Benched: Volumes 4-6 Boxed Set

by Misha Horne

  He didn’t think that was true, and who even wanted to go to a lame science museum anyway. Except there was supposed to be a giant nose you could talk through, and that sounded disgusting, and he really had kind of wanted to see that. But, it didn’t matter. He hated that kid either way, and no one was going to shove him and not get shoved back. His dad said that too. Don’t ever let anyone see you get pushed around. Get tough, stay tough. Act like a man. And somehow, when it came down to it, that had seemed more important than no roughhousing. Plus, secretly, he really liked to fight.

  But somehow, he’d caught his foot and fallen far and hard and fast, landed with a crunch that might have been his bones, or might have been the gravel underneath him, and the girls in his class had all screamed and screamed, and that had been kind of funny, really. Until he realized what had happened. That he had a mouthful of blood and an arm that felt… dizzy. Then, he’d stood up and puked, not because it hurt, but because he suddenly remembered that pitchers couldn’t hurt their arms, ever. Knew his dad was going to be so, so, so mad. And his mom was probably going to be too busy to take him to the doctor.

  He’d been right about both.

  His mom was stuck at work, like always, so he’d hung out in the nurse’s office, waiting for his dad to come over from the high school, and playing with the stress ball on her desk, even though she kept telling him to stop, trying to make his left arm stronger before his dad got there.

  When he did show up, he was so mad he didn’t say anything. Not in the office, or the parking lot, or during the drive to the hospital. No matter how much he talked, or tried to explain that it wasn’t his fault, he wouldn’t answer. Just stared at the road and turned up the radio until Kyle finally got the hint and shut up.

  He’d thought his dad would say something when the doctor asked how it happened, and Kyle told the best story he could about not getting pushed around and acting like a man, but he didn’t. Just asked her if she was sure six weeks was the best she could do, and didn’t seem very happy when she told him that actually, it would probably be more like eight.

  When the nurse told him he could pick any color he wanted for his cast, and he’d tried to pick red, like the Rattlers, his dad had yelled at her, said Just white. It’s not a party, but he still didn’t say anything to him.

  Not for three weeks. Not at all. Not one word. Not even to tell him when dinner was ready— he had to listen for the microwave to ding or eat his mac and cheese gluey and reheated later. Not that he minded so much, he kind of liked it gluey, but still.

  He wouldn’t look up when he tried to show him where the weatherman from Channel 8 had signed his cast when he came for assembly. Wouldn’t take the marker when Kyle had held it out forever and asked if he wanted to sign it too.

  He didn’t answer when he asked a million times if he wanted to play catch, not even when he explained how he’d been practicing with his other hand. Not even when he offered to play in the backyard so none of the neighbors would laugh if he wasn’t that good as a lefty yet.

  None of it did any good, he just kept ignoring him. Wouldn’t look at him, acted like he couldn’t even hear him. Acted like he didn’t even exist. He was so good at it, sometimes Kyle had wondered if he really was invisible. Would look in the mirror and wave his hand in front of his face and wonder if actually, he was a ghost. Wish he was, sometimes.

  And, then, late one night there was fighting, loud fighting, the kind that made him trace the word divorce on the wall behind his pillow, and think about what it would be like if his dad lived in another house. Then his mom said, loud enough for him to hear her through their closed door and his, His fucking legs aren’t broken, are they?

  They yelled a lot back then, but he’d never heard his mom say that word before, and it had made him start crying, pressing the blankets hard against his mouth so they didn’t hear, didn’t know he’d been listening. But the fighting stopped. Just like that.

  And the next day, his dad was talking to him again, making pancakes with chocolate chips, which was the only thing he made without a microwave, and explaining over breakfast that pitchers were okay, but the real careers, the long lasting ones that mattered, were in the outfield.

  Then, he got to skip school and go to the high school with his dad, instead, which was awesome. Got to hang out in the athletic office, and in the gym, and the weight room, and use the leg press, and talk to the high school guys like he was somebody important. And he was. He was Coach Kelley’s kid, and everybody knew him, even the best senior players.

  A few of them asked why he wasn’t at school, if he should be working out with his arm in a cast, but mostly, they got it. Because his dad was their coach too, and it didn’t matter if you were hurt, or supposed to be somewhere else, you sucked it up like a man, and you did it.

  It didn’t matter if they needed the machine either, not after that. If Kyle was using it, they had to wait. Which was awesome, too. That was the best, actually. Being seven or eight or however old he’d been that year, telling high school guys to fuck off and wait their turn. Because what were they going to do about it? Tell his dad?

  By the time his cast finally came off, his legs were so strong and hard, they felt like rocks, and he could run so fast it was scary. And he was so glad he’d fallen, because when he moved that fast, he felt like a superhero. Nothing had ever felt that good and that right and that safe.

  Until now.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, annoyed, not even sure if he was upset, or just exhausted. What he was was a pussy, he guessed, just laying in the dark, whining over stupid stuff that had happened years ago, feeling sorry for himself, or feeling… he didn’t know what. But not fine.

  If he could unpack one box, or just open one, he could probably get over it. It was probably one of those things like standing up to a bully and making him leave you alone. And that worked sometimes. But only if you were a bully, too. Or, if your mom was a lawyer, and threatened to sue kids who pushed you off jungle gyms. Sometimes that worked.

  But these were just boxes. They wouldn’t actually hurt him. And it wasn’t like he could avoid it forever. Plus, he was cold and naked and kind of needed some clothes.

  He got up and walked across the room, approaching the boxes like they might come to life and attack him. He took a deep breath and opened the top one, and immediately remembered exactly why he’d wanted to keep them shut. The fucking toaster. Bright red, like all the stuff his mom had brought home, bags and bags of stupid dorm shit, like she was shipping him off to some Nickelodeon cartoon instead of college. A vacuum cleaner and a waffle maker and a trash can, all shiny and red and ridiculous, but somehow so fucking exciting she took off work for the first time in years to go buy it all. Without even taking him along.

  Not that he cared. He didn’t even like shopping. But, she hated shopping. She said that about a thousand times a year once Christmas got close, so he definitely knew. And she didn’t care anything about cleaning or cooking either, so who knew why she thought he’d care once he moved into a dorm room that didn’t even have a kitchen. How the hell did she think he was going to make waffles, anyway?

  And why had he packed this stupid toaster to bring over when he didn’t even like toast? Juno already had a toaster, anyway. An old one, silver and shiny and round, like out of a movie, with four slots instead of two, so basically better than this one in every way. He didn’t want them near each other. He didn’t even want them in the same house.

  He slammed the flaps shut and moved the box to the floor, ripping open the one underneath, just praying there would be clothes inside.

  He knew what was on top of the next box just by the smell, and heaved a sigh of relief. It was a hard jolt of nostalgia way sooner than it should have been. The shirt he’d worn to The Circle the night Juno had asked him to go get a beer. The night he’d spent forever on his hair and another forever staring at his ass in the mirror, wondering if he was about to go on a date, or if he was crazy.

  It ha
d been a date, he guessed. But, not. Not quite, not exactly, because Juno hadn’t pushed for that, hadn’t asked for that. He’d done it the same way he did everything. Sloooowly. Giving him plenty of time to take the lead or back out. He hadn’t acted like anything other than a nice guy who maybe made a questionable amount of eye contact, until Kyle had pushed him in that direction. Told him things he’d never tell anyone else.

  He pulled the shirt up to his nose and inhaled. It had been one of his favorite shirts before that night, because it looked so damn good on him. Hugged his lats and was tight across his abs, but not so tight he looked like he was trying. But, he’d never worn it again because he didn’t want to wash it. Because it smelled like that night. A little like beer and a little like nerves, and a lot like Juno. Like his cologne, or shaving cream, or whatever that was. It had a dark thumb sized spot on the bottom hem that was coconut oil. Someone, him or Juno, had grabbed it that night, to pull it off him, maybe.

  He’d worn it home the next day, kept it in the bottom drawer of the desk in his dorm room, and he’d take it out sometimes between classes or at night, smelling it and looking it over, searching for even more evidence that Juno was real, that that night had been real, that Juno liked him. Liked him. It made him feel like some twelve-year-old dork with a crush, but he did it anyway.

  He slipped the shirt over his head for the first time since then, like wearing it could protect him from whatever else was in the box, and lucked out when the next thing he pulled out was a wadded up pair was sweats. He tugged them on and got the hell out of there. He headed for the kitchen, wondering where his phone was, and if the power was out at the really greasy pizza place across town, too. Juno couldn’t exactly complain about him ordering pizza if he was at class and there no other way to eat.

  Except he wasn’t at class. He was sitting at the kitchen table, another camping lantern sitting in the center, reading one of those crazy tabloids he always grabbed at the checkout— not the celebrity ones, but the other ones, the ones about Elvis and aliens and Bigfoot. He really seemed to like the ones about Bigfoot.

  Sometimes, when they studied together in the living room, Kyle would watch him read, watch the way he sucked in his bottom lip and rubbed the page corners between his fingers. Somehow he could even make reading sexy. Even reading goofy tabloids.

  Juno looked up when he stepped into the kitchen, smiling when he saw him, then raking his eyes slowly up and down him, and smiling again.

  “Hey. Did I wake you up?”

  “Yeah. You were reading way too loud.”

  Juno curled his lips gently, his smirk just a whisper in the dark. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

  “I thought you had class.”

  “I do. But there’s no power,” he said, pointing at the lantern on the table. “I didn’t want to leave you here in the dark.”

  “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

  “Well, you don’t know where anything is. Flashlights and things.”

  “You could have just left them on the table.”

  Juno smiled. “Okay, fine. Maybe I just felt like staying here with you. Come here.”

  When he got close enough, Juno grabbed his wrist and tugged him down into his lap. Kyle groaned softly as he landed on his thigh, his ass a throbbing mess of pain that he’d definitely be remembering.

  “How’s that feel?” Juno asked him, grazing soft kisses up his neck, toward his ears until responding was all but impossible.

  “Fucking awesome.”

  Juno’s arms wrapped around him from the back, holding him tight as he rubbed his cheek against Kyle’s, stubble ripping up the side of his face. “You’re fucking awesome.”

  It felt so good it hurt to have Juno’s arms around him that way, hear him say things like that. It was like no attention he’d ever tasted before, and made his stomach spin so violently he wasn’t sure what to make of it. And somehow, that felt good too.

  He looked down at the newspaper spread out on the table, at the smudgy black and white picture of Bigfoot near some rocks.

  “Why do you read this stuff?” he asked him, dragging a finger down the soft paper and long straight lines of ink. He didn’t know anyone who read actual newspapers, even the crazy tabloid ones. There was something so old-fashioned and safe feeling about that. There was something so old-fashioned and safe about Juno altogether, and he breathed deep, like he could inhale it through the air in the room. “You really believe in Bigfoot?

  Juno laughed in his ear and leaned back, loosening his grip. “It’s just another habit, I guess. I got really into it when I was a kid. Had a big map on the wall of places he’d been spotted. Used to go camping a lot so we could set Bigfoot traps.”

  “It’s pretty hot you’re such a dork.”

  Juno leaned close again and nipped at his earlobe. “I hardly think camping makes me a dork.”

  “No, camping makes you rugged. Bigfoot traps make you a dork.”

  Kyle turned around to watch him as Juno stroked his rough stubble, grinning. “I can live with rugged.”

  “How do you build a Bigfoot trap?”

  Juno’s hand stopped moving, and he squinted, like he was trying to see memories that were far away. “Peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Inside a hollowed out milk jug you hang from a tree.”

  “You sure that’s not an Elvis trap?”

  “Are you a Bigfoot expert? I don’t think so.”

  “Did you ever see anything?”

  “Don’t you think I would have led with that? Mostly we just roasted a lot of marshmallows and hot dogs.”

  “You ate marshmallows and hot dogs?”

  “I was a kid once. It’s kind of the law.”

  “Sorry I missed that.”

  “You ever been camping?”

  “Baseball camp. MVP four years running.”

  Juno laughed. “That’s not camp. You’re in a cabin.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, campings on the ground.”

  “Fine, I’ve never been camping on the ground.” He reached out to play with the lantern on the table. “Kind of wanted to, though. And I always wanted one of these.” He flipped the light on and off and turned the dials until the radio came on.

  “So, now you have one. Maybe I’ll take you camping one day.”

  “I hope so.” He turned the staticky country station up until his ears nearly bled, and then snapped it off hard. “I can’t unpack,” he finally said, the words enormous as they finally found their way out loud and clear, after hiding inside other words all day. “It’s not because I’m lazy or because you’re a neat freak, or anything of the things I said before. And it’s not because I don’t want to stay here.”

  “Okay?”

  Juno sounded worried, and he hated that sound, so he made himself rush ahead, no matter how much he didn’t want to explain it.

  “It’s the stuff. I just can’t. Your stuff is nice. I don’t really get all the roosters and ducks and things, but they’re nice. My things suck. I know we packed it all up and brought it here, because I know that’s what people do when they move, but I don’t want it here. I don’t like it, or need it, or care about any of it. It’s just stuff that used to be at my house, and I don’t like thinking about being there, and I really don’t want to think about it when I’m here. I don’t want my stuff to mix in with your stuff and mess it up. I tried, and it made my chest hurt, so I know you really want me to, but I don’t think I can unpack any of it.”

  Juno was quiet, rolling the corner of the paper between his thumb and finger, and Kyle was pretty sure he was waiting for him to keep talking, but he was all out of words, maybe for a month.

  “I like that shirt you’re wearing,” Juno finally said. “Can you please keep that?”

  “Don’t make jokes.”

  “I’m not.” He pushed the chair out from the table, legs screeching on the floor. “Turn around here.” Kyle twisted in his lap so they could see each other, Juno’s eyes shining like a cat’
s in the dark. He didn’t look mad, so that was something. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  Juno slipped a hand under his shirt, stroking his stomach. “You wore this the first time I brought you here.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “For some things. For you. You never wear it anymore.”

  “I couldn’t. I couldn’t wash it. It smelled like you.” Juno snorted, and he cringed. “Don’t laugh.”

  “I’m not.” He tugged at the hem of Kyle’s shirt, rubbing the material between his fingers, the same way he did to the newspaper. “Remember when I lent you clothes to wear that night? I never washed those either.”

  His heart pounded and he started to unravel somewhere in his chest, like stitches were popping, losing his mind over the sweet romance stuff that didn’t even have a name, that made him want to cry. “Oh. That’s really lame.”

  “Yep.” Juno sighed. “I get it with the stuff. You could have told me earlier. I knew something was up.”

  “I didn’t know how to explain it without sounding crazy. I kept saying all the wrong things. I had to think about it.”

  “It doesn’t sound crazy. Stuff has memories attached. They’re not always good ones.” He ran his hand along the sleeve of Kyle’s shirt. “This is a good one, though.”

  “Yeah. This stays.”

  “Good. You know you don’t have to do things just because I ask you to. Not things like that. You don’t want that stuff here, we’ll get rid of it. Take it back to the dorm, or drag it out to the curb, whatever you want. I don’t care about stuff. I care about you.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I care a little bit about that paddle.”

  He smiled before he could stop himself. “Alright. That can stay, too.”

  “And the grey shorts? The ones you run in? I care a lot about those.”

  “Those are in my locker.”

  “What about the blue briefs? The really hot ones.”