on the back, and Mike stumbles into Wallace and there are a few incredibly awkward seconds while they sort out all their limbs, and Mike tries very hard not to grope Wallace or fall on his face and he’s so fucking embarrassed that the next moments as he’s announced are a blur. One second he’s waiting on stage, Wallace’s big hands steadying him …

  The next second, he’s already back down on the gym floor with Serge and Jay and Omar and Meckles crowded around him. Jason pushes a cup of punch into his hands and he stares down at it blankly. He’d take a sip if he didn’t feel like maybe he’d throw it all back up.

  What is wrong with him? When did he become this pathetic mooning loser? Better yet, why isn’t he doing anything about it?

  Someone
laughs, too close, and Mike jerks his head up, accidentally catching Wallace’s gaze.

  And hey, there’s the reaction Mike was waiting for, but it doesn’t exactly feel as good as he was hoping it would. Wallace’s jaw is clenched tight and he looks furious. He’s definitely pissed that Serge is there, and if Mike had to take a guess, he’d say Wallace caught a glimpse of Cam sharing his flask.

  Leoni bares his teeth at him behind Wallace’s back, like a rabid dog, and Mike salutes him absently with his paper cup.

  Mike’s just too damn tired and pissed off at himself to care anymore what Lisa or anyone else thinks.

  He slinks out the back of the gym, unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his shirtsleeves. He’s instantly cold from a biting wind threatening early snow, but it feels good. He fishes a cigarette out of his pack and lights it.

  He feels weird. He feels out of place, uncomfortable, and says, “Fuck it,” and flicks his cigarette to the ground, kills it with his shiny dress shoe before opening his button-down, tugging it off and balling it up, revealing the worn Lemonheads T-shirt underneath.

  Now he’s freezing.

  It’s better than being inside, though. Whatever this is, whatever’s going on between him and Wallace now, he doesn’t like it.

  The metal door behind him makes a creaking noise as it opens. There’s a flash of light, and a wall of sound rushes out before abruptly cutting off.

  “What the hell is your problem?” Leoni says. He pushes at Mike’s chest with the flat of his hand, and Mike stumbles back a step.

  “Fuck off, Leoni,” Mike says. If he doesn’t want to deal with Wallace, he definitely doesn’t want to deal with his overgrown lapdog.

  Leoni clenches his jaw. He says, “If you don’t want,” he waves a hand, “fine. But Serge?”

  “Wait, what?” Mike says. He gets that everyone’s a little hot about Mike and his friends corrupting Serge, but … “What does—”

  And Chris Leoni sucker punches him.

  Mike blacks out for a second or fifty, and the next thing he knows he’s sitting on the sidewalk, legs folded up. His head is fuzzy, brain throbbing.

  “Holy shit,” Mike says, palming the side of his face. There are pinpricks of light blinking in and out of his vision.

  “Fuck,” Leoni says.

  Mike wants to throw up. “I think—” I have a concussion, he tries to say, but it hurts to move his jaw.

  “Goddamn it, Tate,” Leoni says. He’s squatting down in front of Mike. “You’re such an asshole. Are you okay?”

  “You punched me,” Mike manages to say. With a sack of rocks, god almighty, it’s like Leoni’s knuckles are steel plated or brass or something.

  “Yeah, well,” Leoni says. “You deserved it.” He doesn’t sound entirely convinced of that fact. Mike certainly isn’t convinced.

  “Fuck,” Mike says. He hangs his head between his knees and thinks it’s a safe bet he’s not going to be able to move for a while. Or do anything that requires his brain to work.

  “All right, c’mon, we’re going to the hospital.”

  Mike wants to laugh, but he knows it’s a bad idea. “I’m fine.”

  Leoni makes a scoffing noise and hooks his hands under Mike’s arms. “On your feet,” he says. “I’m not carrying you.”

  Mike manages to somehow get his feet under his legs, but he’s dizzy, and he leans on Leoni all the way across the parking lot. Leoni’s Bronco looms in front of them, and he even lets Leoni open the door for him. He has to practically heft Mike into the seat. Mike’s willing to let Leoni do these things for him, considering he broke his face.

  Leoni wordlessly gets behind the wheel.

  When he starts the car, Mike says, “Shit. Serge.” He’s pretty sure Omar’ll give him a ride home, but he really meant to tell them before he skipped out.

  “You’re—” Leoni turns to glare at him. At least, Mike thinks that’s a glare, his vision’s kind of shaky. “You’re still worried about Serge?”

  “What the hell, man.” Mike cups his hand over his face, hissing under his breath, “Why the sudden hostility over your best friend’s brother? Does Wallace know you hate him?”

  “I don’t hate Serge,” Leoni says, pulling out of the parking lot. “I just don’t get why you have to do this to Rook. I don’t get you.”

  “Yeah, well.” Mike isn’t sure he gets himself, either. “That makes two of us.”

  * * *

  Mike has to have his face x-rayed, which turns up a hairline fracture across his cheekbone. The nurses fuss over him while he waits for his mom and then they send him home with a prescription for painkillers and an ice pack sometime after midnight.

  When he checks his cell, he has one voice mail and four texts. The voice mail and one of the texts are from Lisa, wondering where the hell he is—he’s going to pay for that later, he’s sure. Another text is from Omar, letting him know that Wallace left with Serge around ten. The other two are from Meckles. They’re pretty funny.

  Mike’s in way too much pain to fully appreciate them, though—his entire head feels swollen—so he just turns off his phone and goes to bed.

  fifteen.

  On Monday, the swelling has gone down enough that Mike can actually see out of his left eye. After spending most of Sunday barely being able to even crack his eyelid, he’s kind of excited to have a full range of vision again.

  He meets Meckles at their lockers and says, “Did you actually text me in the middle of hooking up with Dotty?”

  Meckles stares at him. “Did your face get hit by a brick wall?”

  Mike flips him off, then slams his locker closed.

  Meckles says, “Dude,” and reaches out like he wants to touch him, and Mike will not hesitate to break all of Meckles’ fingers if they come anywhere near his cheek.

  His death glare must properly relay that, because Meckles’ arm drops and he just says, “Huh.”

  “Holy shit,” Cam says, coming up behind them. “Holy fucking shit, did you get into a rumble Saturday night?”

  A rumble would be a lot less embarrassing than admitting he had a disagreement with Leoni’s meaty fist. “It’s nothing,” Mike says.

  Cam laughs, throwing an arm over Mike’s shoulders as they start off toward homeroom. “No wonder you disappeared. Licking your wounds all day yesterday?”

  Mike had pretty much stayed in bed the whole day, under his covers with an ice pack. His mom had coddled him, bringing him ice cream and soda and pizza for dinner. And sometime in between her dropping several heavy hints about Leoni being a gay-bashing homophobe and Mike marathoning Friends on Netflix, he realizes that Leoni’s mad at him because Wallace thinks Mike’s into his brother. It’s so obvious now, how could he have missed that? Wallace isn’t worried that Cam’s a bad influence; he’s worried that Mike’s secretly trying to get into Serge’s pants. How fucked up is that?

  He doesn’t get why they’re so quick to assume that he’s got the hots for Serge. Serge is a stringy little freshman. He’s practically a baby. Sure, maybe he enjoys his company, he’s cool to talk to, and he’s nice to look at. He’s like Wallace, only less of a douche wad. That doesn’t mean he wants him.

  And speaking of the motherfucking ice queen.

  There’s a bottleneck at the door of their homeroom, and Wallace turns to glare at him. It’s weird, seeing Wallace so angry all the time, Mike actually has to fight the urge to try to smooth it all over, tell Wallace, No, I don’t want your baby bro, because that should be a given. It would be nice if someone gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  Some of his frigid edges crack when Wallace grimaces at him. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” Mike says. There’s no way he’s going to tell Wallace that Leoni punched him. And then drove him to the hospital, and waited with him until his mom showed up, because apparently Leoni has a conscience, even if he complained the entire time he was there. Actually, Mike’s a little surprised that Wallace doesn’t already know all that, this seems like
just the kind of thing they’d want to gossip about.

  “He got into a rumble,” Cam says gleefully.

  Wallace’s eyes widen in alarm. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Mike threads his hands through his hair, exasperated. “Christ, it’s just a black eye.” You’d think he was attacked by a bear, the way everyone’s reacting.

  “Who punched you?” Wallace asks.

  Mike blinks at him, a little surprised by Wallace’s ferocity. He’s still reluctant to say anything, though. He figures Wallace will know soon enough, even if Leoni’s currently being quiet about it. “Drop it,” he says tiredly.

  Wallace’s jaw tightens. “Someone must have—”

  “Please, just drop it?” Mike says, pushing past Wallace to get into the classroom.

  “Mike.”

  Mike glances over his shoulder at him. He opens his mouth to snap, What? but Wallace actually looks really concerned, and the word gets stuck in his throat.

  * * *

  Mike is curled up smoking in the second floor bathroom window well. It’s cold with the window cracked open, but there’s a radiator just under his feet.

  “There’s a rumor going around that you were attacked by a gang of ninjas.”

  Mike looks down from his perch at Serge. He has no idea how Serge can joke like that and still look like a thundercloud. “Funny,” Mike says.

  Serge shrugs, hands in his pockets.

  Mike stubs his cigarette out on the metal window frame and shoves the butt into an empty Coke can wedged up against the screen. “Sorry about ditching you Saturday.”

  “Chris says he beat you up.”

  Great. That probably means Wallace knows that by now, too.

  The corners of Serge’s mouth are tilted up.

  “No offense, kid,” Mike says, shaking his head, “but I’m really not after your virtue.” If Serge knows about the punch, chances are he probably knows about the bi thing, too.

  Serge shrugs again. “I know.”

  “Thank Christ somebody does,” Mike says, even though that’s probably an exaggeration, considering there are only a handful of people who even know he’s into dudes now.